Anse jumped to the switch, pulling it with one hand and getting on his flashlight with the other. The lights went out and the screens went dark. "It's off." "The dickens it is!" Rivas disputed. "There are a couple of big supervisor-robots circling around, and a flock of workers...." At the same time, Clyde Nichols began cursing. Or maybe he was praying; it was hard to be certain. "But we pulled the switch. It was only the lights and viewscreens in here, anyhow." "It didn't do any good. Pull another one." Matsui, back at the power plant, was wanting to know what was wrong. Captain Nichols stopped cursing--or praying?--and said, "Mutiny, that's what! The robots have turned on us!" He knew what had happened, or was almost sure he did. A radio impulse had gone out, somehow, from the control tower. Something they hadn't checked, that had been left on. There was just enough current-leakage from the units in the robots to keep the receptors active for forty years. The supervisor-robots had gone active, and they had activated the rest. Once on, cutting the current from the control tower wouldn't turn them off again. "Put the switch in again, Anse; the damage is done and you won't make it any worse." When the screens came on, he looked around from one to another. The two supervisors, big ovoid things like the small round ones they had used in repairing the power reactors the first day, were circling aimlessly near the roof, one clockwise and the other counterclockwise, dodging obstructions and getting politely out of each other's way. At lower altitude, a dozen assorted worker-robots were moving about, and more were emerging from cells at the end of the building. Sweepers, with rotary brooms and rakes, crablike all-purpose handling robots, a couple of vacuum-cleaning robots, each with a flexible funnel-tipped proboscis and a bulging dust-sack. One tiling, a sort of special job designed to get into otherwise inaccessible places, had a twenty-foot, many-jointed, claw-tipped arm in front. It passed by and slightly over the tower, saw Clyde Nichols, and swooped toward him. With a howl, Nichols dived under one of the large machines between two production lines. A pistol went off a couple of times. That would be Jerry Rivas. Nobody else bothered with a gun on Koshchei, but he carried one as some people carry umbrellas, whether he expected to need it or not and because he would feel lost without it.