Slowly, cringing within himself, King drew himself up to look down at what lay on the bed, and to nuzzle it. It didn’t look like Doc. Doc had been young and alive, clean-shaven and with dark hair. The body was too thin, and the long beard and hair were stark white. Yet the odor said unquestionably that this was Doc--and that Doc was old--and dead! Standing with his front feet on the bed, King lifted his muzzle upwards, his mouth opening while the deep, long sound ached in his chest. But no sound came. He brought his face down to that of Doc and nuzzled again, whimpering. It did no good. For a long time he lay there, whining and crying. The voice went on and something ticked regularly on the wall. There was the sound of the wind outside, faint here, but rising steadily. Once King heard his own name used by Doc’s voice from the box, and his ears half lifted. “... King and the other three. Probably starved by now, though, since there are no land animals left for them to feed on. King was a smart dog, but ...” His name wasn’t repeated, though he listened for a while. Later, the voice stopped entirely, while the tape hummed a few more times, clicked, and began flapping a loosened end that knocked over a bottle of pills beside Doc’s frozen hand. It clicked again, and slowed to silence, leaving the ticking of the clock the only sound in the room. Abruptly, there was a rustling noise. King shot to his feet, whirling to face the source, just as a large white rat scuttled from the shadows near the door. It went rigid at his movement, coming slowly to its hind feet, its eyes darting from King to the body of Doc. It let out a high squeak. The dog dived for it, snarling. But a threat of familiarity was clutching at his mind, slowing his charge. The rat twisted around and through the door, quavering out a series of squeaks. It went scuttling along the hall, through the opened door, and across the steps to the wasteland beyond. By the time King reached the outside, it was heading for the great tower across the street and half-way to the rocket field. King could smell its spoor mixed thickly with that of Doc as he leaped the fence and followed. He heard it squeal once more as it saw him, and heard its claws scrape against the rotted metal of the tower as it scurried up beyond his reach. But he was slowing already. The tower was dead now, with the great ball of fire gone from its top, but the memory of the tingling, itching false smell that had plagued him while the fire glowed was rising in his mind to drive him back. He hated it as Doc had hated it--and there was still fear for what it had been. He stopped fifty feet beyond the massive girders, bristling as he backed around it. The concrete hut under it was broken now, though, and the guards were gone. He saw some of the guns scattered about--or what was left of them--in the jumble of sand and human skeletons that still lay around the tower.