"I know," said Don. "But many of you have a more thorough scientific training than I. You know that it'll only be a matter of hours before they discover the wavelength that will kill all of you if the first one doesn't?" * * * * * Blake, one of the newer roboes, joined the conversation. "That would be true," he admitted, "except that when the general gives the signal, he dooms himself and the human race to instant destruction. The ancient weapon was designed for the human race and never used." "You mean that humans were the robots referred to in the records?" asked the incredulous Don. "Correct," replied Blake. "It appears that...." "The sun's rising!" shrieked Shiela. "We're too late!" She threw herself over Don as if to protect him. A low hum filled the cabin of the speeding space ship. "We're tuned to the wave," tersely explained Blake. The roboes stared at Don and he at them. Evidently their explanation had been right, Don thought; none of them were showing any sign of distress. They still kept eyeing him strangely; even Shiela had drawn back in amazement. Suddenly the thought struck him--the wave hadn't affected him either! "Incredible!" exclaimed Blake. "The ship's hull couldn't possibly act as a shield." A dawning hope lit Shiela's face. "No," she said softly. "Not incredible if you stop to think." She came closer to Don. "Where were you born?" she asked. "I don't know," the confused Don replied. "My first memories are of the orphanage and they never told me. All of the records were burned." "And who so conveniently happened along to take you away with him?" continued Shiela. "Why, your fath--Doctor Stone, I mean ..." he stopped in embarrassment. The answer hammered at him suddenly and Don straightened up, the throbbing pain in his leg forgotten. "The wave should've killed me," he practically shouted. His voice sank down. "Then--then that means I must be one of you." There was a joyous round of congratulations. Finally Blake raised a hand for silence. "I believe we'd better leave now," he told the others. "After all, our creator"--he chidingly stressed the latter word--"our creator must rest." The ship sped on, leaving to the future, plans for rebuilding a new Earth and civilization.