| They were entering a place of mystery and of myth... .. a place of death. Nothing moved. Nothing lived in the Ironfields. It was an unending gallery, filled with mazelike corridors of the gro- tesque, the unspeakable. A montage still-life of end-moments for men and their machines. A burned-out tank with a carbonized skeleton, still frozen in that slice of time when it had been a man struggling to be free of a glowing-hot hatch. The twisted, rusting remains of a great aircraft lying in the van of a plowed-up V, marking its final touchdown. A circular pool of superheated sand, now glazed over to form a diamond-hard slab, its smoothness broken by the eruption of a large, ravaged piece of steel--a piece of untitled, and very avant-garde, sculpture. Machines and pieces of machines litter the sand like dead leaves. The wind slips easily through the countless edges and angles, occasionally rising to produce an eerie music--the combination of a wailing and the phrases of an atonal sonata.", If one believed in them, the place would be aswarm with ghosts. The eidolons of a million soldiers crowd the place, all drifting in the stoop-shouldered half-step of forgotten tramps, condemned to shamble aimlessly through the ruins forever.... |
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