 Why are the robots hunting Alan?
The robots were built to serve Man; to do his work, see to his comforts, make smooth his way. Frowning, worrying about the sounds, Alan momentarily forgot to watch his step until his foot suddenly plunged into an ant hill, throwing him to the jungle floor. At midday some few of the blue sun's rays filtered through to the jungle floor, but now, late afternoon on the planet, the shadows were long and gloomy. Then, through the trees he saw the clearing of the camp site, the temporary home for the scout ship and the eleven men who, with Alan, were the only humans on the jungle planet, Waiamea. Without pausing to think, Alan leaped back, and fell sprawling over a bush just as one of the robots rolled silently up from the right, lowering its blaster barrel to aim directly at his head. The metal killers, tuned to blast any living flesh, would murder them the instant they stepped from the ship! In the movement, his elbow struck the top of a small earthy mound and he was instantly engulfed in a swarm of locust-like insects that beat disgustingly against his eyes and mouth. The planet's double moon had risen and he could see a robot rolling slowly across the clearing in his general direction, blasting indiscriminately at whatever mind impulses came within its pickup range, birds, insects, anything. Apparently the robot hadn't sensed him yet, but Alan didn't know what the effective range of its pickup devices was. Minutes later, looking back he saw that the machine, though several hundred yards away, had altered its course and was now headed directly for him. Powerful as a small tank, the killer robot was equipped to crush, slash, and burn its way through undergrowth. Sharp-edged growths tore at his face and clothes, and insects attracted by the blood matted against his pants and shirt. Behind, the robot crashed imperturbably after him, lighting the night with fitful blaster flashes as some winged or legged life came within its range. There was movement also, in the darkness beside him, scrapings and rustlings and an occasional low, throaty sound like an angry cat. Sharp screams punctuated the electric blue discharge as a pack of small feline creatures leaped snarling and clawing back into the night. His foot tripped on a barely visible insect hill and a winged swarm exploded around him. Patches of black scraped off onto branches and vines, but the rest spread slowly over his arm as agonizing as hot acid, or as flesh being ripped away layer by layer.
 The robots aren't hunting Alan specifically. They are hunting all life forms.
 The robots aren't hunting Alan specifically. They are hunting all life forms.  The robots are hunting Alan because he invaded Waiamea.  The robots aren't hunting Alan. They're hunting pumas. Alan got in the way.  The robots are hunting Alan because he was illegally poaching pumas in the jungle.