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quality that still defied time. It made him think of the
river and of the overhanging cliffs. Some long-dead artist almost came to life
before his quartz eyes.
    He retreated to a nearby brook and
came back with a huge ball of clay. This in spite of the century-old
admonitions that all robots should avoid the damp. For many years he had
been trying to duplicate the little statue. Now, once more, he set about his
appointed task. But his shearlike claws had been made for only one thing,
death. He worked clumsily. Toward sundown he abandoned the shapeless mass that
he had fashioned and returned to the ruins.
    Near the shattered hall he met
L-1716. At the entrance they called to G-3a, telling him of the day's
adventures. But no answer came. Together they went in. G-3a was sprawled upon
the floor. The rust had conquered.
     
    The elusive spring had changed into
even a more furtive summer. The two robots were coming back to their hall on an
afternoon which had been beautiful and quiet. L-1716 moved more slowly now. His
broken cables trailed behind him, making a rustling sound in the dried leaves
that had fallen.
    Two of the cables had become
entangled. Unnoticed, they caught in the branches of a fallen tree. Suddenly
L-1716 was whirled about. He sagged to his knees. X-120 removed the cables from
the tree. But L-1716 did not get up. "A wrench," he said brokenly;
"something is wrong."
    A thin tendril of smoke curled up
from his side. Slowly he crumpled. From within him came a whirring sound that
ended in a sharp snap. Tiny flames burst through his metal sides. L-1716 fell
forward.
    And X-120 stood over him and
begged, "Please, old friend, don't leave me now." It was the first
time that the onlooking hills had seen any emotion in centuries.
     
    A few flakes of snow were falling
through the air. The sky looked gray and low. A pair of crows
were going home, their raucous cries troubling an otherwise dead world.
    X-120 moved slowly. All that day he
had felt strange. He found himself straying from the trail. He could only move
now by going in a series of arcs. Something was wrong within him. He should be
back in the hall, he knew, and not out in this dangerous moisture. But he was
troubled, and all day he had wandered, while the snowflakes had fallen
intermittently about him.
    On he went through the gray, chill
day. On and on until he came to crumbling wall, covered with withered ivy. Over
this he went into a ruined garden, and paused at a broken fountain, before an
old and blackened statue.
    Long he stood, looking down at the
carving of a little child, a statue that men had made so long before. Then his
metal arm swung through the air. The marble shivered into a hundred fragments.
    Slowly he turned about and retraced
his steps. The cold sun was sinking, leaving a faint amethyst stain in the west.
He must get back to the hall. Mustn't stay out in the wet, he
thought.
    But something was wrong. He caught
himself straying from the path, floundering in circles. The light was paling,
although his eyes had been fashioned for both day and night.
    Where was he? He realized with a
start that he was lying on the ground. He must get back to the hall. He
struggled, but no movement came. Then, slowly, the light faded and flickered
out.
    And the snow fell, slowly and
silently, until only a white mound showed where X-120 had been.
     

Theme: space ship service
     
                 Through books and
such well-organized television programs as STAR TREK, we have been introduced
to life on board the great space cruisers of the future. Only—as good as those
ships may appear to be, the end products of mankind's most efficient invention
and far-out dreaming—they must still be crewed by mortals. And men have their
faults in plenty. A psychic cripple on board means danger, as the captain of
the FFT-136, on his first voyage of command, discovered.
     

Command
     

Bernard
I. Kahn
     
     
                 Lieutenant Nord
Corbett adjusted his