"What's going on, Mr. Lexington?" Peter cried. But it was several seconds before he got an answer. "That's better," said Lexington, his voice stronger. He apologized: "I'm sorry. Lex must have heard me. She sent in one of the materials handlers with a hypo. It helps." The voice on the phone paused, then said matter-of-factly: "But I doubt that anything can help very much at this point. I'm glad I saw you today. I want you to come around in the morning. If I'm--not here, Lex will give you some papers to sign." There was another pause, with sounds of harsh breathing. Then, strained again, the old man's voice said: "I guess I won't--be here. Lex will take care of it. Come early. Good-by." The distant receiver clicked. Peter Manners sat on the edge of his bed in momentary confusion, then made up his mind. In the short hours he had known him, he had come to have a definite fondness for the old man; and there were times when machines weren't enough, when Lexington should have another human being by his side. Clearly this was one such time. Peter dressed in a hurry, miraculously found a cruising cab, sped through empty streets, leaped out in front of Lex Industries' plain concrete walls, ran to the door-- In the waiting room, the soft, distant voice of Lex said: "He wanted you to be here, Mr. Manners. Come." A door opened, and wordlessly he walked through it--to the main room of the factory. He stopped, staring. Four squat materials handlers were quietly, slowly carrying old Lexington--no, not the man; the lifeless body that had been Lexington--carrying the body of the old man down the center aisle between the automatic lathes. * * * * * Peter protested: "Wait! I'll get a doctor!" But the massive handling machines didn't respond, and the gentle voice of Lex said: "It's too late for that, Mr. Manners." Slowly and reverently, they placed the body on the work table of a huge milling machine that stood in the exact center of the factory main floor. Elsewhere in the plant, a safety valve in the lubricating oil system was being bolted down. When that was done, the pressure in the system began to rise. Near the loading door, a lubricating oil pipe burst. Another, on the other side of the building, split lengthwise a few seconds later, sending a shower of oil over everything in the vicinity. Near the front office, a stream of it was running across the floor, and at the rear of the building, in the storage area, one of the materials handlers had just finished cutting a pipe that led to the main oil tank. In fifteen minutes there was free oil in every corner of the shop. All the materials handlers were now assembled around the milling machine, like mourners at a funeral. In a sense, they were. In another sense, they were taking part in something different, a ceremony that originated, and is said to have died, in a land far distant from the Lex Industries plant.