Jon felt an immense sensation of relief. For a moment there, he was sure the job had been a false lead. He saw nothing unusual in the method of hiring. The big corporations were immensely jealous of their research discoveries and went to great lengths to keep them secret — at the same time resorting to any means to ferret out their business rivals' secrets. There might still be a chance to get this job.
The burly bulk of a lifter was moving back and forth in the gloom of the ancient warehouse stacking crates in ceiling-high rows. Jon called to him, the robot swung up his forklift and rolled over on noiseless tires. When Jon questioned him he indicated a stairwell against the rear wall.
"Mr. Coleman's office is down in back. The door is marked." The lifter put his fingertips against Jon's ear pickups and lowered his voice to the merest shadow of a whisper. It would have been inaudible to human ears, but Jon could hear him easily, the sounds being carried through the metal of the other's body.
"He's the meanest man you ever met — he hates robots, so be ever so polite. If you can use 'sir' five times in one sentence you're perfectly safe."
Jon swept the shutter over one eye tube in a conspiratorial wink, the large mech did the same as he rolled away. Jon turned and went down the dusty stairwell and knocked gently on Mr. Colernan's door.
Coleman was a plump little individual in a conservative purple-and-yellow business suit. He kept glancing from Jon to the Robot General Catalog checking the Venex specifications listed there. Seemingly satisfied he slammed the book shut.
"Gimme your tag and back against that wall to get measured."
Jon laid his ID tag on the desk and stepped towards the wall. "Yes sir, here it is sir." Two "sirs" on that one, not bad for the first sentence. He wondered idly if he could put five of them in one sentence without the man knowing he was being made a fool of.
He became aware of the danger an instant too late. The current surged through the powerful electromagnet behind the plaster flattening his metal body helplessly against the wall. Coleman was almost dancing with glee.
"We got him Druce, he's mashed flatter than a stinking tin can on a rock, can't move a motor. Bring that junk in here and let's get him ready."
Druce had a mechanic's coveralls on over his street suit and a toolbox slung under one arm. He carried a little black metal can at arm's length, trying to get as far from it as possible. Coleman shouted at him with annoyance.
"That bomb can't go off until it's armed, stop acting like a child. Put it on that grease can's leg and quickV
Grumbling under his breath Druce spot-welded the metal flanges of the)>omb onto Jon's leg a few inches above his knee. Coleman tugged at it to be certain it was secure, then twisted a knob in the side and pulled out a glistening length of pin. There was a cold little click from inside the mechanism as it armed itself.
Jon could do nothing except watch, even his vocal diaphragm was locked by the magnetic field. He had more than a suspicion however that he was involved in something other than a secret business deal. He cursed his own stupidity for walking blindly into the situation.
The magnetic field cut off and he instantly raced his extensor motors to leap forward. Coleman took a plastic box out of his pocket and held his thumb over a switch inset into its top.
"Don't make any quick moves Junkyard, this little transmitter is keyed to a receiver in that bomb on your leg. One touch of my thumb, up you go in a cloud of smoke and come down in a shower of nuts and bolts." He signaled to Druce who opened a closet door. "And in case you want to be heroic, just think of him."
Coleman jerked his thumb at the sodden shape on the floor; a filthily attired man of indistinguishable age whose only interesting feature was the black bomb strapped tightly across his chest. He peered unseeingly from red-rimmed eyes and raised the almost empty whiskey bottle to his mouth. Coleman kicked the door shut.
"He's just some Bowery bum we dragged in, Venex, but that doesn't make any difference to you, does it? He's human — and a robot can't kill anybody! That rummy has a bomb on him tuned to the same frequency as yours, if you don't play ball with us he gets a two-foot hole blown in his chest."
Coleman was right, Jon didn't dare make any false moves. All of his early mental training as well as circuit 92 sealed inside his brain case would prevent him from harming a human being. He felt trapped, caught by these people for some unknown purpose.
Coleman had pushed back a tarpaulin to disclose a ragged hole in the concrete floor, the opening extended into the earth below. He waved Jon over.
"The tunnel is in good shape for about thirty feet, then you'll find a fall. Clean all the rock and dirt out until you break through into the storm sewer, then come back. And you better be alone. If you tip the cops both you and the old stew go out together — now move."
