n ahead of him into the truck and
slammed the door behind them. Jamming the starter with his thumb he
gunned the thunderous diesels into life and pulled out into the traffic.

Jon moved his jaw, but there were no words to come out. Why had this
total stranger helped him, what could he say to show his appreciation?
He knew that all humans weren't robe-haters, why it was even rumored
that some humans treated robots as _equals_ instead of machines. The
driver must be one of these mythical individuals, there was no other way
to explain his actions.

Driving carefully with one hand the man reached up behind the dash and
drew out a thin, plastikoid booklet. He handed it to Jon who quickly
scanned the title, _Robot Slaves in a World Economy_ by Philpott Asimov
II.

"If you're caught reading that thing they'll execute you on the spot.
Better stick it between the insulation on your generator, you can always
burn it if you're picked up.

"Read it when you're alone, it's got a lot of things in it that you know
nothing about. Robots aren't really inferior to humans, in fact they're
superior in most things. There is even a little history in there to show
that robots aren't the first ones to be treated as second class
citizens. You may find it a little hard to believe, but human beings
once treated each other just the way they treat robots now. That's one
of the reasons I'm active in this movement--sort of like the fellow who
was burned helping others stay away from the fire."

He smiled a warm, friendly smile in Jon's direction, the whiteness of
his teeth standing out against the rich ebony brown of his features.

"I'm heading towards US-1, can I drop you anywheres on the way?"

"The Chainjet Building please--I'm applying for a job."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Before he opened the door the
driver shook hands with Jon.

"Sorry about calling you _junkcan_, but the crowd expected it." He
didn't look back as he drove away.

Jon had to wait a half hour for his turn, but the receptionist finally
signalled him towards the door of the interviewer's room. He stepped in
quickly and turned to face the man seated at the transplastic desk, an
upset little man with permanent worry wrinkles stamped in his forehead.
The little man shoved the papers on the desk around angrily,
occasionally making crabbed little notes on the margins. He flashed a
birdlike glance up at Jon.

"Yes, yes, be quick. What is it you want?"

"Y