“You are forgetting a simpler explanation,” Angelina said.

“Don’t keep it a secret. If you can think better than I can—which is no compliment right now—let’s have it.”

“The torture box. You said it was radio controlled.”

“Of course! A directional apparatus is probably an integral part of the mechanism. Is the thing still here, Taze?”

“Yes, below. We thought there might be a use for it.”

“There is now. When we leave the box stays here. Maybe this will keep their attention on the building—and once away they won’t find me this easily again. Now brief me, Taze, what kind of a building is this—and how do we get out of it?”

“It is a factory, owned by one of our members. And there is no possible way out, we are doomed to fight and die, but when we do we will sell our lives well and take many of those swine-pig-dogs with us…”

“That’s fine, yes indeed. But we’ll sell our lives dearly only if we have to. DiGriz can find escape routes where others only despair. Is your factory owner here? Good, send her up as quickly as possible.”

Taze left on a run and I turned to my wife.

“I assume you brought the usual equipment with you? The sort of thing we had on our honeymoon.”

“Bombs, grenades, explosives, gas charges, of course.”

“Good girl. With you for a wife I have a growing sense of security.”

Taze ran back in followed by another uniformed amazon. A little older perhaps, with a very attractive touch of gray to her hair, yet full-bosomed and round-limbed in a maturely fascinating way… I caught the cold look frosting in Angelina’s eyes and quickly put my thoughts on more pressing matters.

“I am James diGriz, interstellar agent and spy.”

“Fayda Firtina of the Guard,” she barked and snapped a salute.

“Yes, very good Fayda, glad to meet you. At ease. I understand that you own this building.”

“That is correct. Firtina Amalgamated (construction) Robutlers, Limited. The finest product on the market.”

“What is?”

“Robutlers.”

“You wouldn’t think me dense if I asked what a robutler is?”

“A luxury product that is a necessity for the proper home. A robot that is programmed, trained, articulated and specially designed for but a single function. A butler, a servant, a willing aid around the house that makes the house a home, relieving the lady of the establishment of the chores and cares and stresses of modern living…”

There was more like this, obviously quotes from a sales brochure, but I did not hear it. A plan was forming in my mind, taking shape—until the sound of firing broke through my train of thought.

“They have made a probing attack,” Taze said, a com-radio to her ear. “But were repulsed with losses.”

“Keep holding them. They shouldn’t try the heavy stuff for awhile since they still hope to get me alive.” I waved over the factory owner who seemed ready to go on with her sales talk. “Fayda, will you give me a quick sketch of the ground plan of the building and the immediate area around it.”

She drew quickly and accurately, military training no doubt, indicating doors and windows and the surrounding streets.

“What do your robutlers look like?” I asked.

“Roughly humanoid in form and size, the optimum shape for a home environment. In addition—”

“That’s fine. How many do you have ready to go, field tested or whatever you call it, with their little power packs charged?”

She frowned in thought. “I’ll have to check with shipping, but at a rough guess I would say between 150 and 200.”

“That will be just perfect for our needs. Would you be terribly put out—your insurance might cover it—if they were destroyed in the cause of Burada freedom?”

“Every Firtina robutler would willingly die, happily, if it had any emotions for the cause. Though of course they are incapable of bearing arms or of violent acts of any kind.”

“They don’t have to. We can take care of that. Our robutler brigade will be the diversion that gets us out of here. Now come close girls and I’ll tell you the plan.”

The old diGriz brain was really turning over at last. The firing in the background only stimulated me to grander efforts, while I was buoyed up on a wave of cheerful enthusiasm. Within minutes the preparations were being made, and within a half an hour the troops were ready to attack.

“You know your orders?” I asked the dimly lit shipping bay full of robots.

“That we do sir, yes sir, thank you sir,” they all answered in the best of cultured accents.

“Then prepare to depart. What you do now is a far far better thing than you would have ever done in an electronic lifetime of domestic service. When I say leave, each to its appointed task.”

“Very kind sir, thank you sir.”

There were over a hundred here in the shipping bay of the factory, our main diversionary attack. They stood in neat rows, humming and eager to go. The front ranks were dressed in all the excess garments we had been able to assemble; some with uniform hats, others with jackets, still fewer wearing slacks. Most of the clothing had been donated piecemeal by the female shocktroops, which fact was not doing me much good in my new marital status. There was entirely too much tanned flesh around for a man to completely ignore. It was almost a pleasure to be with the robots for a change. Their forms were sleek but hard, their dress inconsistent and revealing of nothing of interest. And each of them clutched a length of pipe or plastic or some other object resembling a weapon. In the confusion that was soon to come my hope was that they would be mistaken for human attackers. I looked at my watch and raised the com-radio to my mouth.

“Stand by all units. Fifteen seconds to zero. Bombers stand ready. Keep away from the windows until the last second. Ready, keep low… trigger your bombs… THROW!”

There was a series of dull explosions from the street outside, that would be echoed on all sides of the building, as the girls heaved the bombs from the upper stories. Smoke bombs for the most part, though there were some irritants and sleep gas mixed in with them. I gave the bombs five seconds to maximum density then hit the garage door switches. The doors rumbled up to reveal little other than twisting coils of smoke that instantly began to pour into the garage.

“Go, my loyal troops, go!” I ordered and every left foot shot forward as one, and the ranks of my robot brigade surged forward.

“Thanking you sir!” mellifluously sounded in perfect tones from those metallic throats, and I retreated as they ran by.

There was firing now, from the windows above, echoed instantly by the troops outside. According to plan. I looked at my watch as I ran. Fifteen seconds from zero, time for the second wave. “All other robutler units—now!” I ordered into the com-radio.

At that moment, from the other doors and exits of the factory, into the shroud of smoke and gas, the remaining robots should be going into action. I had not taken the time to try and rig an eavesdropping circuit on the enemy’s command net, but I could just imagine what was happening now. What I hoped was happening now.

The building was surrounded, all their troops alert, our stronghold visible in all details in the warm afternoon sunlight. Then the sudden change, smoke, chemical irritants, shrouding the building on all sides. A breakout obviously—and there it was! Dim figures in the smoke, firing, get them, shoot to kill. Zoing, zoing! Take that you rotten Burada guerrilla fink! What fighters these Burada are—men of steel!—shoot them and they don’t fall. Panic in the smoke. The word that there are other breakouts. Which was the real one, which a cover? How to mass the troops? Where should the reserves be sent?

I figured that it would take about one minute for the first confusion to have reached its peak. After this the smoke would begin to thin and the dead bodies would be discovered to be robots and the word would get out. We wanted to get out before this word did. Once the bombs had been thrown Taze and her troops would be hurrying to get into position—and one minute was not very much time to reach the back of the factory from the upper floors. Yet most of them were there before me with Taze checking them off as they ran up.