And a man is a man, alive or dead—which is why thegraveyards are a combination of hell, heaven, and strangefeedback, and will remain apart from the cities so longas the earth endures.

But even as I mock them they are looking behind thestones and peering into the gullies. They are searchingfor—and afraid they might find—me.

I, the unjunked, am legend. Once out of a million assemblies a defective such as I might appear and go undetected, until too late.

At will, I could cut the circuit that connected me withCentral Control, and be a free 'bot, and master of myown movements. I liked to visit the cemeteries, becausethey were quiet and different from the maddening stampstamp of the presses and the clanking of the crowds; Iliked to look at the green and red and yellow and bluethings that grew about the graves. And I did not fear theseplaces, for that circuit, too, was defective. So when I wasdiscovered they removed my vite-box and threw me onthe junk heap, But the next day I was gone, and their fear was great.

I no longer possess a self-contained power unit, butthe freak coils within my chest act as storage batteries.They require frequent recharging, however, and thereis only one way to do that.

The werebot is the most frightful legend whisperedamong the gleaming steel towers, when the night windsighs with its burden of fears out of the past, from dayswhen non-metal beings walked the earth. The half-lifes,the preyers upon order, still cry darkness within the vitebox of every 'bot.

I, the discontent, the unjunked, live here in RosewoodPark, among the dogwood and myrtle, the headstonesand broken angels, with Fritz—another legend—in ourdeep and peaceful mausoleum.

Fritz is a vampire, which is a terrible and tragic thing.He is so undernourished that he can no longer moveabout, but he cannot die either, so he lies in his casketand dreams of times gone by. One day, he will ask meto carry him outside into the sunlight, and I will watchhim shrivel and dim into peace and nothingness and dust.I hope he does not ask me soon.

We talk. At night, when the moon is full and he feelsstrong enough, he tells me of his better days, in placescalled Austria and Hungary, where he, too, was fearedand hunted.

"... But only a stainless steel leech can get blood outof a stone—or a robot," he said last night. "It is a proudand lonely thing to be a stainless steel leech—you arepossibly the only one of your kind in existence. Live upto your reputation! Hound theml Drain theml Leave yourmark on a thousand steel throatsl"

And he was right. He is always right. And he knowsmore about these things than I.

"Kenningtoni" his thin, bloodless lips smiled. "Oh,what a duel we fought! He was the last man on earth,and I the last vampire. For ten years I tried to drain him.I got at him twice, but he was from the Old Country andknew what precautions to take. Once he learned of myexistence, he issued a wooden stake to every robot—butI had forty-two graves in those days and they never foundme. They did come close, though....

"But at night, ah, at night!" he chuckled. "Then thingswere reversed! I was the hunter and he the preyl

"I remember his frantic questing after the last fewsprays of garlic and wolfsbane on earth, the crucifixassembly lines he kept in operation around the clock—irreligious soul that he was! I was genuinely sorry whenhe died, in peace. Not so much because I hadn't gottento drain him properly, but because he was a worthy opponent and a suitable antagonist. What a game weplayed!"

His husky voice weakened.

"He sleeps a scant three hundred paces from here,bleaching and dry. His is the great marble tomb by thegate... . Please gather roses tomorrow and place themupon it."

I agreed that I would, for there is a closer kinshipbetween the two of us than between myself and any 'hot,despite the dictates of resemblance. And I must keep myword, before this day passes into evening and althoughthere are searchers above, for such is the law of my nature.

"Damn them! (He taught me that word.) Damnthem!" I say. "I'm coming up! Beware, gentle *bots! Ishall walk among you and you shall not know me. I shallJoin in the search, and you will think I am one of you. Ishall gather the red flowers for dead Kennington, rubbingshoulders with you, and Fritz will smile at the joke."

I climb the cracked and hollow steps, the east alreadySpilling twilight, and the sun half-Udded in the west I emerge.

The roses live on the wall across the road. From greattwisting tubes of vine, with heads brighter than any rust,they bum like danger lights on a control panel, butmoistly.

One, two, three roses for Kennington. Four, five...

**What are you doing, 'hot?""Gathering roses."

**You are supposed to be searching for the werebotHas something damaged you?"

**No, I'm all right," I say, and I fix him where hestands, by bumping against bis shoulder. The circuit completed, I drain his vile-box until I am filled.

'Tfou are the wereboti" he intones weakly.

He falls with a crash.

... Six, seven, eight roses for Kennington, deadKennington, dead as the *bot at my feet—more dead—for he once lived a full, organic life, nearer to Fritz's ormy own than to theirs.

"What happened here, •hot?" '

"He is stopped, and I am picking roses," I tell them.

There are four *bots and an Over.

"It is time you left this place," I say. "Shortly it willbe night and the werebot will walk. Leave, or he willend you."

"You stopped himi" says the Over. "You are thewereboti"

I bunch all the flowers against my chest with one armand turn to face them. The Over, a large special-order*bot, moves toward me. Others are approaching from alldirections. He had sent out a call.

"You are a strange and terrible thing," he is saying,and you must be junked, for the sake of the community."

He seizes me and I drop Kennington's flowers.

I cannot drain him. My coils are already loaded neartheir capacity, and he is specially insulated.

There are dozens around me now, fearing and hating.They will junk me and I will lie beside Kennington.

**Rust in peace," they will say. ... I am sony that Icannot keep my promise to Fritz."Release himi"

No!It is shrouded and moldering Fritz in the doorway of the mausoleum, swaying, clutching at the stone. He always knows....

"Release himi I, a human, order it"

He is ashen and gasping, and the sunlight is doing awful things to him.

—The ancient circuits click and suddenly I am free."Yes, master," says the Over. "We did not know. ., .*'

"Seize that robotF

He points a shaking emaciated finger at him."He is the werebot," he gasps. "Destroy biro! The onegathering flowers was obeying my orders. Leave him here with me."He falls to his knees and the final darts of day pierce his flesh.

"And got All the rest of you! QuicklyI It is my order that no robot ever enter another graveyard againi"

He collapses within and I know that now there areonly bones and bits of rotted shroud on the doorstep of our home.

Pritz has had his final joke—a human masquerade.

I take the roses to Kennington, as the silent *bots fileout through the gate forever, bearing the unprotestingOverbot with them. I place the roses at the foot of themonument—Kennington's and Fritz's—the monument ofthe last, strange, truly living ones.

Now only I remain unjunked.

In the final light of the sun I see them drive a stakethrough the Over's vite-box and bury him at the crossroads.

Then they hurry back toward their towers of steel, of plastic.I gather up what remains of Fritz and carry him down to his box. The bones are brittle and silent.

. . , It is a very proud and very lonely thing to be a stainless steel leech.