“What are you?” the robot said.

The golden man seemed to give the question due consideration.

“. . . I am me,” it decided. “Come. Won’t you follow me?”

“No, we won’t follow you!” the Tasso said. In a quiet voice it said, “Maybe it’s a bit damaged?”

“I am not,” the golden man said. “I am whole. Come, follow me.” And it began to sing again.

The music worked its way into the robot’s mind like a worm or a virus. It latched on to memories and sense. It made the robot feel good.

It gave the robot visions, of how things could be different: no more war, and robots living together in harmony, and a place much like heaven, a heaven for robots, where the rivers ran with clean wholesome fuel and the trees hung with memory bulbs and the air was clear and birds sang in the skies, for the robot liked the sound of birds singing; and there was no war and no one was shelled or dissolved in a pool of acid or eaten by a giant worm.

Without consciously intending it, which was strange, the robot found itself following the golden man. Moreover, it noticed that so did its fellow soldiers, even the Tasso.

The robots followed the golden man and as they followed it they sang, and their song rose into the air above the battlefield, and reached the hearing apparatuses of other combatants.

In this manner the robot marched across the peninsula, through twisting wadis and over mountains. And from all across the lands of the Arabian Peninsula the robots and combatants came: drawn inexorably to the golden man and its impossible promise.

It truly was an ultimate weapon, the robot realised, but it was deployed by no side known to take part in the war. It drew soldiers from all sides and fashioned them into its own army.

But it was also a person. It was a thing that was of itself, that had its own thoughts, its own hopes. And the robot grew close to the golden man by degrees.

As they sat one day entwined in each other’s arms at the entrance to a cave high in the mountains, the golden man said, “Are you afraid?”

“I do not know to be afraid,” the robot said.

The golden man touched the robot gently on its metal cheek.

“Then I will show you,” it said. “For I am afraid.”

The touch, so electric, burned the robot’s shell. It watched the city down below: rich, prosperous, secure in the knowledge it was safe from the war.

New Punt.

The City of Gold.

Its towers rose gracefully into the sky. Its lights shone brightly in the dark. The smell of delicious foods wafted from its streets, and the sounds of music, joy, and life.