"Metal," I said--it was the only word to which my whirling
mind could cling--"metal--"

"Metal!" he echoed. "These things metal? Metal--ALIVE
AND THINKING!"

Suddenly he was silent, his face a page on which, visibly,
dread gathered slowly and ever deeper.

And as I looked at Ruth, white-faced, and at him, I knew
that my own was as pallid, as terror-stricken as theirs.

"They were such LITTLE THINGS," muttered Drake. "Such
little things--bits of metal--little globes and pyramids and
cubes--just little THINGS."

"Babes! Only babes!" It was Ruth--"BABES!"

"Bits of metal"--Dick's gaze sought mine, held it--"and
they looked for each other, they worked with each other--
THINKINGLY, CONSCIOUSLY--they were deliberate, purposeful--
little things--and with the force of a score of dynamos--
living, THINKING--"

"Don't!" Ruth laid white hands over his eyes. "Don't--
don't YOU be frightened!"

"Frightened?" he echoed. "I'M not afraid--yes, I AM
afraid--"