toward
shaping the world of the future. There was a library at Fort Ridgeway,
and it was an excellent one--for its purpose. In 1996, when the
rockets had come crashing down, it had contained the cream of the
world's technological knowledge--and very little else. There was a
little fiction, a few books of ideas, just enough to give the
survivors a tantalizing glimpse of the world of their fathers. But
now--

* * * * *

A rifle banged to the south and east, and banged again. Either Murray
Hughes or Birdy Edwards--it was one of the two hunting rifles from the
helicopter. On the heels of the reports, they heard a voice shouting:
"Scowrers! A lot of them, coming from up the river!" A moment later,
there was a light whip-crack of one of the long muzzle-loaders, from
the top of the old Carnegie Library, and Altamont could see a wisp of
gray-white smoke drifting away from where it had been fired. He jumped
to his feet and raced for the radio, picking it up and bringing it to
the bunker.

Tenant Jones, old Reader Rawson, and Verner Hughes had caught up their
rifles. The Tenant was shouting, "Come on in! Everybody, come in!" The
boy on top of the library began scrambling down. Another came running
from the direction of the half-demolished Cathedral of Learning, a
third from the baseball field that had served as Altamont's point of
reference the afternoon before. The fourth, Murray Hughes, was running
in from the ruins of the old Carnegie Tech buildings, and Birdy
Edwards sped up the main road from Shenley Park. Once or twice, as he
ran, Murray Hughes paused, turned, and fired behind him.

Then his pursuers came into sight. They ran erect, and they wore a few
rags of skin garments, and they carried spears and hatchets and clubs,
so they were probably classifiable as men. Their hair was long and
unkempt; their bodies were almost black with dirt and from the sun. A
few of them were yelling; most of them ran silently. They ran more
swiftly than the boy they were pursuing; the distance between them
narrowed every moment. There were at least fifty of them.

Verner Hughes' rifle barked; one of them dropped. As coolly as though
he were shooting squirrels instead of his son's pursuers, he dropped
the butt of his rifle to the ground, poured a charge of powder,
patched a ball and rammed it home, replaced the ramrod. Tenant Jones
fired then, and then Birdy Edwards joined them and began shooting with
the