By: E.M. Forster
They were dying by hundreds out in the dark.
“The Machine is stopping, I know it. I know the signs.”
Progress had come to mean the progress of the Machine.
A worm, a long white worm, had crawled out of the shaft.
“My respirator had flown goodness knows where.”
I said to myself, “Man is the measure.”
“No ideas here.”
Rooms, tier below tier, reaching far into the earth.
A survival from the ages of litter — one book.
“It is contrary to the spirit of the age.”