Stevens broke the spell, stepping swiftly to the desk. "Can we do anything for you?" he asked. No movement from the metal figure—only that ghastly rustle of the eyes as they turned here and there in the fixed head, searching for the light they would never find again. The Wall Street man lifted one of the hands, tried to flex the arm that held it. It dropped back to the deck with a crash. Yet the metal of which they were composed seemed in itself to be as pliant as that of their own arms.
A feeling of wonderment mingled with the horror of the spectators.
"What happened to him?" asked Marta Lami in a whisper as though she feared awakening a sleeper.
Stevens shrugged. "What's happened to all of us? He's alive, I tell you. Let's ... get out of here. I don't like it."
"But where to?" asked Vanderschoof.
"Follow the Albany road," said Stevens. "We ought to move on. If those birds come back in the morning—" he left the sentence unfinished.
"But what about this poor egg?" asked Marta Lami.
"Leave him," said Stevens, then suddenly giving way, "there's too much mystery about this whole business around here. I'm going, I tell you, going. You can stay here till you rot if you like. I'm clearing out."