Before one Reebok Sneakers of these forges, close to us, stood a Metal Thing. Its body was a twelve-foot column of smaller cubes. Upon the top was a hollow square formed of even lesser blocks — blocks hardly larger than the Little Things themselves. In the center of the open rectangle was another shaft, its Marko Grujic Drakter top a two-foot square plate formed Brad Davis Drakter of a single cube.
From the sides of the hollow square sprang long arms of spheres, each tipped by a tetrahedron. They moved freely, slipping about upon their curved points of contact and like a dozen little thinking hammers, the pyramid points at their ends beat Seydou Doumbia Drakter down upon as many thimble shaped objects which they thrust alternately into the unwinking brazier then laid upon the central block to shape.
A goblin workman the Thing seemed, standing there, so intent upon and so busy with its forgings.
There were scores of these animate machines; they paid no slightest heed to us as we slipped by them, clinging as closely to the wall of the immense workshop as we could.
We passed a company of other Shapes which stood two by two and close together, their tops wide spinning wheels through which the tendrils of an opened globe fed translucent, colorless ingots — the substance it seemed to me of which Norhala’s shadowy walls were made, the crystal of which the bars that built out the base of the Cones were formed.
The ingots passed between the whirling faces; emerged from them as slender, long cylinders; were seized as they slipped down by a New Zealand crouching block, whose place as it glided away was instantly taken by another. In many bewildering forms, intent upon unknown activities directed toward unguessable ends, Christian Pulisic Drakter the composite, animate mechanisms labored. And all the place was filled with a goblin bustle, trollish racketings, ringing of gnomish anvils, clanging of kobold forges — a clamorous cavern filled with metal Nibelungens.
We came to the opening of another passage, a doorway piercing the walls of the workshop. Its incline, though steep, was not dangerous.
Into it we stepped; climbed onward it seemed interminably. Far ahead of us at last appeared the outline of its further entrance, silhouetted against and filled with a brighter luminosity. We drew near; stopped cautiously at its threshold, peering out.
Well it was that we had hesitated. Before us was open space — an abyss in the body of the Metal Monster.
The corridor opened into it like a window. Thrusting out our heads, we saw an unbroken wall both above and below. Half a mile away was Jordi Alba Drakter its opposite side. Over this pit was a misty sky and not more than a thousand feet Jan Kirchhoff Drakter above and black against the heavens was the lip of it — the cornices of this chasm within the City.
Far, far beneath us we Mathieu Debuchy Drakter watched the Hordes throw themselves across the abyss in webs of curving arches and girder-straight bridges; gigantic we knew these spans must be Antonio Candreva Drakter yet dwarfed to slender footways by Joao Mario Drakter distance. Over them moved hurrying companies; from them Sevilla FC Drakter came flashings, glitterings — prismatic, sun golden; plutonic scarlets, molten blues; jalinks:
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