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Each room of the Tower had been a work of art. Both Brons and Neeblings had contributed to it, back in the days when they were working shoulder to shoulder. In spite of his thoughts for Maya, he could not help thinking that the Brons had brought this on themselves. When they tried to put the Neeblings in second place, that was when the bell had sounded.
But families on a trip like this. No!" "Well, they're going," Odin retorted. "From what I hear, you were the only one who voted against them. So you had better get ready to listen to the patter of little feet, and squalling babies, and Mamas and Papas arguing over whose idea it was to make the trip anyway." "Oh, well, it does not matter. I am not of the Brons, but I go because of a promise."
For a moment they were in such darkness that even the beam from the tractor seemed alien. Then another door started to open before them and a widening shaft of light was there to greet them. Odin was thinking that each race must have some craft at which it excels all others. If so, then the building of air-locks was certainly the Brons' highest art.
They traveled slow, and this is how they made the trip. They had discovered something which kept most of the crew under suspended animation for years upon years. That tale was not far from right. For the Brons too had a capsule, red like a ruby, which made them sleep for a score of years. There was an antidote, a yellow liquid like curdled flames.
Two were still working with the odd-shaped weapon. There were other Lorens coming out of the hedges, but they held back. They had seen enough. Had fortune favored Ato then, his army would have won. But at the precise moment when the balance was swinging toward the Brons, Grim Hagen's gun-crew got the strange weapon unlimbered. The globe started turning. Unseen motors roared within it.
Odin braced himself. He took one step forward and waited. Seeing him, Grim Hagen veered toward him, screaming a mad battle-cry his eyes wild with hate. Even in what appeared to be the last moment, Jack Odin saw that only three or four of the white-skinned soldiers were left; and not over a dozen of the Brons who had stayed with Grim Hagen during all those wasting years remained.
None of Hagen's Brons or Aldebaranians were left. The Lorens threw down their arms and swore loyalty to Val. A cot was improvised for Ato. The lights hovered around him, whispering cheerfully and ignoring all others. Val, Odin and Maya tried to count the survivors. Of the fifty who had lived through the fighting, only eighteen were Brons. The rest were Val's men.
There were a million things to go on the ship. The Brons had done a wonderful job of warehousing. All was packaged and tagged. A place for each box or machine was already marked and numbered on the prints of The Nebula. The tunnel had been cleared for two lanes of trucks and tractors. Steadily the line of laden cars moved down to the ship and steadily another line came back for more supplies.
and the people take drastic steps to bring about a rejuvenation; the old King dies, to be replaced by a young and vigorous successor, even as Brons was replaced by Perceval.
As though spun out like gleaming strands of cobwebs, coils of light came flickering toward the attacking Brons. Like blue-white ripples they went across the fore-running Kalis. The ripples of light went on expanding. The shotgun in the hands of the old Bron suddenly burst to pieces. The old rifles fell apart.
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