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THE REVOLT OF THE MACHINE MEN By Charles R. Tanner A robot will do what he’s told —but sometimes he doesn’t like what you tell him. Then he takes matters in his own metal hands — and, brother, that’s the time to start running! There was a discreet knock on the door and Jason Critchfield looked up from his copy of Modern Psychogenics long enough to call, “Come in!” The door opened to admit Meadows, the butler. Meadows was about six and a half feet tall, and two and a half feet in diameter. Its glossy black sides were of a cool blue, offset with darker blue around the two big eye-lenses and the voder speaker. It moved on caterpillar treads, tired with soft rubber, and the only things about it that looked even remotely human were the two arms that hung at its sides. Even they were obviously mechanical—the only thing recalling humanity being the fact that they were jointed like human arms and had delicate five-fingered hands. Below Meadows’ eyes were gadgets - lots of gadgets. There was a motor shaft sticking out near the bottom, and a thin wire cable on a reel. There was a drawer, and above that a built-in microphone. There were several electric plugs, marked charge, discharge and emergency house current. Meadows rolled swiftly and silently over the rug to Jason’s desk and said, in well-modulated tones, “There is a gentleman to see you, sir.” Jason hardly looked up from his magazine. “Who is it?” he grunted. Meadows spoke again. His voice was entirely different now. It was a sharp voice, a brash and confident voice, a voice that belong to a man who was young and successful and convinced that he was go-ing places. The voice said, “You tell him McClintock is here to see him. Richard J. Mc-Clintock. He’ll know who I mean. He’s expecting me.” Jason was by no means amazed at the sudden
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