Pendillo gasped painfully for breath. He closed his hand over his son's. "The old survivors are still imprisoned by beliefs carried over from the world we lost. We teach, Lanny, but we cannot believe as you do, even when we see our own children--our own sons--" His voice trailed away, and he slumped against Lanny's chest. A series of explosions rocked the metal walls; Pendillo opened his eyes again. His dying whisper was so soft, so twisted by pain, the words were almost inaudible. "One more thing, son. We did more--more than we thought. Don't retreat to our world; make your own. Without the machines and the city walls and the uproar--" Juan Pendillo grasped his son's hand. His fingers quivered for a moment of agony. And then he died. * * * * * Lanny stumbled away from the cell, his eyes dim with tears. The repetitive explosions continued outside in the domed city. Lanny discovered the origin of the sound when he made his way up the incline to the upper level. The parade of gigantic freight spheres was swinging in from the void of night, but the port machines, which handled the landings, were idle. The spheres were crashing, one upon the other, into the field just beyond the city. From disengaged, pliable tubes, jerking with the spasmodic torment of mechanical chaos, the raw materials plundered from the earth poured out upon the ruin. Fire licked at the wreckage, probing hungrily toward the city of the Almost-men. Lanny ran through the deserted guard rooms. Beyond the walls he heard a babble of panic on the city streets. The first exit that he found led up to the second level, where no man had ever been. He emerged on an ornate balcony, which overlooked the square where the trading booths stood. The force dome that had sheltered the city was gone. Lanny could look up and see the stars--and the endless parade of glowing freight spheres descending toward the earth. The air was clean, cold and wet with the sea mist. In a sense the depressing, stifling city he had seen that afternoon was already gone--except for the bleak walls and the clatter of machine sounds. And, in the agony of its death, the city noise had become the scream of mechanized madness. A seething mass of vehicles choked every tier, fighting for space, grinding each other into rubble. Vehicles careened from the upper roads and plunged into the mass beneath. At first it seemed a panic of machines. The people were trivial incidentals--bits of fluff which had been unfortunate enough to get in the way of the turning wheels. Then Lanny saw the walkaways, as crowded as the roads. A mass of humanity spewed through the doors of the luxury hotels, like run-off streams swelling the floodtide of a swollen river. Where were the Almost-men going? How could they escape? They had given their will and initiative to their machines; they could do nothing to help themselves.