Wheels, meters, switches, charts. Never before had Perry Wilcox seen such a staggering array. His heart sank. Could he ever master such a complex arrangement in time to do any good--to stop the robots and that vast, senseless conflict above? He tugged at one wheel. It turned a very little, and a meter needle nearby jumped, showing that the apparatus was still effective. But there the wheel stuck. It was locked by a slight film of corrosion. Though things in this control room were marvelously preserved, considering their titanic age, they had not been protected by a time-defying vacuum. Perry's face went sober and tired. "Even if these are the right controls," he said, "it would take me a week and a lot of oil and brain work to loosen 'em up and figure 'em out so I could turn off hell up above." Then his gaze centered on a mirror nearby. It was part of a periscope arrangement which evidently communicated with the surface, its upper end cleared of encumbering earth by the robots. In the mirror was visible the slope of a hill, bright in after noon sunshine. A solid array of army tanks were creeping up it laboriously. Behind them, guns blazed. But down upon those attackers was pouring a hail of death--of sharper, more violent explosions--that wiped out two and three of the tanks at a time. Beyond, the plain was being filled with a miasmic fog of death--corrosive gas. Still, the tanks came on, each with its load of brave young men. Wave on wave, to destruction. Perry stood watching for several moments. Viewed from the distance, the tanks looked hardly bigger than they would have, had he been normal size. His position was sort of a joke. He was standing where a general from another planet should have stood while directing his guardian robot army. But he was helpless. "Kerwin is still at it," Perry remarked at last, his voice so matter-of-fact that it was startling. He was thinking bitterly of many things. Of the way plans were made, hopefully, till they became faith. And then the disillusion of miscarried results--of fact. Like this buried utopia. Its creators had worked for its realization. They had achieved it, but they had vanished. Like himself, and like Rod Murgatroyd. Rod, blinded, but talking with hollow magnificence, of a strange heritage. Path of Progress. The inspiration of a more ancient science to spur mankind on. Oh, it sounded good, but it was all--screwy! Wilcox blew up at last. "With Kerwin in control, Rod's probably already dead--lynched by a mob!" he said. "And here we are, down here, a couple of helpless peewees! I suppose we could go back to normal size--back the same way we came here. There are controls there in the entrance chamber. But what good would that do? We'd still be peewees!" But Troubles was of a somewhat different attitude. "Maybe inch-high peewees like us have advantages at that," she said significantly. "Look, fella."