CHAPTER I
THE CAULDRON
The factory saw-toothed the horizon with its hideous profile as
the moon rose in the east. The red glow of the furnaces bathed
the tall buildings, the gigantic scaffolds, the cord-like
elevated pipelines and the columnar smokestacks in the crimson of
anger. Even the moon seemed to fade as the long-fingered
smokestacks reached toward it belching their pollution. The air,
which should have been clean, was filled with the reek of
unfamiliar odors.
From the machine shop, where giant cannon were forged into
smooth, sleek instruments of death, came noise: unchecked,
unmuffled, blasphemous din. But something odd was afoot. There
was a sudden hush. It seemed as if a giant hand had covered the
metal city to muffle its screams.
In the nearby city of box-like houses, where the workers lived,
there was an echoing stir. Lights glowed in the windows of the
tiny homes. People were awakened in the night by the sudden
cessation of din.
Something was wrong in the factory.
