Eberly called an end to his watchful reflections and darted into the open again like a frightened doe. This was the only chance and here, between the hidden place where determined men had worked tirelessly and ingeniously to refine only a small capsule of pure Uranium in a year and the hidden place where other learned men waited to incorporate the product into an atomic bomb that could destroy the city of the invaders completely, lay the greatest danger of defeat. As he stumbled on toward his goal he cursed the power that made all modern conveyances impossible. This snail's pace across open country, under the cosmic microscope of the alien invaders, was maddening, with so much at stake. But it was no more so than the task of mining and refining ore or that of constructing an atomic bomb without the aid of modern machinery, no more so than being forced to live practically like wild animals as all must now do. He swore to himself that a way would be--had to be--found to get that weapon across to the enemy once it was constructed. The steam engine had not been in use for years, but it would still work, and balloons, dirigibles, would still rise into the air. It might take another year or two years, but the invaders would learn that Earthmen don't give up easily. A way would be found! Then it happened; the thing that made Winston Eberly curse and sweat and retract his noble thoughts. There would be no pitiful steam-powered dirigible or any other weapon carrier. What need for one, when the bomb, itself, would never be completed? The men waiting for the Uranium were never going to see it! Without warning, something tugged at him, passed away and returned, unseen and weird. He took one straining step--two, and knew that he wouldn't take another. Like the petrified terror of dreams he strained against his unseen bonds, unable to lift or swing an arm. Above his head a branch of a tree twisted and snapped, pulled away and hung suspended in mid-air. The branch remained the same distance above him as his feet left the ground. Its shadows still fell across him as the tops of trees swam below him. Yes, it was the invaders. Up there, somewhere above him--he was unable to move his head to see where--they hovered safely out of reach of the fanatic hate of Earthmen and drew him up to them like a fish on a hook. He didn't mind for himself, but the U-235, a whole year of back-breaking work for his fellows, the very life, and freedom of Earth was being offered up to sad memories with him! He choked back curses and sobs of frustration while he soared higher and tried to think. They would get the Uranium, those parodies of organic life, and that wasn't right. He had to get rid of it, hide it, throw it away! But how? How, when he was rising up through open air, unable to move a finger, could he dispose of it?