trotting in screaming victory. "We win it, we win it!" cried
Manager Magitt. "Eighty-seven to eighty-three! What a
squeaker!"
Boley lifted his head to croak, "That's fine." But no-
body was listening. The manager jumped on a table and
yelled, over the noise in the locker room:
"Boys, we pulled a close one out, and you know what
that means. We're leading in the Series, eleven games to
nine! Now let's just wrap those other two up, and"
He was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream from
Boley. Boley was standing up, pointing with an expression
of horror. The athletes had scattered and the trainers were
working them over; only some of the trainers were using
pliers and screwdrivers instead of towels and liniment.
Next to Boley, the big gray-skinned pinch runner was
flat on his back, and the trainer was lifting one leg away
from the body
"Murder!" bellowed Boley. "That fellow is murdering
that fellow!"
The manager jumped down next to him. "Murder?
There isn't any murder, Boleslaw! What are you talking
about?"
Boley pointed mutely. The trainer stood gaping at him,
with the leg hanging limp in his grip. It was completely
removed from the torso it belonged to, but the torso
seemed to be making no objections; the curious eyes were
open but no longer sparkling; the gray skin, at closer
hand, seemed metallic and cold.
The manager said fretfully, "I swear, Boleslaw, you're
a nuisance. They're just getting cleaned and oiled, bat-
teries recharged, that sort of thing. So they'll be in shape
tomorrow, you understand."
"Cleaned," whispered Boley. "Oiled." He stared around
e the room. All of the gray-skinned ones were being some-
how disassembled; bits of metal and glass were sticking
out of them. "Are you trying to tell me," he croaked, "that
those fellows aren't fellows?"
"They're ballplayers," said Manager Magill impatiently.
"Robots. Haven't you ever seen a robot before? We're
allowed to field six robots on a nine-man team, it's per-
fectly legal. Why, next year I'm hoping the Commission-
er'11 let us play a whole robot team. Then you'll see some
baseball!"
With bulging eyes Boley saw it was true. Except for a
handful of flesh-and-blood players like himself the team
was made up of man-shaped machines, steel for bones,
electricity for blood, steel and plastic and copper cogs for
muscle. "Machines," said Boley, and turned up his eyes.
The owner's uncle tapped him on the shoulder wor-
riedly. "It's time to go back," he said.
