War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not been killed. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that _nothing_, _nothing_ could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere--good God, how old were the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The black wheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? * * * * * "Would you like to see a doctor?" Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring. "No, not yet," he said, "thank you." He swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently. "Could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? Individually?" "By your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive." Steffens tried to understand that. "It would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using the first--letters--of my designation, my name would translate as Elb." "Glad to meet you," Steffens mumbled. "You are called 'Stef,'" said the robot obligingly. Then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: "The age of--Peb--is seventeen years, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years." Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot, Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. Unless-- He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV. Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all. His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order. "Do you build yourselves?" the exec asked. Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. "No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the--" another pause for a word--"by the _Factory_." "The Factory?" "Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?" Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly. "Would you prefer to use your--skiff? It is quite a long way from here."