"As for the robots, they may be under some kind of centralized radio control, of course. But even that can't be--real brains. It hasn't the judgment. Any little trick, like stepping out of the path of an automaton chasing you, and staying perfectly still, fools 'em. They go right on past you. And you can pull the same stunt again and again. But they're still hellish." Old Rod paused, panting with the effort of his long explanation. Then he went on: "So that means--there's nobody at the helm, Perry. The whole business just goes on by itself. And it _is_ pretty awe inspiring and wonderful at that--so damned wonderful you'd want to cheer, if it wasn't so deadly--when a bunch of men makes an attack against it. The thing to do is not to attack, anyway for a few days. We'd learn more, then. Those robots are guardians of some kind, Perry. It's a hunch of mine...." Suddenly the old man half rose in the bed, as if the expressing of his own thoughts had startled him. "That's the whole crazy irony of the situation, Perry!" he cried. "Men out there, dying--and on the other side--potential progress, inspiration, miracles! The key to a new era! We've got to do something--Perry--now!" For a second Roderick Murgatroyd looked like a magnificent, blinded seer. Then he dropped back onto the bed, fainting into a coma of fatigue. Perry touched the old man's hand with a brief pressure of comradeship. But at the same moment Wilcox was thinking fast to correlate his new information. Rod had spoken of Professor Vince. Vince, a shy, moon-faced little man, was a noted professor of physics at Kerwin University. Vince, then, was one of Lyman Kerwin's stooges. What Vince learned from examining the wrecked automatons, Kerwin would promptly find out. Perry was sure he understood the setup at last. _Kerwin knew, somehow, that what he called the Murgatroyd-Wilcox Horror was of little danger to himself, if he kept out of the battle zone! He was only using it as a means to his own ends. Power. Complete control of the nation. Free access to the inventions this marvelous archeological discovery might reveal!_ It was all too clear. * * * * * Instantly Perry's plan was formulated. His injury was really superficial, now that the effect of the poison was gone. Exertion would work the stiffness out of his leg. But he glanced in frustrated exasperation at the pajamas he was wearing. A second later he was tugging at the door of the closet in the corner of the ward. "Doggone! Where's my rig?" he was grumbling, as he clawed at the piled contents of the closet--mostly clothing of the wounded that had not been damaged by corrosive gas or heat. He found his oxygen mask and tanks at last. Quite indiscriminately he seized a shirt and a pair of trousers, and yanked them on over his pajamas. Shoes were similarly selected and donned. Then he hurried toward the door of the room.