H. B. Fyfe

“ Two other men and a handful of women gathered around with eager exclamations. The hunters dropped their catch.
"Better get to work on him," said Blackie, glancing at the sky. "Be dark soon."
The men who had remained as guards ran inside the entrance of polished granite and brought out tools: hammers, crowbars, hatchets. Behind them hurried women with basins and large cans. The original four, weary from the weight of the robot despite frequent pauses on the trail, stepped back.
"Where first, Blackie?" asked one of the men, waiting for the women to untangle the rope and timbers. ”

“ Mike stared moodily at the weathered surface of the highway and edged back to avoid the reflected heat.
"It beats me how they know a spot has cracked."
"I guess there's machines to run the machines," sighed Blackie. "I dunno; I was too young. Okay, Vito?"
The relieving pair fell to. Mike stepped out of range of the flying chips to sit at the edge of the soft grass which was attempting another invasion of the gravel shoulder. Propelled by the strength of Vito's powerful torso, a single chip spun through the air to his feet. ”

“ The machine ceased all motion.
"All right!" panted Blackie. "All right! That's enough!"
They stepped back, snarls fading. A handful of gravel trickled through Mike's fingers and pattered loudly on the concrete. Gradually, the men began to straighten up, seeing the robot as an inert heap of metal rather than as a weird beast in its death throes.
"We better load up an' get," said Blackie. "We wanna be over on the trail if they send somethin' up the road to look for this."
Vito dragged the robot off the highway by the head, and they began the task of lashing it to the two-by-fours. ”