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"
Well
,
listen
,
"
Donovan
took
another
ineffectual
swipe
at
his
hair
,
"
I
'm
not
worried
so
much
about
our
cast-iron
genius
and
his
tin
ship
.
There
's
the
matter
of
my
lost
leave
.
And
the
monotony
!
There
's
nothing
here
but
whiskers
and
figures
--
the
wrong
kind
of
figures
.
Oh
,
why
do
they
give
us
these
jobs
?
"
"
Because
,
"
replied
Powell
,
gently
,
"
we
're
no
loss
,
if
they
lose
us
.
O.
K.
,
relax
!
Doc
Lanning
's
coming
this
way
.
"
Lanning
was
coming
,
his
gray
eyebrows
as
lavish
as
ever
,
his
aged
figure
unbent
as
yet
and
full
of
life
.
He
walked
silently
up
the
ramp
with
the
two
men
and
out
into
the
open
field
,
where
,
obeying
no
human
master
,
silent
robots
were
building
a
ship
.
Wrong
tense
.
Had
built
a
ship
!
For
Lanning
said
,
"
The
robots
have
stopped
.
Not
one
has
moved
today
.
"
"
It
's
completed
then
?
Definitely
?
"
asked
Powell
.
"
Now
how
can
I
tell
?
"
Lanning
was
peevish
,
and
his
eyebrows
curled
down
in
an
eye-hiding
frown
.
"
It
seems
done
.
There
are
no
spare
pieces
about
,
and
the
interior
is
down
to
a
gleaming
finish
.
"
"
You
've
been
inside
?
"
"
Just
in
,
then
out
.
I
'm
no
space-pilot
.
Either
of
you
two
know
much
about
engine
theory
?
"
Donovan
looked
at
Powell
,
who
looked
at
Donovan
.
