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have needed robots such as Elmer. But it was not only this. Elmer had the sound of truth in him. This was no tall tale, I am sure, to impress the listener.
    And here he sat beside me, after all the years, and if I would only ask him, he could tell me of the Earth. For it all would still be with him—all that he had ever seen or heard or known would be with him still, for robots do not forget as biologic creatures do. The memories of the ancient Earth would be waiting within his memory core, waiting to be tapped, as fresh as if they had been implanted only yesterday.
    I found that I was shaking—not shaking outwardly, physically, but within myself. I had tried to study Earth for years and there was so little left to study. The records and the writings had been lost and scattered, and in those cases where they still existed it was often in only fragmentary form. In that ancient day when men had left the Earth, fleeing for the stars, they had gone out too fast to give much thought to the preservation of the heritage of the planet. On thousands of different planets some of that heritage might still remain, preserved because it had been forgotten, hidden in old trunks or packing boxes tucked beneath the eaves. But it would take many lifetimes for one to hunt it out and even could one find it, more than likely a good part of it would be disappointing—mere trivia that would have no actual bearing on the questions that bobbled in one’s mind.
    But here sat a robot that had known the Earth and could tell of Earth—although perhaps not as much as one might hope, for those must have been desperate, busy days for him and with much of Earth already gone.
    I tried to frame a question and there was nothing I could think of that it seemed that he could answer. One after another the questions came to mind and each one was rejected because it did not fit into the frame of reference of a robot engaged in building war machines.
    And while I tried to form a proper question he said something that knocked the questions completely from my mind.
    “For years,” he said, “I have been wandering around from one job to another and the pay was always good. There’s nothing, you understand, that a robot really needs, that he’d feel called to spend his money on. So it has just piled up. And here finally is something I’d like to spend it on. If you would not be offended, sir …”
    “Offended about what?” I asked, not entirely catching the drift of all his talk.
    “Why,” he said, “I’d like to put my money into your compositor. I think I might have enough that we could finish it.”
    I suppose I should have got all happy, I should have leaped to my feet and shouted out my joy. I just sat cold and stiff, afraid to move, afraid that if I moved I might scare it all away.
    I said, still stiff and cold, “It’s not a good investment. I would not recommend it.”
    He almost pleaded with me. “Look, it is not just the money. I can offer more than that. I’m a good mechanic. Together, the two of us could put together an instrument that would be the best one ever made.”

Chapter 4
     
     
     
    As I came down the steps, the woman sitting at the wheel of the pink car spoke to me.
    “You are Fletcher Carson, are you not?”
    “Yes,” I said, completely puzzled, “but how did you know that I was here? There is no way you could have known.”
    “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “I knew you’d be on the funeral ship, but it took so long to get here. My name is Cynthia Lansing and I must talk with you.”
    “I haven’t too much time,” I said. “Perhaps a little later.”
    She was not exactly beautiful, but there was, even at first sight, something engaging and extremely likeable about her. She had a face that fell just short of being heart-shaped, her eyes were quiet and calm, her black hair fell down to her shoulders; she wasn’t smiling with the lips, but her entire face was ready to break into a smile.
    “You’re