He could see the men below twisting their heads vainly to find the source.

“If you let me come back and don’t kill me I will do your work. I was afraid of the bomb, but now I am afraid of the guns.” It sounded a little infantile, but he was pretty sure none of those present had any sound knowledge of robotic intelligence.

“Please let me come back⁠ ⁠… sir!” He had almost forgotten the last word, so he added another “Please, sir!” to make up.

Coleman needed that package under the boat very badly, he would promise anything to get it. Jon had no doubts as to his eventual fate, all he could hope to do was kill time in the hopes that the phone message would bring aid.

“Come on down, Junky, I won’t be mad at you⁠—if you follow directions.” Jon could hear the hidden anger in his voice, the unspoken hatred for a robe who dared lay hands on him.

The descent wasn’t difficult, but Jon did it slowly with much apparent discomfort. He hopped into the center of the floor⁠—leaning on the cases as if for support. Coleman and Druce were both there as well as a group of hard-eyed newcomers. They raised their guns at his approach but Coleman stopped them with a gesture.

“This is my robe, boys, I’ll see to it that he’s happy.”

He raised his gun and shot Jon’s remaining leg off. Twisted around by the blast, Jon fell helplessly to the floor. He looked up into the smoking mouth of the .75.

“Very smart for a tin-can, but not smart enough. We’ll get the junk on the boat some other way, some way that won’t mean having you around under foot.” Death looked out of his narrowed eyes.