"Sing of feted generals who bring the victory home. Oh ... but the broken bodies that drip like honey-comb!" Danton touched her shoulder. Her uniform hung in tatters. A line of red ran down her torn arm. She sank to her knees. He could barely hear the last two lines of her song. "... sing of hearts triumphant, long ranks of marching men. And will you sing of the shadowy hosts that never march again?" He lifted her and stood, holding her like a child. Now her eyes were closed. She would have a pretty face, he thought. The army uniform cap fell away and her hair tumbled down over his hand and arm like red dust. Her lips moved. She whispered: "No one hears. No one--ever hears." "I hear you," Danton said. But you don't hear me, he thought. Her body was limp. She's dead, he thought. The crane dipped, steel jaws champing, steel-thewed neck stiff and superior, now lifting. Danton put the girl down, leaped, caught the metal lips, clung as the crane lifted, swung, caught the rail, pulled himself over onto the walkway. His breath was hot and his lungs burned. He slid the ancient revolver free and examined it quickly. Its mechanism was simple enough. He twirled the cylinder, removed the safety catch. Doors? Where did they go? None of the doors seemed inclined to tell him; nothing moved around him except the crane and the conveyor belt. He walked round the circular way once, came back. It would seem that he must crawl onto the belt to escape the pit. That would take him--somewhere. It seemed that he was destined to follow the dead wherever the dead went in this place where the dead seemed to have lost the last faint tinge of dignity or honor. Silently, simultaneously, the doors slid open. A man was born from the darkness of each black rectangle. Bronze giant men in tunics that glittered like finely-woven metallic-silk. There was some variation, yet they were amazingly alike, expressionless, cold, removed. Far removed. Danton heard the conveyor belt moving softly, swiftly behind him, carrying its macabre load. The revolver felt heavy in his hand. Then, from somewhere, a voice crackled in the pit like ice shifting. "Bring this soldier to the Council Room." A man's voice, without any particular characteristic other than one of detachment. It might have been the voice of a machine, or something on a tape. [Illustration: _Danton fired seven times ... after that he stopped, because the gun was empty...._]