Cadnan had no doubts of his sanity: this was different from the imaginary voice. The room shook again and he wondered whether this were some new sort of punishment. But it did not hurt him.
The rumbling sound of the bombardment came to him only dimly, and for brief seconds. To Cadnan, it sounded like a great machine, and he wondered about that, too, but he could find no answers.
The rumbling came again, and sounded nearer. Cadnan thought of machines shaking his small room, perhaps making it hot as the machines made metal hot. If that happened, he knew, he would die.
He called: "Dara." It was hard to hear his own voice. There was no answer, and he had expected none: but he had had to call.
The rumbling came again. Surely, he told himself, this was a new punishment, and it was death.
There was only one thing for him to do. He sat crosslegged on the smooth floor as the rumble and the other sounds continued, and in opposition to them he made his song, chanting in a loud and even voice. He had learned that a song was to be made when facing death: he had learned that in the birth huts, and he did not question it.
The song was necessary, and his voice, carrying over the sounds that filtered through to him, was clear and strong.
"I am Cadnan,
I am Cadnan of Bent Line Tree,
I work for the masters,