All Jackson's Children By DANIEL F. GALOUYE Illustrated by FINLAY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Their chances hung literally on a prayer ... which they had to answer all by themselves! Angus McIntosh vigorously scuffed the tarnished nameplate on the wrecked cargo carrier. Then he stepped back and squinted under shaggy gray eyebrows. Letter by letter, number by number, he coaxed out the designation on the crumpled bow of the spacer in the vine-matted gorge: "RT ... 3070 ... VG-II." His lean frame tensed with concern as he turned to stare soberly at the other. "A Vegan robot trader!" Bruce Drummond grinned. "Are we lucky! Clunkers are worth money--in any condition." Angus snorted impatiently. "Let's get out of here, quick." "Get out?" the stocky Drummond repeated incredulously as he ran thick-set fingers over the black stubble on his cheek. "Ain't we going to salvage the clunkers? The book says they're ours after fifty years." "The hold's empty. There's no cargo." "There was when it landed. Look at the angle of incidence on those fins." "Exactly." Frowning, Angus shifted his holster around on his hip and strode back toward the plain. "Ever hear of a frustrated compulsion?" * * * * * Drummond, following hesitantly, shook his head. "Those clunkers have to satisfy a basic behavior circuit," McIntosh explained as he hastened his step. "We don't know what the compulsion of this bunch is. Suppose--well, suppose they have a chiropractic function. How'd you like to be the first person to show up after they've been frustrated for a hundred years?" "Oh," Drummond said comprehendingly, stumbling to keep pace. Angus McIntosh brushed a mass of tendrils aside and stepped out on the plain. "We'll report it and let them send in a deactivation crew. That way, at least, we'll get fifty per cent of salvage and no danger." "Even that ain't bad--just for following an SOS a hundred light-years. Taking an uncharted route and picking up that signal sure paid off like--" Drummond gagged on his words as he gripped Angus's arm and pointed. Their ship was a shining oval, bobbing and weaving on a sea of silver that surged across the plain toward a cliff on the left. "Clunkers!" Drummond gasped. "Hundreds of 'em--making off with our boat!" He unholstered his weapon and fired. Angus struck his wrist sharply. "Why don't you just run out waving your arms? We don't have enough firepower to get more than eight or ten of them." But the warning was too late. Already the tide had washed away from the ship and was surging toward the gorge.