Я, Робот

           Therewillbeplentyoffireforall.Hey,you–YOUDOWNTHERE.TAKEYOURPLACEINLINEOR-"

           ThewhitethreadthatwasPowellgroveledbackwardbeforetheadvancingshout,andfeltthesharpstabofthepointingfinger.Itallexplodedintoarainbowofsoundthatdrippeditsfragmentsontoanachingbrain.

           Powellwasinthechair,again.Hefelthimselfshaking.

           Donovan’seyeswereopeningintotwolargepoppingbowlsofglazedblue.

           "Greg,"hewhisperedinwhatwasalmostasob."Wereyoudead?"

           "I...feltdead."Hedidnotrecognizehisowncroak.

           Donovanwasobviouslymakingabadfailureofhisattempttostandup,"Arewealivenow?Oristheremore?"

           "I...feelalive."Itwasthesamehoarseness.Powellsaidcautiously,"Didyou...hearanything,when...whenyouweredead?"

           Donovanpaused,andthenveryslowlynoddedhishead,"Didyou?"

           "Yes.Didyouhearaboutcoffins...andfemalessinging...andthelinesformingtogetintoHell?Didyou?"

           Donovanshookhishead,"Justonevoice."

           "Loud?"

           "No.Soft,butroughlikeafileoverthefingertips.Itwasasermon,youknow.Abouthell-fire.Hedescribedthetorturesof...well,youknow.Ionceheardasermonlikethat–almost."

           Hewasperspiring.

           Theywereconsciousofsunlightthroughtheport.Itwasweak,butitwasblue-white–andthegleamingpeathatwasthedistantsourceoflightwasnotOldSol.

           AndPowellpointedatremblingfingeratthesinglegauge.Theneedlestoodstiffandproudatthehairlinewhosefigureread300,000parsecs.