All Jackson's Children
By DANIEL F. GALOUYE
Illustrated by FINLAY
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Their chances hung literally on a prayer ...
which they had to answer all by themselves!
Angus McIntosh vigorously scuffed the tarnished nameplate on thewrecked cargo carrier. Then he stepped back and squinted under shaggygray eyebrows.
Letter by letter, number by number, he coaxed out the designationon the crumpled bow of the spacer in the vine-matted gorge: "RT ...3070 ... VG-II."
His lean frame tensed with concern as he turned to stare soberly at theother. "A Vegan robot trader!"
Bruce Drummond grinned. "Are we lucky! Clunkers are worth money—in anycondition."
Angus snorted impatiently. "Let's get out of here, quick."
"Get out?" the stocky Drummond repeated incredulously as he ranthick-set fingers over the black stubble on his cheek. "Ain't we goingto salvage the clunkers? The book says they're ours after fifty years."
"The hold's empty. There's no cargo."
"There was when it landed. Look at the angle of incidence on thosefins."
"Exactly." Frowning, Angus shifted his holster around on his hip andstrode back toward the plain. "Ever hear of a frustrated compulsion?"
Drummond, following hesitantly, shook his head.
"Those clunkers have to satisfy a basic behavior circuit," McIntoshexplained as he hastened his step. "We don't know what the compulsionof this bunch is. Suppose—well, suppose they have a chiropracticfunction. How'd you like to be the first person to show up afterthey've been frustrated for a hundred years?"
"Oh," Drummond said comprehendingly, stumbling to keep pace.
Angus McIntosh brushed a mass of tendrils aside and stepped out on theplain. "We'll report it and let them send in a deactivation crew. Thatway, at least, we'll get fifty per cent of salvage and no danger."
"Even that ain't bad—just for following an SOS a hundred light-years.Taking an uncharted route and picking up that signal sure paid offlike—"
Drummond gagged on his words as he gripped Angus's arm and pointed.
Their ship was a shining oval, bobbing and weaving on a sea of silverthat surged across the plain toward a cliff on the left.
"Clunkers!" Drummond gasped. "Hundreds of 'em—making off with ourboat!"
He unholstered his weapon and fired.
Angus struck his wrist sharply. "Why don't you just run out waving yourarms? We don't have enough firepower to get more than eight or ten ofthem."
But the warning was too late. Already the tide had washed away from theship and was surging toward the gorge.
There was a noise behind them and Angus spun around. Ten feet awaystood a robot with the designation RA-204 on his breast-plate.
"Welcome, O Jackson," the clunker said reverently.
Then he hinged forward on his hip joints until his head almost touchedthe ground. The gesture was a clockwork salaam.
McIntosh's thin legs dangled in front of 204's breast-plate and hisankles were secure in the grip of metal fingers as he rode the robot'sshoulders.
RA-76 strode alongside, carrying a squirmin