We shine in darkness. Under the sun we glitter. Our master's body we cover, to serve and protect it. A long time ago a blacksmith gave us our shape and temper. Colder than death, harder than steel. But remember : we're for hire. Scales of fortune. Proud members of the Guild of Bodily Weapons. Shells, carapaces, shields, claws, fangs, spikes, thorns, poisonous darts are our brothers in arms, passive and active devices meant to hurt or avoid to be hurt. Few are who despise us and count only on their running, or sheer number, to ensure the continuation of their species. Everybody else loves a good fight, the clash of armours, the ripping of the flesh, the flowing of blood. Horn against skin. Leather against teeth. The whole struggle-for-life philosophy. The other Guilds may well complain, but what are they ? Just a bunch of softies. They claim to be vital, or to be necessary to reproduction. So what ? What would they be without us ? There is even a new Guild, that calls itself the Guild of Minds, that wants us out. They say we're useless, that our time is over. And you know what ? The Minds do nothing ! They just THINK, the whole day long. The so-called intellectuals even grow tired and sleep. And they're ugly, slimy grey stuff. They don't digest, or have sex, or even move. They used to be local co-ordinators for the other Guilds, but now they believe that they just reached another state of consciousness. Nothing to worry about, really. We give them a couple of eras to merge with the Guild of Useless Organs (remember the Appendix ?). Time will forget about them. Not about us, with our hard