All this time, Applequist thought. All these years. The hackles of his neck rose. Everything was silent, the hills and trees and masses of ruin. Nothing stirred; he and the ancient robot were the only living things. Down here in this crack waiting for somebody to come along.
A cold wind rustled at him and he automatically pulled his overcoat together. Some leaves blew over the inert face of the robot. Vines had crept along its trunk, twisted into its works. It had been rained on; the sun had shone on it. In winter the snow had covered it. Rats and animals had sniffed at it. Insects had crawled through it. And it was still alive.
"I heard you," Applequist muttered. "I was walking along the path."
Presently the robot said, "I know. I saw you stop." Its voice was faint and dry. Like ashes rubbing together. Without quality or pitch. "Would you make the date known to me? I suffered a power failure for an indefinite period. Wiring terminals shorted temporarily."
"It's June 11," Applequist said. "2136," he added.
The robot was obviously hoarding its meager strength. It moved one arm slightly, then let it fall back. Its one good eye blurred over, and deep within, gears whirred rustily. Realization came to Applequist: the robot might expire any moment. It was a miracle it had survived this long. Snails clung to its body. It was criss-crossed with slimy trails. A century...
"How long have you been here?" he demanded. "Since the war?"
"Yes."
Applequist grinned nervously. "That's a long time. Over a hundred years."
"That's so."
It was getting dark fast. Automatically, Applequist fumbled for his flashlight. He could hardly make out the sides of the ravine. Someplace a long way off a bird croaked dismally in the darkness. The bushes rustled.
"I need help," the robot said. "Most of my motor equipment was destroyed. I can't move from here."
"In what condition is the rest of you? Your energy supply. How long can --"
"There's been considerable cell destruction. Only a limited number of relay circuits still function. And those are overloaded." The robot's one good eye was on him again. "What is the technological situation? I have seen airborne ships fly overhead. You still manufacture and maintain electronic equipment?"
"We operate an industrial unit near Pittsburgh."
"If I describe basic electronic units will you understand?" the robot asked.
"I'm not trained in mechanical work. I'm classed as a fourth grade letter carrier. But I have contacts in the repair department. We keep our own machines functioning." He licked his lips tensely. "It's risky, of course. There are laws."
"Laws?"
"All robots were destroyed. You are the only one left. The rest were liquidated years ago."
No expression showed in the robot's eye. "Why did you come down here?" it demanded. Its eye moved to the S-gun in Applequist's hand. "You are a minor official in some hierarchy. Acting on orders from above. A mechanically-operating integer in a larger system."
Applequist laughed. "I suppose so." Then he stopped laughing. "Why was the war fought? What was life like before?"
"Don't you know?"
"Of course not. No theoretical knowledge is permitted, except to top-level personnel. And even the Supervisors don't know about the war." Applequist squatted down and shone the beam of his flashlight into the darkening face of the robot. "Things were different before, weren't they? We didn't always live in subsurface shelters. The world wasn't always a scrap heap. People didn't always slave for their Companies."
"Before the war there were no Companies."
Applequist grunted with triumph. "I knew it."
"Men lived in cities, which were demolished in the war. Companies, which were protected, survived. Officials of these Companies became the government. The war lasted a long time. Everything of value was destroyed. What you have left is a burned-out shell." The robot was silent a moment and then continued, "The first robot was built in 1979. By 2000 all routine work was done by robots. Human beings were free to do what they wanted. Art, science, entertainment, whatever they liked."
"What is art?" Applequist asked.
"Creative work, directed toward realization of an internal standard. The whole population of the earth was free to expand culturally. Robots maintained the world; man enjoyed it."
"What were cities like?"
"Robots rebuilt and reconstructed new cities according to plans drawn up by human artists. Clean, sanitary, attractive. They were the cities of gods."
"Why was the war fought?"
The robot's single eye flickered. "I've already talked too much. My power supply is dangerously low."
Applequist trembled. "What do you need? I'll get it."
"Immediately, I need an atomic A pack. Capable of putting out ten thousand f-units."
"Yes."
"After that, I'll need tools and aluminum sections. Low resistance wiring. Bring pen and paper -- I'll give you a list. You won't understand it, but someone in electronic maintenance will. A power supply is the first need."
"And you'll tell me about the war?"
"Of course." The robot's dry rasp faded into silence. Shadows flickered around it; cold evening air stirred the dark weeds and bushes. "Kindly hurry. Tomorrow, if possible."
"I ought to turn you in," Assistant Supervisor Jenkins snapped. "Half an hour late, and now this business. What are you doing? You want to get fired out of the Company?'
Applequist pushed close to the man. "I have to get this stuff. The -- cache is below surface. I have to construct a secure passage. Otherwise the whole thing will be buried by falling debris."
"How large a cache is it?" Greed edged suspicion off Jenkins' gnarled face. He was already spending the Company reward. "Have you been able to see in? Are there unknown machines?"
"I didn't recognize any," Applequist said impatiently. "Don't waste time. The whole mass of debris is apt to collapse. I have to work fast."
"Where is it? I want to see it!"
"I'm doing this alone. You supply the material and cover for my absence. That's your part."
Jenkins twisted uncertainly. "If you're lying to me, Applequist --"
"I'm not lying," Applequist answered angrily. "When can I expect the power unit?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'll have to fill out a bushel of forms. Are you sure you can operate it? I better send a repair team along with you. To be sure --"
"I can handle it." Applequist interrupted. "Just get me the stuff. I'll take care of the rest."
Morning sunlight filtered over the rubble and trash. Applequist nervously fitted the new power pack in place, screwed the leads tight, clamped the corroded shield over it, and then got shakily to his feet. He tossed away the old pack and waited.
The robot stirred. Its eye gained life and awareness. Presently it moved its arm in exploratory motions, over its damaged trunk and shoulders.
"All right?" Applequist demanded huskily.
"Apparently." The robot's voice was stronger; full and more confident. "The old power pack was virtually exhausted. It was fortunate you came along when you did."
"You say men lived in cities," Applequist plunged in eagerly. "Robots did the work?"
"Robots did the routine labor needed to maintain the industrial system. Humans had leisure to enjoy whatever they wanted. We were glad to do their work for them. It was our job."
"What happened? What went wrong?'
The robot accepted the pencil and paper; as it talked it carefully wrote down figures. "There was a fanaitic group of humans. A religious organization. They claimed that God intended man to work by the sweat of his brow. They wanted robots scrapped and men put back in the factories to slave away at routine tasks."