He replied:
“I have seen them, spoken to them, loved them. They are hiding in the mist and the ferns until our civilisation stops. To-day they are the Homeless—to-morrow—”
“Oh, to-morrow—some fool will start the Machine again, tomorrow.”
“Never,” said Kuno, “never. Humanity has learnt its lesson.”
As he spoke, the whole city was broken like a honeycomb. An airship had sailed in through the vomitory into a ruined wharf. It crashed downwards, exploding as it went, rending gallery after gallery with its wings of steel. For a moment they saw the nations of the dead, and, before they joined them, scraps of the untainted sky.
Вы читаете The Machine Stops
