"Or maybe the others came to before us and went away," offered Murray.
"True," Ben replied. "Anyhow, look-see." He led the way to the taxi.
"Wait," said Murray. "What's that?"
Above the sound of the starting engine came the echo of heavy footsteps, muffled by shoes.
"Hey! Coo-ee! This way!" shouted Ben. The footsteps tentatively approached the corner. Murray ran forward, then stopped in amazement. The newcomer was a girl—or would have been a girl had she not been all metal and machinery like themselves. To his eyes, still working on flesh-and-blood standards, she was anything but good-looking. She was fully and formally dressed, save that she wore no hat—the high pile of tangled wire that crowned her head made this obviously impossible.
"Oh, what has happened?" she cried at them. "What can I do? I took a drink of water and it hurt."
"Everything's all right. Just a little metal transformation," said Ben. "Stick around, I'll get you some oil. You squeak." He was off down the street in a clatter, leaving Murray with the newcomer.
"Permit me to introduce myself," he offered. "I am—or was—Murray Lee. My friend, who has gone to get you some oil, is Benjamin Franklin Ruby. He thinks the big comet which hit the earth contained radioactive gas that made us all into metal. Did you live in a penthouse?"
She eyed him darkly. "Somebody told you," she said, "I'm Gloria Rutherford, and we have the top floor of the Sherry-Netherland, but all the rest were away when this happened.... Oh, pardon me, it hurts me to talk."
There came a crash from down the street, indicating that Ben was forcing another store, and in a minute he was back with a handful of bottles. With a flourish he offered one to the girl. "Only castor, but it's the best the market affords," he said. "What we need is a good garage, but there aren't many around here.... Go ahead, drink her down, it's all right," he assured the girl, who was contemplating the bottle in her hand with an expression of distaste.