At last the winding trail crested, the sky opening from the alpine
range thininngly broken by altitude-shrivelled shrubs of faded
green. "Behold World's End!" my guide hailed. The light of the dying
sun making its final plunge in a vista cut by distant peaks was
brilliant, streaking the air and bathing the valley below in the
indescribable last shades of orange. Golden spires striving upward
from deep beneath the mountain danced in the twilight. But within the
moment the disc passed beneath the range, and it could be seen that
the spires were not gold at all, but merely the twisted remnants of
rusted iron.  "I thought you said you would take me to the Golden City
of the Machine Elves," I said to my guide.  "I am a machine elf!" he
cried, distraught, then took off his hat and tossed it off the
mountain. I watched it fall, taken by the mists and eddies, and when
it vanished from sight I turned and found I was alone.