James P. Crow

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“YOU’RE a nasty little—human being,” the newly-formed Z Type robot shrilled peevishly.

Donnie flushed and slunk away. It was true. He was a human being, a human child. And there was nothing science could do. He was stuck with it. A human being in a robot’s world.

He wished he were dead. He wished he lay under the grass and the worms were eating him up and crawling through him and devouring his brain, his poor miserable human’s brain. The Z-236r, his robot companion, wouldn’t have anybody to play with and it would be sorry.

"Where are you going?” Z-236r demanded.

"Home.”

“Sissy.”

Donnie didn’t reply. He gathered up his set of fourth dimensional chess, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked off between the rows of ecarda trees, toward the human quarter. Behind him, Z-236r stood gleaming in the late afternoon sun, a pale tower of metal and plastic.

‘'See if I care,” Z-236r shouted sullenly. "Who wants to play with a human being, anyhow? Go on home. You—you smell.”

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