"Yes! And perhaps there are still more throughout the arctic! Cities of living dead, still making bombs and bombers after all these centuries. They started something that they could not finish. They'll keep on building those bombers till the machines are worn out and become dust!"
"But the people—the people!" Weaver protested.
"The people!" Millet snorted, "Did you hear the phonograph droning over and over again: you must work—you must work—you must work! Over and over again for two hundred years! It enters into the blood! The child is born and hears those words; you must work—you must work—you must work! He spends his days in the factory—watching and watching until the day that his father dies. Then he too goes up to his positions—working—working—working. Not knowing why, nor caring to know!"
"But the same planes are taken apart!"
"One factory was built for producing planes. Another for dismantling the wreckage of planes that were shot down or brought in from the outside. This went on for generation and generation until it became mechanical. And when contact with the outside world finally died, what was more natural than that the process should continue? And it goes on—and on—and on!"
"But what of the food, what of their supplies and clothes and power?"
Millet shrugged and gestured vaguely. "There are some smaller factories on the other side of the city. They must be bakeries and auxiliary plants. Grain, supplies. . . supplies were laid in from the surpluses to last for hundreds of years. These cities expected isolation. They were places of perpetual seige."
A shiver went down Weaver's spine.
"Horrible!" he said.
"Something must be done about it!" Johnson said, indignant.
"What?"
"Stop the factory! Find their source of power—shut it off!"
Millet laughed, "The men would die! They'd go raving mad! You can't stop a thing that's been in the blood for two hundred years! Touch the power plant and they'd rip you to pieces like a wild animal whose food you try to steal!"
"There must be somebody in the city who is intelligent and who has not become a machine," Weaver said. "From the beginning there was some master, some commander who guided things. His descendant might be here. Find him."
"Yes," Millett said, "there might be one someplace."
"Well! Well!" Johnson shouted, "what are we waiting for?"
It was evening and a shrill whistle broke the darkness. The rumble from the factory died down. The conveyors slowed and stopped and the smoke no longer ascended from the chimney.
Long streams of tired men and women walked dully from the factory. Their thin, gaunt bodies moved slowly over the cobbled snowy streets. Their eyes were misty and each one was stooped as if upon his shoulder, the weight of the factory was set.
The three men entered one of the homes. Wordlessly, the woman of the house set three more chairs by the table and placed three more dishes upon it. They ate with the family in silence, and when night came they went to sleep by the fireplace.
In the morning they awoke and followed the family as they dressed and had breakfast. When the whistle of the factory blew the family slowly filed out into the street where hundreds of other families joined them in the procession towards the factory. Wordlessly, Millet, Weaver and Johnson, mingled with the people, constantly alert for an eye that was not dull, for a face that had more than a blank stare. But it was the same with everyone. Dull—blank—mechanical—living dead—living machines.
Thye gathered in long lines outside the factory, and when the second whistle blew they marched slowly in.
The three men watched them go and when all had entered they followed. But instead of entering the plant itself, they walked into all the smaller rooms, hoping to find some clue to the mystery.
On the third floor of the factory, quite by surprise, they found her.
The door of a room was slightly ajar.
"There's some rooms here," Millet said, "let's take a look."
Someone inside must have heard them. The door suddenly closed. Millet walked up to it and tried to open it, but it was locked.
"Strange," he said, "the door was open a moment ago."
With his shoulder he pushed tentatively. The wood was old and worn. He stepped back and crashed into the door. It splintered and fell. Millet and the two men entered the room.
Amazed, they stared at the young girl who stood alone, back to the wall, facing them. Her eyes and face did hot bear that dull look which characterized every single person in the city. Each movement of hers was catlike and nervous as she moved along the wall further away from them.
"Hello," Millet said softly.
"A voice!" she said, "You speak!"
"Yes, of course we speak," Millet said, walking a bit towards her, "Don't be afraid. We won't hurt you."
"You—you're from the Outside!" she said, fearfully.
"We're friends," Millet said, "We won't hurt you."
"How did you get here?" she asked suddenly.
"By airplane. We crashed. . ."
