The robot shook his head. "Unfortunately the race died out through the years. The planet is very similar to yours, though." "But why did they die out?" The robot gave a mechanical equivalent of a sigh. "When the Seventh Order humanoids started coming through, we were naturally proud of ourselves and wanted to perpetuate and increase our numbers. But the humans were jealous of us, of our superior brains, our immunity to disease, our independence of them, of sleep, of air." "Who created you?" "They did. Yet they revolted and, of course, quickly lost the battle with us. In the end they were a race without hope, without ambition. They should have been proud at having created the most perfect machines in existence, but they died of a disease: the frustration of living with a superior, more durable race." Prof. Tomlin lit a cigaret and inhaled deeply. "A very nasty habit, Professor Tomlin," the robot said. "When we arrive, you must give up smoking and several other bad habits I see that you have." The cigaret dropped from Ansel Tomlin's mouth as he opened it in amazement. "There are more of you coming?" "Yes," George replied good-naturedly. "I'm just an advance guard, a scout, as it were, to make sure the land, the people and the resources are adequate for a station. Whether we will ever establish one here depends on me. For example, if it were found you were a race superior to us--and there may conceivably be such cases--I would advise not landing; I would have to look for another planet such as yours. If I were killed, it would also indicate you were superior." "George," Prof. Tomlin said, "people aren't going to like what you say. You'll get into trouble sooner or later and get killed." "I think not," George said. "Your race is far too inferior to do that. One of your bullets would do it if it struck my eyes, nose or mouth, but I can read intent in the mind long before it is committed, long before I see the person, in fact ... at the moment your wife is answering a call from a reporter at the Brentwood Times. I can follow the telephone lines through the phone company to his office. And Mrs. Phillips," he said, not turning his head, "is watching us through a window." Prof. Tomlin could see Mrs. Phillips at her kitchen window. * * * * * Brentwood, Ill., overnight became a sensation. The Brentwood _Times_ sent a reporter and photographer out, and the next morning every newspaper in the U. S. carried the story and photograph of George, the robot from Zanthar. Feature writers from the wire services, the syndicates, photographer-reporter combinations from national newspicture magazines flew to Brentwood and interviewed George. Radio and television and the newsreels cashed in on the sudden novelty of a blue humanoid.