Trent clicked on the ceiling lights, staring about the mammoth cavern as though he had never seen it before. It stretched so far away from him that his eyes could make out no details at the far end. Along one side, doors opened into the living quarters where more than ten thousand people were destined to live. Further back were the open kitchens where communal meals would be prepared; and still further back where his eyes could make out no detail were the machine shops where weapons to fight the Gharrians would be conditioned and manufactured. He was smiling as he looked about; for this was his dream brought to realization by the wealth that had come to him from his father. His money had built this retreat, his money and the hands of a thousand men. Here, within this man-made cavern, would be the refuge for those people who escaped the ravages of the monsters whose sleek vicious ships had wiped New York and London and Berlin from the face of the Earth. * * * * * He went toward the great televisors, wondering how many stations still broadcast news of the holocaust that had come to the world. A frown tightened dark brows when he saw the dust that lay on the floor, became a scowl when he saw how it was heaped before the main receiver. He kicked at the dust, saw the signet ring that had fallen through it. Bending, Kimball Trent lifted the gold ring, studied it. Doctor Boyliss had worn it the last time they had talked; it was strange that he should find it here. He sat in the chair, switched on the main televisor, relaxed as warmth came from the screen, color glowing from green into violet, swirling into the indescribable shade of blue that gave the screen its three dimensional depth of focus. His hand went to the "repeat" switch, flicked it. "This is Doctor Boyliss speaking for the last time," a familiar voice said tiredly from the speaker, while the screen showed no figure. "I have just escaped from the Gharrians, but the wound I have received is mortal, and I can live but moments." There was only the sound of labored breathing for seconds, then the voice continued. "Most of the leaders are dead, betrayed by spies; only three of us escaped the Gharrian's last raid. Thompson and Fortney have elected to act as guides for the few of you who might escape the final series of raids. I hope that many of you are listening to these final words of mine. "Kimball Trent is also dead, frozen to death by an explosion in the Refrigerator Room, Number One; therefore his knowledge must be replaced by the minds of those among you." A surge of terrible wracking coughing sounded, followed by the sobbing gasps of a man dying of an agonizing wound. Then: "One final word. Fight the Gharrians, blast them from the face of Earth, drive them back into hell-space that spawned them. Battle them with every weapon and scheme within your power to use. My blessings upon all of you. Go with God--"