"That's my robot you got there Jack, don't put any holes in him!" He turned on the man who had been shouting accusations. "Fatty here is the world's biggest liar. The robot was standing here waiting for me to park the truck. Fatty must be as blind as he is stupid, I saw the whole thing. He knocks himself down walking into the robe, then starts hollering for the cops."
The other man could take no more. His face crimson with anger he rushed toward the trucker, his fists swinging in ungainly circles. They never landed, the truck driver put a meaty hand on the other's face and seated him on the sidewalk for the second time.
The onlookers roared with laughter, the power lining and the robot were forgotten. The fight was between two men now, the original cause had slipped from their minds. Even the policeman allowed himself a small smile as he bolstered his gun and stepped forward to separate the men.
The trucker turned towards Jon with a scowl. "Come on you aboard the truck — you've caused me enough trouble for one day. What a junk can!"
The crowd chuckled as he pushed Jon ahead of him into the truck and slammed the door behind them. Jamming the starter with his thumb he gunned the thunderous diesels into life and pulled out into the traffic.
Jon moved his jaw, but there were no words to come out. Why had this total stranger helped him, what could he say to show his appreciation? He knew that all humans weren't robe haters; why, it was even rumored that some humans treated robots as equals instead of machines. The driver must be one of these mythical individuals, there was no other way to explain his actions.
Driving carefully with one hand the man reached up behind the dash and drew out a thin, plastikoid booklet. He handed it to Jon who quickly scanned the title, Robot Slaves in a World Economy, by Phil-pott Asimov II.
"If you're caught reading that thing they'll execute you on the spot. Better stick it between the insulation and your generator, you can always burn it if you're picked up.
"Read it when you're alone, it's got a lot of things in it that you know nothing about. Robots aren't really inferior to humans, in fact they're superior in most things. There is even a little history in there to show that robots aren't the first ones to be treated as second-class citizens. You may find it a little hard to believe, but human beings once treated each other just the way they treat robots now. That's one of the reasons I'm active in this movement— sort of like the fellow who was burned helping others stay away from tike fire."
His smile was friendly, the whiteness of his teeth standing out against the rich ebony brown of his features.
"I'm heading towards U.S. 1, can I drop you anywhere on the way?"
"The Chainjet Building, please — I'm applying for a job."
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Before he opened the door the driver shook hands with Jon.
"Sorry about calling you 'junk can' but the crowd expected it." He didn't look back as he drove away.
Jon had to wait a half hour for his turn, but the receptionist finally signaled him towards the door of the interviewer's room. He stepped in quickly and turned to face the man seated at the transplastic desk, an upset little man with permanent worry wrinkles stamped in his forehead. The little man shoved the papers on the desk around angrily, occasionally making crabbed little notes on the margins. He flashed a birdlike glance up at Jon.
"Yes, yes, be quick. What is it you want?"
"You posted a help wanted notice, I—"
The man cut him off with a wave of his hand. "All right let me see your ID tag. . quickly, there are others waiting."
Jon thumbed the tag out of his waist slot and handed it across the desk. The interviewer read the code number, then began running his finger down a long list of similar figures. He stopped suddenly and looked sideways at Jon from under his lowered lids.
"You have made a mistake, we have no opening for you."
Jon began to explain to the man that the notice had requested his specialty, but he was waved to silence. As the interviewer handed back the tag he slipped a card out from under the desk blotter and held it in front of Jon's eyes. He held it there for only an instant, knowing that the written message was recorded instantly by the robot's photographic vision and eidetic memory. The card dropped into the ashtray and flared into embers at the touch of the man's pencil-heater.
Jon stuffed the ID tag back into the slot and read over the message on the card as he walked down the stairs to the street. There were six lines of typewritten copy with no signature.
To Venex Robot: You are urgently needed on a top secret company project. There are suspected informers in the main office, so you are being hired in this unusual manner. Go at once to 787 Washington Street and ask for Mr. Coleman.
