He shrugged the small food pack into a more comfortable position on his wide shoulders, lifted the radi-needle gun and looped it from his right shoulder by the sling. Slowly, then with greater determination, he began to walk to the door that led to the refrigerator room. He entered the room, climbed through the earth fault to the outside, carefully replacing the camouflage mat he had made to cover the entrance. Standing straight and tall in the warm sunlight, he checked his wrist compass, then paced lightly forward through the trees. His strength was almost fully returned now, and he walked with the lithe grace of an Indian, slipping through the underbrush and foliage with but the barest of sounds to mark his passing. Light trickled through the trees, caressed his back, brought perspiration to his forehead. His face was hard and grim, and his eyes keen, as he searched the woods about for the slightest of signs that would betoken a hidden watcher. His shadow walked before him, sliding through other shadows, then standing out bold and deep in the sunlit places. The webbing of his chest harness pressed against the rippling muscles of his flesh, and the flame pistol bounced slightly on his hip with every step. He checked his compass again, then turned due south, cutting through the timber, finding open fields two miles further where the walking was much easier. Rabbits sat in curious wide-eyed watchfulness as he walked through the waving green grass that carpeted the fields, but he gave them no heed, his eyes watching the skies for signs of a crimson ship. He was a stranger in his native land. Land contours seemed different now, since the timber had come up unheeded. The old roads and paths that he had walked as a boy and man were gone, absorbed through the passing of years. He traveled entirely by compass, swinging to the east after two hours of hard traveling. The smell of water came to the air, cloying it with dampness, making it somehow fragrant. A hundred yards further, and he was on the bank, gazing across the muddy flood. He turned to his right, and far ahead was New York. He swore then, cursing in the tight voice of a man who feels a hurt so deeply that it is a physical pain. His hands clenched at his sides, and the muscles of his chest glided upward against the straps. There was no superb skyline now; gone were the gleaming white spheres and golden columns and blocky marble and plastic shafts that were famous the world over. No smoke hung high in the sky over the city; only a few white clouds floated in graceful indifference where great strato-liners had flashed on pinions of gushing rocket flames. There was a skyline, yes, but it hugged the ground, and it was only the skeleton of the greatest city on earth. Even from where he stood, Kimball Trent could see that buildings had toppled one against the other when the concussion guns of the Gharrians had roared their song of death. * * * * *