Here and there I saw a Constructor — in form just like our own, here in Nebogipfel’s apartment — standing on the frozen landscape. Each Constructor was always alone, standing there like some ill-wrought monument, a splash of steel gray against the bone white of the ice. I never saw any of them move! It was as if they simply appeared in the sites where they stood, reassembling themselves, perhaps, from the air. (Indeed, as I found later, this first assessment of mine was not so far from the truth.)

Dead the land was, but not without the evidence of intelligence. There were more great buildings — like our own — puncturing the landscape. They took simple geometric forms: cylinders, cones and cubes. My vantage point showed me the south and west, and from my aerie I could see these great buildings scattered as far afield as Battersea, Fulham, Mitcham and beyond. They were spaced perhaps a mile apart on average, as far as I could see; and the whole prospect — the fields of Ice, the mute Constructors, the sparse, anonymous buildings — combined to make up a bleak, inhuman London.

I returned to Nebogipfel, who still stood before his Constructor. The metal pelt of the thing rippled and shone, as if it were the surface of some tilted pond with metal fish moving beneath, and then a protuberance — a tube a few inches wide — thrust out of the surface, glistening with the silvery metal texture of the pyramid, and pressed towards Nebogipfel’s waiting face.

I recognized this arrangement, of course; it was the return of the eye-scope device I had seen earlier. In a moment it would be fitted to Nebogipfel’s skull.

I prowled around the rim of the Constructor. As I have described, in appearance the Constructor was like a heap of melted slag; it was animate to some degree — and mobile, for I had seen this object, or one similar, crawl over my own body — but I could not begin to guess as to its purpose. Inspecting closely, I saw how the surface was covered by a series of metal hairs: cilia, like iron filings, which waved about in the air, quite active and intelligent. And I had the infuriating, eye-hurting sensation that there were further levels of detail to all this, beyond the grasp of my aging vision. The texture of this mobile surface was at the same time fascinating and repulsive: mechanical, but with something of the quality of life. I was not tempted to touch it — I could not bear the thought of those squirming cilia latching onto my skin — and I had no instruments with which to probe. Without any means of making a closer examination, I was unable to undertake a study of the pyramid’s internal structure.

I noticed a certain degree of activity about the lowest rim of the pyramid. Crouching down, I saw how tiny communities of metal cilia — the size of ants, or smaller — were continually breaking away from the Constructor. Generally these fallen pieces seemed to dissolve as they fell against the floor, doubtless breaking up into components too small for me to see; but at times I saw how these discarded bits of Constructor trekked hither and thither across the floor, again after the fashion of ants, to unknown destinations. In a similar fashion — I observed now — more clumps of the cilia emerged from the floor, clambered up the skirts of the Constructor, and merged into its substance, as if they had always been a part of it!

I remarked on this to Nebogipfel. “It is astonishing,” I said, “but it is not hard to surmise what is going on. The components of the Constructor attach and detach themselves. They squirm off over the floor — or even fly away through the air, for all I know, or can see. The discarded pieces must either die off, in some fashion, if they are defective — or else join the glistening carcass of some other unfortunate Constructor.

“Confound it,” I said, “the planet must be covered with a thin slime of these detached cilia, squirming this way and that! And, in some interval of time — perhaps a century — there must be nothing left of the original body of this beast we see here. All its bits, its analogues of hair and teeth and eyes, have trekked off for a visit to its neighbors!”

“It is not a unique design,” Nebogipfel said. “In your body — and mine — cells die and are replaced continually.”

“Perhaps, but even so — what does it mean to say that this Constructor, here, is — an individual? I mean: if I buy a brush — and then replace the handle, and then the head — do I have the same brush?”

The Morlock’s red-gray eye turned back to the pyramid, and that tube of extruded metal sank into the hole in his face with a liquid noise.

“This Constructor is not a single machine, like a motor-car,” he retorted. “It is a composite, made up of many millions of submachines — limbs, if you like. These are arranged in a hierarchical form, radiating out from a central trunk along branches and twigs, after the manner of a bush. The smallest limbs, at the periphery, are too small for you to see: they work at the molecular or atomic levels.”

“But what use,” I asked, “are these insectile limbs? One may push atoms about, and molecules — but why? What a tedious and unproductive business.”

“On the contrary,” he said wearily. “If you can do your engineering at the most fundamental level of matter — and if you have enough time, and sufficient patience — you can achieve anything.” He looked up at me. “Why, without the Constructors’ molecular engineering, you — and I — would not even have survived our first exposure to White Earth.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ’surgery’ performed on you,” Nebogipfel said, “was at the level of the cell — the level where the frost damage occurred…”

Nebogipfel described, in some grisly detail, how, in the severe cold we had encountered, the walls of my very cells (and his) had been burst open by the freezing and expansion of their contents — and no surgery, of the type I was familiar with, could have saved my life.

Instead, the microscopic outer limbs of the Constructor had become detached from the parent body, and had traveled through my damaged system, effecting repairs of my frost-bitten cells at the molecular level. When they reached the other side — crudely speaking — they had emerged from my body and rejoined their parent.

I had been rebuilt, from the inside out, by an army of swarming metal ants — and so had Nebogipfel.

I shuddered at this, feeling colder than at any time since my rescue. I scratched at my arms, almost involuntarily, as if seeking to scrape out this technological infection. “But such an invasion is monstrous,” I protested to Nebogipfel. “The thought of those busy little workers, passing through the substance of my body…”

“I take it you would prefer the blunt, invasive scalpels of the surgeons of your own age.”

“Perhaps not, but—?”

“I remind you that, by contrast, you could not even set a broken bone without rendering me lame.”

“But that was different. I’m no doctor!”

“Do you imagine this creature is? In any event, if you would prefer to have died, no doubt that could be arranged.”

“Of course not.” But I scratched at my skin, and I knew it would be a long time before I felt comfortable again in my own rebuilt body! I thought of a drop of comfort, though. “At least,” I said, “these limb-things of the Constructor are merely mechanical.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are not alive. If they had been—”

He pulled his face free of the Constructor and faced me, the hole in his face sparkling with metal cilia. “No. You are wrong. These structures are alive.”

“What?”

“By any reasonable definition of the word. They can reproduce themselves. They can manipulate the external world, creating local conditions of increased order. They have internal states which can change independently of external inputs; they have memories which can be accessed at will… All these are characteristics of Life, and Mind. The Constructors are alive, and conscious — as conscious as you or I. More so, in fact.”