ree hundred years ago. History
has no meaning to us any more. For are we not eternal? Death can only
come to us by violence. Well, not any more for me. Bly Stanton has come
to life. That is how I felt when I came to back there in the ruins, that
a new life had been granted me. Well, I intend to live it fully, at
peace. I tell you, Mark, and you, John, and Abel and all the rest of
you, when I picked up the weapon which I had dropped to the ground, it
was as if I had picked up a live coal. I could not wear it, the brand of
murder. For we are all murderers, we and the Himlo----"

"Again," Mark Smith interrupted, "I agree with you. We and our enemies
are murderers. Thirteen hundred and some odd murderers. And before we
are done, there will be less. But that is how we have lived for too many
years. So many, we can no longer change our ways. Peace is a lost word
with us."

"With you!" Stanton said sharply. "But not with me! I have found it
again. And I do not intend losing it quickly. I say I leave these scenes
and these ways. Tonight. Who will leave with me?"

He looked about with expectant eyes, but the light in them died as his
gaze swept the cavernous depths and looked into face after face and saw
not a single one which agreed with him. It was not so much a sign of
revolt, but an acceptance of a fact three hundred years old.

"Then I go alone," he said with finality. "This has become a bitter
world, a world without woman or child, but it is the only world we will
ever know. And I am going to live peacefully in it. Good-bye."

They opened their ranks to let him pass. Until the last of them was
reached, Bly Stanton thought there would be no answer to his farewell.
Then a tall, thin man stepped in front of him. He was Grant Hays, one of
the four with Smith, John and Abel, who formed the inner leaders under
Stanton. Grant and Bly had always been the closest of friends.

"Bly," Hays said, his eyes steadfast and warm. "Wait. Before you go....
There is more than man to meet out there. The Himlo are one thing,
nature another. You must take weapons."

* * * * *

Stanton shook his head hard. "No!" his voice thundered, and sent echoes
answering from the walls. "No! I will never draw a blade against even a
rat. The old races had their sayings--one I remember well--'Live and let
live.'"

"Good-bye, then, Bly Stanton," Hays said. "And good luck."

Bly Stanton did not turn as he clambered over t