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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