Old Charlie was still up, seated at a table and smoking. His cleaver lay in front of him. Don told him what he had found out. "Charlie, do you think they will land?"

Charlie got up, went to a drawer and got out a whetstone, came back and commenced gently stroking the blade of his cleaver. "Can happen."

"What do you think we ought to do?"

"Go to bed."

"I'm not sleepy. What are you sharpening that thing for?"

"This is my restaurant." He held up the tool, balanced it. "And this is my country." He threw the blade; it turned over twice and chunked into a wood post across the room.

"Be careful with that! You might hurt somebody."

"You go to bed."

"But..."

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow you wish you had." He turned away and Don could get no more out of him. He gave up and went to his own cubbyhole, not intending to sleep but simply to think things over. For a long time after he lay down he could hear the soft swishing of stone on steel.

The sirens awoke him again; it was already light. He went out into the front room; Charlie was still there, standing over the range. "What's going on?"

"Breakfast." With one hand Charlie scooped a fried egg out of a pan, placed it on a slice of bread, while with the other hand he broke another egg into the grease. He slapped a second slice of bread over the egg and handed the sandwich to Don.

Don accepted it and took a large bite before replying, "Thanks. But what are they running the sirens for?"

"Fighting. Listen."

From somewhere in the distance came the muted WhaHoom! of an explosion; cutting through the end of it and much nearer was the dry sibilance of a needle beam. Mixed with the fog drifting in the window was a sharp smell of wood burning. "Say!" Don exclaimed, his voice high, "they really did it." Automatically, his mind no longer on food, his jaws clamped down on the sandwich.

Charlie grunted. Don went on, "We ought to get out of here."

"And go where?"

Don had no answer for that. He finished the sandwich while still watching out the window. The smell of smoke grew stronger. A half squad of men showed up at the end of the alley, moving at a dog trot. "Look! Those aren't our uniforms!"

"Of course not."

The group paused at the foot of the street, then three men detached themselves and came down the alley, stopping at each door to pound on it. "Outside! Wake up in there-outside, everybody!" Two of them reached the Two Worlds Dining Room; one of them kicked on the door. It came open. "Outside! We're going to set fire to the place."

The man who had spoken was wearing a mottled green uniform with two chevrons; in his hands was a Reynolds one-man gun and on his back the power pack that served it. He looked around. "Say, this is a break!" He turned to the other. "Joe, keep :in eye out for the lieutenant." He looked back at Old Charlie. "You, Jack-scramble up about a dozen eggs. Make it snappy-we got to burn this place right away."

Don was caught flat-footed, could think of nothing to do or say. A Reynolds gun brooks no argument. Charlie appeared to feel the same way for he turned back to the range as if to comply.

Then he turned again toward the soldier and in his hand was his cleaver. Don could hardly follow what happened-a flash of blue steel through the air, a meaty, butcher-shop sound, and the cleaver was buried almost to its handle in the soldier's breastbone.

He uttered no cry; he simply looked mildly surprised, then squatted slowly where he stood, his hands still clasping the gun. When he reached the floor, his head bowed forward and the gun slipped from his grasp.

While this went on the other soldier stood still, his own gun at the ready. When his petty officer dropped his gun it seemed to act as a signal to him; he raised his own gun and shot Charlie full in the face. He swung and trained his gun on Don. Don found himself staring into the dark cavity of the projector.

They stayed that way for three heart beats... then the soldier lowered his weapon about an inch and rapped out, "Outside! Fast!"

Don looked at the gun; the soldier gestured with it.

Don went outside. His heart was raging; he wanted to kill this soldier who had killed Old Charlie. It meant nothing to him that his boss had been killed strictly in accordance with the usages of warfare; Don was in no frame of mind to juggle legalisms. But he was naked against an overpowering weapon; he obeyed. Even as he left the soldier was fanning out with the Reynolds gun; Don heard the hiss as the beam struck dry wood.

The soldier put the torch to the building wastefully; it seemed almost to explode. It was burning in a dozen places as soon as Don was out the door. The soldier jumped out behind him and prodded him in the seat with the hot projector. "Get moving! Up the street." Don broke into a trot, ran out the alley and into Buchanan Street.

The street was filled with people, and green-suited soldiers were herding them uptown. Buildings were burning on both sides of the street; the invaders were destroying the whole city but giving the inhabitants some chance to escape the holocaust. As a part of a faceless mob Don found himself being pushed along and then forced into a side street which was not yet burning. Presently they were beyond the town but the road continued; Don had never been out in this direction but he learned from the talk around him where they were headed-out East Spit.

And into the fenced camp which the new government had used for enemy aliens. Most of the crowd seemed too stunned to care. Somewhere near Don a woman was screaming, her voice rising and falling like a siren.

The camp was crowded to more than ten times its capacity. The camp buildings did not provide standing room; even outdoors the colonists were elbow to elbow. The guards simply shoved them inside and ignored them; they stood there or milled around, while the soft gray ashes of their former homes drifted down on them from the misty sky.

Don had regained his grip on himself during the march out to the camp. Once inside, he tried to find Isobel Costello. He threaded his way through the crowd, searching, asking, peering at faces. More than once he thought he had found her, only to be disappointed-nor did he find her father. Several times he talked to persons who thought they had seen her; each time the clue failed to lead him to her. He began to have waking nightmares of his impetuous young friend dead in the fire, or lying in an alley with a hole in her head.

He was stopped in his weary search by an iron voice bellowing out of the air and reaching all parts of the camp through the camp's announcing system. "Attention!" it called out. "Quiet! Attention to orders-this is Colonel Vanistart of the Federation Peace Forces, speaking for the Military Governor of Venus. Conditional amnesty has been granted to all colonists with the exception of those holding office in the rebel government and commissioned officers in the rebel forces. You will be released as quickly as you can be identified. The code of laws in force before the rebellion is restored, subject to such new laws as may be promulgated by the military governor. Attention to Emergency Law Number One! The cities of New London, Buchanan, and CuiCui Town are abolished. Hereafter no community of more than one thousand population will be permitted. Not more than ten persons may assemble without license from the local provost. No military organization may be formed, nor may any colonist possess power weapons under penalty of death.'

The voice paused. Don heard someone behind him say, "But what do they expect us to do? We've no place to go, no way to live--"