“Did any of the others come back? There were a lot like me, sent out to see what really had happened to the world.”

“One did from South America. Their situation is similar to ours, though they lacked our tight organization and have gone further toward anarchy. Nobody else returned but you.”

It wasn’t surprising. In fact, it was a cause for astonishment that anyone had come back. Drummond had volunteered after the bomb erasing St. Louis had taken his family, not expecting to survive and not caring much whether he did. Maybe that was why he had.

“You can take your time in writing a detailed report,” said Robinson, “but in general, how are things over there?”

Drummond shrugged. “The war’s over. Burned out. Europe has gone back to savagery. They were caught between America and Asia, and the bombs came both ways. Not many survivors, and they’re starving animals. Russia, from what I saw, has managed something like you’ve done here, though they’re worse off than we. Naturally, I couldn’t find out much there. I didn’t get to India or China, but in Russia I heard rumors—No, the world’s gone too far into disintegration to carry on war.”

“Then we can come out in the open,” said Robinson softly. “We can really start rebuilding. I don’t think there’ll ever be another war, Drummond. I think the memory of this one will be carved too deeply on the race for us ever to forget.”

“Can you shrug it off that easily?”

“No, no, of course not. Our culture hasn’t lost its continuity, but it’s had a terrific setback. We’ll never wholly get over it. But—we’re on our way up again.”

The general rose, glancing at his watch. “Six o’clock. Come on, Drummond, let’s get home.”

“Home?”

“Yes, you’ll stay with me. Man, you look like the original zombie. You’ll need a month or more of sleeping between clean sheets, of home cooking and home atmosphere. My wife will be glad to have you; we see almost no new faces. And as long as we’ll work together, I’d like to keep you handy. The shortage of competent men is terrific.”

* * *

They went down the street, an aide following. Drummond was again conscious of the weariness aching in every bone and fiber of him. A home—after two years of ghost towns, of shattered chimneys above blood-dappled snow, of flimsy lean-tos housing starvation and death.

“Your plane will be mighty useful, too,” said Robinson. “Those atomic-powered craft are scarcer than hens’ teeth used to be.” He chuckled hollowly, as at a rather grim joke. “Got you through close to two years of flying without needing fuel. Any other trouble?”

“Some, but there were enough spare parts.” No need to tell of those frantic hours and days of slaving, of desperate improvisation with hunger and plague stalking him who stayed overlong. He’d had his troubles getting food, too, despite the plentiful supplies he’d started out with. He’d fought for scraps in the winters, beaten off howling maniacs who would have killed him for a bird he’d shot or a dead horse he’d scavenged. He hated that plundering, and would not have cared personally if they’d managed to destroy him. But he had a mission, and the mission was all he’d had left as a focal point for his life, so he’d clung to it with fanatic intensity.