THE COSMIC COMPUTER

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supervisors gave them no instructions.

One of them seemed to have dumped something close to where Clyde Nichols
was hiding; if his language had been a little stronger, it would have
burned out Conn's radio. Their own immediate vicinity being for the
moment clear of flying robots, Conn and Anse rolled from under the
conveyer and legged it between the two production lines. Immediately,
three of the crablike all-purpose handling-robots saw them, if that was
the word for it, and came dashing for them, followed by a thing that was
mostly dump-lifter; it was banging its bin-lid up and down angrily.
About fifty yards ahead, Jerry Rivas stepped from behind a machine and
fired; one of the handling-robots flashed green from underneath, went
off contragravity, and came down with a crash. Immediately, like wolves
on a wounded companion, the other two pounced upon it, dragging and
pulling against each other. That was a hunk of junk; their orders were
to remove it.[Pg 123]