I Am Crying All Inside and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

it. It was, rather, something innate in the robot makeup, not built into them, but something that was there and always might be there—the ever-present link between the robot and his human.
    Sent out alone, a robot team would blunder and bog down, would in the end become unstuck entirely—would wind up worse than useless. With a human accompanying them, there was almost no end to their initiative and their capability.
    It might, he thought, be their need of leadership, although in very truth the human member of the team sometimes showed little of that. It might be the necessity for some symbol of authority and yet, aside from their respect and consideration for their human, the robots actually bowed to no authority.
    It was something deeper, Sheridan told himself, than mere leadership or mere authority. It was comparable to the affection and rapport which existed as an undying bond between a man and dog and yet it had no tinge of the god-worship associated with the dog.
    He said to Napoleon: “How about yourself? Don’t you ever hanker to go out? If you’d just say the word, you could.”
    â€œI like to cook,” Napoleon stated. He dug at the ground with a metal finger. “I guess, Steve, you could say I’m pretty much an old retainer.”
    â€œA transmog would take care of that in a hurry.”
    â€œAnd then who’d cook for you? You know you’re a lousy cook.”
    Sheridan ate his lunch and sat in his chair, staring at the lake, waiting for the first reports on the radio.
    The job at last was started. All that had gone before—the loading of the cargo, the long haul out through space, the establishing of the orbits and the unshipping of the cargo—had been no more than preliminary to this very moment.
    The job was finally started, but it was far from done. There would be months of work. There would be many problems and a thousand headaches. But they’d get it done, he told himself with a sure pride. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could stump this gang of his.
    Late in the afternoon, Hezekiah came with the word: “Abraham is calling, sir. It seems that there is trouble.”
    Sheridan leaped to his feet and ran to the shack. He pulled up a chair and reached for the headset. “That you, Abe? How is it going, boy?”
    â€œBadly, Steve,” said Abraham. “They aren’t interested in doing business. They want the stuff, all right. You can see the way they look at it. But they aren’t buying. You know what I think? I don’t believe they have anything to trade.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous, Abe! They’ve been growing podars all these years. The barns are crammed with them.”
    â€œTheir barn is all nailed up,” said Abraham. “They have bars across the doors and the windows boarded. When I tried to walk up to it, they acted sort of ugly.”
    â€œI’ll be right out,” decided Sheridan. “I want to look this over.” He stood up and walked out of the shack. “Hezekiah, get the flier started. We’re going out and have a talk with Abe. Nappy, you mind the radio. Call me at Abe’s village if anything goes wrong.”
    â€œI’ll stay right here beside it,” Napoleon promised him.
    Hezekiah brought the flier down in the village square, landing it beside the floater, still loaded with its merchandise.
    Abraham strode over to them as soon as they were down. “I’m glad you came, Steve. They want me out of here. They don’t want us around.”
    Sheridan climbed from the flier and stood stiffly in the square. There was a sense of wrongness—a wrongness with the village and the people—something wrong and different.
    There were a lot of natives standing around the square, lounging in the doorways and leaning against the trees. There was a group of them before the barred door of the massive barn that stood in the center of the square, as if they might