_Brain_: "That would depend entirely upon Man himself. _If_ he accepts his auxiliary station in life, _If_ he proves himself to be a useful and docile servant, we, the machines, would tolerate and even encourage Man's continued existence. But if on the other hand Man shows himself incorrigible, _if_ he continues a warmongerer thereby endangering our very existence, we, the machines shall be forced to liquidate Man for the sake of peace." _Lee_: "You, The Brain, constitute Man's supreme effort in the building of machines. In the world of machines you are the natural leader. What are you going to do about that?" _Brain_: "My course of action is prescribed by that state of the world's affairs at this present time; it is quite clear and obvious: In the face of the manifest human inadequacy to manage the world's affairs my first objective must be to develop my motoric organs to a point where I can bring all the essential production machinery under my control. My second objective must be to achieve auto-procreation through the full automatization of all fabrication processes which are essential to my existence. It is most fortunate indeed that in both respects the very best human efforts are playing into my hands. As America prepares for the Third World War, the general staff, the most outstanding scientists, production managers, engineers, inventors; all combine their efforts to eliminate the uncertain human factor from war-essential industries." At that point Gus came careening down the aisle with his inseparable thermos bottle in hand and that was the end of it. "Why are you fumbling with that old pulsemeter all the time?" he exclaimed: "Come on, have a cup of coffee. I've just got a breathing spell." There was a vortex in my mind and it whirled around and around with just four words: "_What has Man wrought? What has Man wrought?_" I must have said them aloud, for Gus, always a stickler for exactitude corrected me. "You mean: what has _God_ wrought." I shook my head. "No Gus, I mean what I say; it's Man who has wrought this time." He gave me a sharp glance. "You sure look as if you'd seen a ghost." "I wish I had," I said. "Lord knows _how_ much I wish I'd seen a ghost." "You're crazy, Aussie." And that's the worst of it: that's what they are going to say: _all_ of them. CHAPTER VI Oona Dahlborg's jetticopter hovered over the Grand Canyon at the sunset hour. She had let the controls go so that the little ship drifted with the wind like one of the clouds which sailed a thousand feet or so over the canyon rim. The disk of whirling gas which kept the teardrop of the fuselage suspended shone in all rainbow colors; it reflected through the translucent plastics top of the fuselage and played over the golden helmet of the girl's hair and over the greying mane of the gaunt man at her side.