They arced high above the jet winds, on course to Oregon. Ken almost shouted with joy when their beacon code came in weakly, strengthening as they approached the Pacific. Carol hugged him until he relinquished control to the autopilot and gave her his undivided attention. The chronometer ticked away time, but Sol gave up the unequal race, and so it was another morning of the same day when Ken slipped the _Latecomer_ over the mighty Cascades, homing on the beacon until they both saw the outline of a long, level, arrow straight runway carved from forested mountainside and spanning chasmal, growth-choked gulches. But it was the outline only, discernible through a light rain. "At least two years' work," mused Ken, "littered with at least a hundred years' debris. _And we've only been gone a day._" He killed signal reception, circled the runway. Carol pressed his arm. "It's been longer than a day, Ken. I mean, we've actually used up more time, because it was morning when we were over New York, and it's still--" "Okay--day and night don't mean much. But we've clocked a little over thirty-three hours since we took off. That's _our_ time." There was a catch in her throat. "I know, darling. Something's horribly wrong. Everybody we know must be dead!" His jaw set, then he said gently, "Snug down, kitten, we're going in." She glanced through the port. "But how can you land on _that_?" He tightened the couch about them. "Blow the stuff out of the way," he said cheerfully. "Maybe." He swooped in from the east. "Keep an eye peeled for the Caves' entrance--I bet it won't look like it did last month." The _Latecomer_ touched the runway at little more than a hundred miles per hour. Its forward rockets braked sharply, blasting aside the scattered dead limbs and smaller trees--roaring, bucking and hissing. Its underside buckled from triphammer contact with rock slides and a few larger logs. It grated to a bumpy halt, gouged, scarred, split, its warped hull a forever useless thing. Before opening the port he buckled the long knife at his waist, had Carol do the same with the short one. He climbed out, breathing deeply of the warm, moist air, savoring the incense of pine while helping Carol to the ground. * * * * * They avoided the radioactive path made by the ship, picked their way along the side of the strip until Carol pointed and cried, "There it is!" Ken gripped her arm. "You follow behind me, and if the welcoming committee moves this way you get up in that big madrona over there." "_What?_" He pointed out the bear, watching from a wet tangle of brush. "If it's a male--or a female with no cubs--we're probably all right." "Oh. But what will _you_ do?" "Don't argue, Lieutenant." His hand moved to the pommel of his knife. Ranger training wasn't exactly qualification for tangling with a bear, but long odds were becoming commonplace.