The emerging robots moved at orders snapped by a human and marched toward a building fifty yards away, where they lined up at attention and became motionless. Two humans moved swiftly down the line, behind the lined up robots. At each robot one of them twisted a copper-colored disk in the robot's back, carefully drew out a cylinder eight inches long and four inches in diameter, and handed the cylinder to the other, who lowered it into a plastic case. These cylinders were the brains of the robots. They were destined for the Federal ship--and storage until the next war. While the robot brain was being lowered into its plastic storage case by the one man, the first lifted the now demobilized robot body and placed it on a cart, already stacked high with similar bodies. The immediate destination of these bodies was the junk company freighter. If the robots were aware of what was about to happen to them as they waited, they gave no indication, no protest. Their lens eyes were directed straight ahead of them, unmoving--except for one robot. The Id across its chest was 532-03-2615 followed by four gold stars. Its head was turned just enough so that it could see down the line. Its rod microphones were turned so that it could listen.... "That junkman gives me the creeps, Joe," the man placing brain cylinders into plastic cases grumbled. "That's because he's a creep, Mel. Here. Take this." He thrust a brain cylinder at his companion. "Hey! Careful!" Joe said, almost dropping it. Mel chuckled and flipped the robot body, almost weightless on the station here in space, carelessly to the top of the stack on the truck. "Here comes junky now, Joe," he said. "Don't damage the bodies. Don't damage the bodies." The figure that approached, pushing an empty truck, wore a dirty and well worn civilian suit that seemed even more decrepit in contrast to the neat military uniforms. His skin was leathery. A pair of glasses hung on his hawkish nose, their thick lenses magnifying the close-set eyes underneath, and making them seem to lie on the inner surfaces. His lips were partly open, but never seemed to move while he talked. "There was a cracked lens on one," he accused. "What's the matter, junky?" Joe grinned. "If we get a scratch on one it's still two hundred pounds of scrap metal--or were you planning on using the bodies?" He and Mel laughed. "Who knows?" the junkman said. "I only follow my orders. No scratches. No damage to the bodies. Who knows? Maybe they go into storage until the next war." He reached with a dirty hand to clutch at Mel's lapel, but didn't make it. "I'll show you," he said. "_Two_ of them are damaged. Not worth seventeen credits." "Can't stop now," Mel said. "We want to get done by quitting time. Joe has a date." "Come on," the junkman said. "You've got to look. I have to have witnesses when I hand in my report on the carelessness of the military."