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crossed over an immense scrap heap where
thousands of the shattered and rusted bodies lay.
    " We used to bring
them here after— " said L-1716. "But the last centuries we
have left them where they have fallen. I have been envying those who wintered
in the jade tower." His metallic voice hinted of sadness.
    They came at last to an open space
in the trees. Farther they went and stood at the edge of a bluff overlooking a
gorge and a swirling river below. Several bridges had once been there but only
traces remained.
    "I think I will go down to the
river's edge," offered X-120.
    "Go ahead. I will stay here.
The way is too steep for me. "
    So X-120 clambered down a
half-obliterated roadway alone. He stood at last by the rushing waters. Here,
he thought, was something that changed the least. Here was the only hint of
permanence in all the world. But even it changed. Soon
the melting snow would be gone and the waters would dwindle to a mere trickle.
He turned about and looked at the steep side of the gorge. Except for the
single place where the old roadbed crept down, the sides rose sheer, their
crests framed against the blue sky. These cliffs, too, were lasting.
    Even in spring the cliffs and river
seemed lonely and desolate. Men had not bothered to teach X-120 much of
religion or philosophy. Yet somewhere in the combination of cells in his brain
was a thought which kept telling him that he and his kind were suffering for
their sins and for the sins of men before them.
    And perhaps the thought was true.
Certainly, men had never conquered their age-old stupidity, though science had
bowed before them. Countless wars had taken more from men than science had given
them. X-120 and his kind were the culmination of this primal killer instinct.
    In the haste of a war-pressed
emergency man had not taken the time to refine his last creation, or to
calculate its result. And with that misstep man had played his last card on the
worn gaming table of earth. That built-in urge to kill men in yellow uniforms
had changed, ever so slightly, to an urge to kill—men.
    Now there were only X-120, his two crippled comrades, the heaps of rusted steel, and the
leaning, crumbling towers.
    He followed the river for several
miles until the steep sides lessened. Then he clambered out, and wandered
through groves of gnarled trees. He did not wish to go back to L-1716, not just
yet. The maimed robot was always sad. The rust was eating into him, too. Soon
he would be like G-3a. Soon the two of them would be gone. Then he would be the
last. An icy surge of fear stole over him. He did not want to be left alone.
     
    He lumbered onward. A few birds
were stirring. Suddenly, almost at his feet, a rabbit darted from the bushes.
X-120's long jointed arms swung swiftly. The tiny animal lay crushed upon the
ground. Instinctively he stamped upon it, leaving only a bloody trace upon the
new grass.
    Then remorse and shame stole over
him. He went on silently. Somehow the luster of the day had faded for him. He
did not want to kill. Always he was ashamed, after the deed was done. And the
age-old question went once more through the steel meshes of his mind: Why had
he been made to kill?
    He went on and on, and out of long
habit he went furtively. Soon he came to an ivy-covered wall. Beyond this were
the ruins of a great stone house. He stopped at whal had once been a garden.
Near a broken fountain he found what he had been seeking, a little marble
statue of a child weathered and discolored. Here, unknown to his companions he
had been coming for years upon countless years. There was something about this
little sculpturing that had fascinates him. And he had been half ashamed of his
fascination.
    He could not have explained his
feelings, but there was something about the statue that made him think of all
the things that men had possessed. It reminded him of all the qualities that
were so far beyond his kind. He stood looking at the statue for long. It
possessed an ethereal