These--Things of metal whose brains are thinking crystals--Things that suck their strength from the sun and whose blood is the lightning.
"The sun! The sun!" he cried.

"There lies their weakness!" The voice rose in pitch, grew strident.
"Go back to the city! Go back to the city! Walter--Drake.

They are not invulnerable.

No! The sun--strike them through the sun! Go into the city--not invulnerable--the Keeper of the Cones--strike at the Cones when--the Keeper of the Cones--ah-h-h-ah--" We shrank back appalled, for from the parted, scarcely moving lips in the unchanging face a gust of laughter, mad, mocking, terrifying, racked its way.
"Vulnerable--under the law--even as we! The Cones! "Go!" he gasped.

A tremor shook him; slowly the mouth closed.
"Martin! Brother," wept Ruth.