They had scarcely reached the open meadow within, when the _ystan_ collapsed. Rea fell with him, her right leg pinned under the twitching wet hulk. As Brink tugged her leg free, she groaned and went limp in his arms. Only then did he feel the stickiness of half-dried blood on her tunic and discover the sharp arrowhead that projected a full two inches from the front of her left shoulderblade. Gently he whittled at the arrow's exposed shaft until the irregular metal head dropped off and then he jerked the arrow from the wound. He was glad that she was unconscious. The distant voices of humans, shouting unintelligible phrases, warned him of the approach of the savages. The fire! With his hands he smothered and buried the flames. It was possible that the aborigines might pass them by. He could not banish the smell of smoke as he had the telltale glow of the coals, but the direction of the wind might protect them.... The stiffening loom of the _ystan_ lay between them and the park's brushy entrance. Carefully he slid his rifle up and over the saddle. Voices and the sliding, chomp-tramp of hide-shod feet came and passed on. They had missed the break in the return tracks of Rea's _ystan_. Or, perhaps, the hoofprints of Brink's mount seemed to them a continuation of her spoor. "I am awake," a small voice whispered beside him. "Are you in pain, Rea?" "Not much. Too near being dead for that. I'm done." "No chance." Brink's voice was flat and false. She must have lost most of her blood. "How did it happen?" "Was heading south on this highway. Planned to turn east soon. To Denver or some other deserted city where I might find a tube shuttle to Sippi Dome. You realize--this is really Earth?" "Just now," Brink agreed gruffly. "Found a cornerstone. Must have been a public building--a bank they called it. This was Collrada Nation, or State." "I knew ... weeks ago. Tried to tell you. So ... started alone." She sat up suddenly, as though propelled by springs, and her good arm motioned toward the moonlit heights. She tried to say something, choked, and fell back. There was no pulse.... * * * * * The third day after Rea's death. Three days, and three of the hairy, half-naked white savages, he thought grimly. He had never killed a fellow being before--in York Dome hatred and love and loyalty were mere words from the barbarian centuries--but now he had destroyed three of his own kind. Nor did he feel any shame or regret.... The savages on Rea's backtrail had come upon Bryt Carby. He had killed one of them before they had overpowered him and built their fires. Carby had not died until an hour after Brink had come upon the howling pack of six warriors and had emptied his gun into them. He had killed two of them outright and wounded three others; and then he had cared for the broken, blistered thing that had been his friend, until Carby died.