The words fell upon John Stilson like leaden weights. "Where?"
"Over here." They followed him over to the other side of the corridor, stood in the doorway. "There!"
Stilson knelt by the solitary man's side. "I think he's alive," he murmured.
Martha smoothed the sleeper's brow, felt the dryness of his skin. At her touch, the man stirred slightly, then his eyes snapped open, stark fear staring out of them. His mouth gaped open; he reached to one side convulsively but his hand fell short. Then, seeing the numbers in the room, he relaxed.
He tried to speak, but only a whisper came forth from his lips. Sellers drew a glass of water from a nearby tap and put it to his mouth. The man drank avidly, then leaned back, breathing heavily, his eyes closed. Finally he opened them again, a resigned expression on his emaciated face.
"You have won," he said simply. "I am the last." He seemed vaguely surprised that they did not fall upon him and rend him on the spot.
Breathing more calmly now, he continued. "Our scientists went mad trying to find a way of counteracting your weapon. They couldn't even find a way of detecting your force, let alone combatting it. All we could do was stand by helplessly while one after another of us died and our doctors strove vainly to discover how they died.
"So you are the Enemy. That is strange; you seem human. You are kind to me. We did not think that anyone who could kill and kill as you have done could be anything but monsters. The corroding death and the freezing death, and the silent decapitations—and the destruction of our machines one after another in such a way that they appeared to be eaten—well, it is all over now and I am glad.
"Our City is yours for the taking. Farewell." He raised his hand to his head in salute, then closed his eyes. The hand fell limply to his side and his head rolled toward the wall.
For the first time in her life, Martha Fiske wept.
Stilson crouched by the body of Steevens, shook it futilely. It would never respond, he knew; why did he waste his energy?
He shook the next figure. It arose and the voice of Sellers murmured sleepily.
"Sellers," he said desperately. "Sellers, tell me—you must have some idea. What is it? What are they? They're not human, are they?"
The man sat up. "When I was young," he began, "I studied such things as history and biology. There was still a little time for learning then.
"This world—outside—wasn't always as it is now, John. I suppose you realize that, have always realized it more or less. All of us do.
"Once it was clean and beautiful and men lived on it. They didn't have to go underground because they got plenty of light from the Sun—and heat, too. And the atmosphere was clear. You could see the sky most of the time and when night came, you could see the moon clearly. There are other things up there that you could see, too, and it never really got dark.
"Then the wars came and cities above the ground—that's where they used
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