He was sitting up, feebly, his head supported by Ruth's hands.
"Goodwin!" he whispered.

"What--what were they ?" "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.