Metal fingers, five on each hand; each hand attached to an arm, and each pair of arms connected to a silvery sphere that sat atop a four-foot pillar. Within the pillar, micro-relays ticked and chuckled, sending delicately measured surges of power here and there through silver nerves to metal muscles. Responding, the hands built an energy generator. And when they finished, they built another. And another. On and on, monotonously.
Crayley rubbed absently at his mustache and plotted murder.
"-be a great deal cheaper, Mr. Crayley?"
Crayley realized he hadn't been listening to what the man beside him was saying. He turned his head to look at the Space Force officer and said quietly, "I'm sorry, major; I didn't quite get you."
"I said that it seems to me that ordinary production machinery would be a great deal cheaper. Why do they use those waldoes?"
