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- Исаак Азимов
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Donovan
scrambled
breathlessly
to
his
feet
,
"
Look
at
them
,
Greg
.
They
've
gone
nuts
.
"
Powell
said
,
"
Get
a
pair
of
suits
.
We
're
going
out
there
.
"
He
watched
the
posturings
of
the
robots
on
the
visiplate
.
They
were
bronzy
gleams
of
smooth
motion
against
the
shadowy
crags
of
the
airless
asteroid
.
There
was
a
marching
formation
now
,
and
in
their
own
dim
body
light
,
the
roughhewn
walls
of
the
mine
tunnel
swam
past
noiselessly
,
checkered
with
misty
erratic
blobs
of
shadow
.
They
marched
in
unison
,
seven
of
them
,
with
Dave
at
the
head
.
They
wheeled
and
turned
in
macabre
simultaneity
;
and
melted
through
changes
of
formation
with
the
weird
ease
of
chorus
dancers
in
Lunar
Bowl
.
Donovan
was
back
with
the
suits
,
"
They
've
gone
jingo
on
us
,
Greg
.
That
's
a
military
march
.
"
"
For
all
you
know
,
"
was
the
cold
response
,
"
it
may
be
a
series
of
calisthenic
exercises
.
Or
Dave
may
be
under
the
hallucination
of
being
a
dancing
master
.
Just
you
think
first
,
and
do
n't
bother
to
speak
afterward
,
either
.
"
Donovan
scowled
and
slipped
a
detonator
into
the
empty
side
holster
with
an
ostentatious
shove
.
He
said
,
"
Anyway
,
there
you
are
.
So
we
work
with
new-model
robots
.
It
's
our
job
,
granted
.
But
answer
me
one
question
.
Why
...
why
does
something
invariably
go
wrong
with
them
?
"
"
Because
,
"
said
Powell
,
somberly
,
"
we
are
accursed
.
Let
's
go
!
"
Far
ahead
through
the
thick
velvety
blackness
of
the
corridors
that
reached
past
the
illuminated
circles
of
their
flashlights
,
robot
light
twinkled
.
"
There
they
are
,
"
breathed
Donovan
.
