When next he awoke, it was in bed. Obviously he'd gotten there himself; Connie was too small to have managed it. His stomach was queasy, and there was a hard, heavy pain behind his forehead. Groaning, he found the bottle lying unstoppered on its side. It still held a shot or so, trapped by the bottle's shoulder, and he swallowed what was left. Then he asked Connie to make coffee. While he waited, he marched in place, raising his knees high and swinging his arms. When the coffee was ready, he had bread and jam with it, then read to Robert from the savant's favorite storycube.

Afterward he planned, as far as it made sense to. He would, he decided, remain holed up for four weeks. "The invaders will either leave or stay," he told Connie. "If they're going to leave, they should be gone by then. And if they stay, they'll have had time to decide there aren't any of us left."

Electric torch in one hand and a C-sized power slug in a pocket, he'd ventured up the tunnel and stairs that led to his bolt hole. He wasn't surprised that the first two hundred yards were intact. It was the last dozen he'd worried about, where the protective rock overhead thinned as he approached the tunnel's opening. The part that worried him most was the steel door. It had been installed to slide open and shut, and the bombardment might have deformed the rock, holding the door immovable. He installed the power slug in the door mechanism, and holding his breath, pressed the switch.

The door slid back smoothly, and the weight of the world lifted from Morgan's shoulders. Beyond the door were three more yards of tunnel, cut to resemble a natural break in the rock. It opened inconspicuously near the bottom of a draw, 0.7 mile from the gorge the invaders had pounded so severely. Cautiously he crept far enough to peer out. The bombardment had reached here, too; the forest was a shambles of broken trees.

Silently, thoughtfully, he withdrew back down the tunnel, and closed the steel door behind him. It seemed to him things were better than he deserved.

Henry Morgan tended to be a patient man, and he stuck to his decision to stay holed up for four weeks. Meanwhile he spent more time than usual with Robert, telling him stories that grew more outlandish with time, making the savant whoop with laughter. Some of them even made Connie laugh. She had a pleasant sense of humor, but wasn't much given to laughing out loud. They were remarkably happy for three people hiding in a tunnel thirty yards underground. Morgan wasn't sure if they were the happiest four weeks of his life, or whether he simply had more time to appreciate them. It occurred to him the two might go together.

He also inventoried their supplies. For some of them, the need had been foreseen. Others had been stashed "just in case." He worked up two ration schedules-one for twenty months and one for thirty-and a chart on which Connie could keep a record of use. It wasn't something he considered vital; if they were somehow rescued, it would likely be sooner than twenty months. And if they weren't, then sooner or later they'd have to surface anyway, and forage for their keep. So he'd chosen the twenty-month version; they could back off on it later if it seemed best.

There was also a box of aerial stereopairs he'd had taken of that entire end of the continent. From them, the base computer, now undoubtedly destroyed, had produced a set of large-scale topographic maps with the forest shaded green. There was little which wasn't forest: the "resort," and an occasional marsh or rocky prominence. The photography and maps had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now he was truly glad to have them.

Meanwhile he undertook to overhaul his body, for he was overweight and out of shape. He began to eat less, while following a modest kung fu regimen. He'd learned it as a youth and small-time criminal, at Kip Poi's Hall in Vancouver. Not that he imagined kung fu would prove effective against invader soldiers, but it improved his endurance and flexibility. He also did strength exercises that some spacers used in relatively confined quarters. Emphasizing his legs, because when he resurfaced, they'd be his only means of travel.

When finally he emerged beneath the sky, he carried a pack, binoculars, and a short-barrelled blaster with a fully-charged power slug and spares. Now, he told himself, we'll see how effective that exercising was. He marked the tunnel opening with a sort of mini-cairn, thirty yards away in the bottom of the draw: a thirty-pound chunk of stone atop a larger. It was something a snooping invader was unlikely to recognize as meaningful. Then he reshouldered his pack and headed on a compass course for the ex "resort."

For a hundred yards he picked his way through forest debris from the invader attack, the damage thinning as he went. Then he was out of it, in peaceful forest, where he settled for an easy pace and a short day. Exercising underground didn't prepare the feet for hiking in boots not well broken in, and blistered feet didn't fit his plans.

One of his maps showed a rocky knob less than three miles from the site of the old resort. On its top, the trees were sufficiently sparse and small that the computer had mapped it as bald. He climbed it late on the second day, and standing beneath a stubby, umbrellalike tree, trained his binoculars on the distant clearing where the resort had been.

A month earlier, he might not have seen the clearing from where he stood; certainly not much of it. It had been only twenty acres, and all but a very small part would have been screened by bordering forest. Now he guessed its area at perhaps a square mile. From its borders rose the haze of burnt-down fires, no doubt of woody debris from land clearing. Through the haze he made out buildings and activity. Tiny figures moved about on machinery and afoot, figures minute with distance, but clearly not human.

Morgan took a deep breath of relief. This part of the continent had always struck him as fertile enough, and the ancient volcanic surface was mostly not rugged. But the planet had what seemed to him more promising land for colonizing, much of it on other continents. He'd feared that when they'd destroyed what they could find of human settlement-this one tiny area-they might leave, and settle halfway across the planet. And that wouldn't have served his purpose.

His lightweight binoculars weren't powerful enough to show him much detail. As he watched what he could see, he plotted his next move. He would, he decided, approach the fringe of the opening that day, and lay up overnight. At dawn he'd move closer, and see what he could learn, then return to base and see if he could get inside through one of the hangar openings. Hopefully he could work his way to his yacht. There was something he very much wanted to get from it.

A Scarce Resource

The voice on the phone was the prime minister's. "Mr. President," he said, "I have granted Dr. Farrukhi an audience, and you may want to be present. It is about the savant situation, of course."

"When?"

"At 11:30-in forty minutes. The hour will help him be brief. He called only moments ago." Peixoto chuckled. "He wanted to bring Ho and Sriharan. I told him to come by himself."

Chang glanced at the screen. On it was page 17 of a hypertext document on Masadan military training, and its applicability to the Commonwealth's new army. He was skeptical; the Masadan culture was far more homogeneous than the Terran. Unlike any other human world, Masada had maintained and cherished a tradition of compulsory military training. Through centuries without enemies. From a 30th century viewpoint, it was one of the more unlikely marvels of human social behavior.

"Eleven-thirty? I will be there," said the president, and disconnected. Unlike himself, the prime minister preferred electronic conferencing. "People need not leave their desks," he'd explained. "And we are more concise. There is less protocol and small talk." Occasionally he asked someone to his office, especially if they were officed on the same wing and floor. But for those like Farrukhi, officed elsewhere, such requests were rare.