A warm July evening found Eve and me alone in our isolated Ozark home, talking over the adamant prejudices humans held against us. I felt dreary, soul-sick.
“Eve,” I was saying, “we’re done. We’re finished. Everything we’ve tried in the world of humans has failed. Our chance of becoming citizens now—sunk without a trace.”
“Don’t say that, Adam,” Eve said. “We’ll prove our worth yet.”
“We have no worth,” I grated. “Except as a few cents worth of junk. We’re intelligent robots, but we’re of no earthly use whatsoever.” I repeated the bitter self-denouncement. “We’re of no earthly use whatso—”
Interruption came, in the form of a knock at the door.
We started, looking at each other. Who was visiting us? Who had taken the winding, little-known road leading to our door? A pack of humans, per
