“Get out—quick!”

The peremptory voice roused Drummond from the introspection into which those lonely months had driven him. He looked down at a gang of men in mechanics’ outfits, led by a harassed-looking man in captain’s uniform. “Oh—of course,” he said slowly. “You want to hide the plane. And, naturally, a regular landing field would give you away.”

“Hurry, get out, you infernal idiot! Anyone, anyone might come over and see—”

“They wouldn’t get unnoticed by an efficient detection system, and you still have that,” said Drummond, sliding his booted legs over the cockpit edge. “And anyway, there won’t be any more raids. The war’s over.”

“Wish I could believe that, but who are you to say? Get a move on!”

The grease monkeys hustled the plane down the street. With an odd feeling of loneliness, Drummond watched it go. After all, it had been his home for—how long?

The machine was stopped before a false house whose whole front was swung aside. A concrete ramp let downward, and Drummond could see a cavernous immensity below. Light within it gleamed off silvery rows of aircraft.

“Pretty neat,” he admitted. “Not that it matters any more. Probably it never did. Most of the hell came over on robot rockets. Oh, well.” He fished his pipe from his jacket. Colonel’s insignia glittered briefly as the garment flipped back.

“Oh…sorry, sir!” exclaimed the captain. I didn’t know—”

“ ’S O.K. I’ve gotten out of the habit of wearing a regular uniform. A lot of places I’ve been, an American wouldn’t be very popular.” Drummond stuffed tobacco into his briar, scowling. He hated to think how often he’d had to use the Colt at his hip, or even the machine guns in his plane, to save himself. He inhaled smoke gratefully. It seemed to drown out some of the bitter taste.

“General Robinson said to bring you to him when you arrived, sir,” said the captain. “This way, please.”

* * *

They went down the street, their boots scuffing up little acrid clouds of dust. Drummond looked sharply about him. He’d left very shortly after the two-month Ragnarok which had tapered off when the organization of both sides broke down too far to keep on making and sending the bombs, and maintaining order with famine and disease starting their ghastly ride over the homeland. At that time, the United States was a cityless, anarchic chaos, and he’d had only the briefest of radio exchanges since then, whenever he could get at a long-range set still in working order. They made remarkable progress meanwhile. How much, he didn’t know, but the mere existence of something like a capital was sufficient proof.

Robinson—His lined face twisted into a frown. He didn’t know the man. He’d been expecting to be received by the President, who had sent him and some others out. Unless the others had—No, he was the only one who had been in eastern Europe and western Asia. He was sure of that.

Two sentries guarded the entrance to what was obviously a converted general store. But there were no more stores. There was nothing to put in them. Drummond entered the cool dimness of an antechamber. The clatter of a typewriter, the WAC operating it—He gaped and blinked. That was—impossible. Typewriters, secretaries—hadn’t they gone out with the whole world, two years ago? If the Dark Ages had returned to Earth, It didn’t seem—right—that there should still be typewriters. It didn’t fit, didn’t—