Then the Robot was upon them.
"63-17-B?"
"Yes, sir?" All Robots, even those with a primary level of thought as high as 63-17-B and an existing secondary level, addressed Central Intelligence as sir.
"After exhaustive tests, it has been adjudged that an over-estimation has been made regarding your mental ability. Since that is the case, it will mechanically be necessary to change your position."
Sullenly, plotting shapeless revenge at a Central Intelligence which would never consider the possibility of an outside factor intervening unexpectedly and hence altering or spoiling what had been planned, 63-17-B listened to his fate.
"A position currently is vacant as supervisor of the Shining Ones in a section of the repair bays. Do you have any objections to assuming this new duty in place of the old?"
To object was disastrous. To object was to admit you needed not merely a lesser job commensurate with your lesser skill but also complete readjustment of your thinking process. "No objections at all, sir," thought 63-17-B, all the while smouldering with resentment. His time would come. What was the old human expression about every dog having his day?
"Then you will report at once to repair bay 151. Do you know its location?"
"I will find it." That was the prescribed answer. One rarely asked questions. One found out for oneself from Central Information. 63-17-B half thought he was still being tested in some less-obvious and hence all the more deadly fashion. But to be placed in charge of a gang of humans! It was degrading.