ht this on themselves. When they tried to put the Neeblings
in second place, that was when the bell had sounded. Even so, why had this
splendor been reduced to ruin? Oh, there were jewels that could be
salvaged. And statues. But the Tower was a work of art from top to bottom.
The finest lace. China as thin as paper. Paintings. These were gone. One
might as well salvage Mona Lisa's eyes and swear that they were the
original. Higher up, where the water had not reached, the machines had been
stored along with other treasures. But Opal's best had been water-logged.

And the trip that Odin had made with Wolden into the tunnel. That was the
most heart-breaking of all. The Brons and the Neeblings had saved the
treasures from the warring civilizations of the world above. The statues
could be preserved. Some of the machines might possibly be restored. But
the paintings, the art, and the books. All gone. Wolden especially mourned
a Navajo sand-painting, which he compared to Goya. Not a trace was left of
it.

Wolden had taken him into the tunnel, just as he had once before. It was
dripping now, and the sound of the pumps throbbed through the ruins like
the struggling heart of a wounded thing. Their little car moved slowly
down the old tracks. Occasionally it had to stop, where some disintegrating
pile of treasures had spilled out. One sack of diamonds had broken. Wolden
stopped and kicked the stones away. An ancient Ford, with its back seat
piled high with rotting and sprouting sacks of prize-winning oat seed, was
both heart-breaking and ludicrous.

The Brons and the Neeblings had been the true antiquarians of the world.
And they had taken centuries to gather their collection. A dinosaur
skeleton stared at them. The salvaged carved prow of a galleon leaned
against a gaping whale's jaw. A model of the first atomic pile supported a
score of leaning spears, but the feathers and artwork on those spears were
now stains and shreds. An English flag, delicately embroidered, drooped
beside the dripping tatters of the Confederacy. A Roman eagle was lifted
high beside the crudely beautiful banner of the Choctaws--on which Odin
could barely make out the three arrows and the unstrung bow.

* * * * *

Chinese vases, thin as egg shells, most of them broken, lay in a tumbled
pile beside ancient cradles and spinning wheels.

A Neanderthal skull was staring hungrily at a twelve foot skeleton of a
giant bird. And