Angus indicated the hand that held his ankle. Three digits were wrenches of various sizes. The index finger was a screwdriver. The thumb was a Stillson wrench. The thumb on the other hand was a disclike appendage. Drummond hunched over. "76, what's your function?" The robot looked up. "To serve Jackson." "You're a big help," said Drummond. "Why dost thou tempt us, O Jackson?" asked RA-204. "Wouldst Thou test our beliefs?" "We're no gods," Angus declared as the robot drew up before the cave. "Thou art Jackson!" insisted 204. Drummond and McIntosh were hoisted to a ledge beside the mouth of the cave. The robots backed off, forming a half circle, and bowed in obeisance. Angus ran a hand helplessly through his sparse gray hair. "Would you say there are four hundred of them?" "At least." Drummond surveyed the expanse of metal bodies. "You know, maybe they don't have a function." "Impossible. Hasn't been a clunker in five hundred years without a primary compulsion." "Think they forgot theirs?" "Can't. They may forget how to put it in words, but the compulsion is good for as long as their primary banks are intact. That's not what's worrying me, though." "No?" "_Religious_ robots! There can't be any such brand. Yet here they are." Drummond studied them silently. "Before there can be theological beliefs," McIntosh went on, "there has to be some sort of foundation--the mystery of origin, the fear of death, the concept of the hereafter. Clunkers _know_ they come from a factory. They _know_ that when they're finally disassembled, they'll be lifeless scrap metal." Drummond spat disdainfully. "One thing's for sure--this pack thinks we're God Almighty." "Jackson Almighty," Angus corrected somberly. "Well, God or Jackson, we'd better get back to the ship or this is going to be a long visitation." Drummond faced the almost prostrate robots and made a megaphone of his hands. "All right, you guys! How's about knocking it off?" Slowly, the robots reared erect, waiting. "Take us back to our ship!" RA-204 stepped forward. "Again Thou art testing us, O Jackson." * * * * * Angus spread his arms imploringly. "Look, fellows. We're men. We're--" "Thou art our Supervisor!" the throng roared. "One of you is Jackson," explained 204. "The other is a Divine Test. We must learn which is the True Supervisor." "You're _not_ being tested!" McIntosh insisted. "Our beliefs are firm, O Jackson!" cried a hundred metallic voices. "Thou are the Supervisor!" declared 204 resolutely. "For God's sake," urged Drummond, "tell 'em you're their Jackson and then lay down the law." "No. Can't do it that way." "Why not? Unfair advantage, I suppose?" There was a cutting edge on the younger man's words. Angus stared thoughtfully at the robots. "If we only knew how they forgot their origin, how they got religion, we might find a way to get through to them."