Arms flailing, seeking a death-hold upon the darting machine, Rod caught a wheel of 83's carriage, up-ended him. But the thing was on its wheels instantly, upon him again. Rod found a grip upon one black arm, hurled him against the floor. The crash which would have ruined another Capek affected 83 not at all. He charged again. Rod was taken by the neck, flung against the wall. A roller was broken.
Rod careened about the room, sparring for an opening. Twice men interfered, to be instantly killed by a stroke of 83's hand.
Catching a firm hold upon the other's arms at the upper joint, close to the shell, they remained deadlocked for a moment, staring into each other's eye.
Rod twisted with all his might. Then 83's arms snapped—and so did his.
Both dismembered, they paused.
And 83 whirled, fleeing from the room.
Rod was after him instantly, passed him at the landing, blocked his escape downward. Turning, 83 dashed up the slide to the roof. Rod followed. The Capek, dashing madly about the level, was finally trapped in a corner of the light railing.
Rod gazed at him in the dimming light, advanced slowly. A great sadness filled his mind as he came on, the city of Detroy lying silent in the shadows far below; a great sadness and a great joy. Sadness for himself, trapped forever in this half-tomb of metal; joy at the restoration of the human race. They, the people below, would eternally worship him for their salvation. But he could never be one of them, never again thrill to the little things which are essentially human. He would ever be a lonely brain, encased in cold, impassive steel. He could see the sunset and the soft dusk over the city, hear the whispers of night; but never could he feel them....
He looked to the cringing shape of 83 and, had he been capable, would have smiled, as he thought, "Speed!"