who? This is America,
isn't it?"

"Yes. This is America. There is no Eurasia now. Soon there may not be
an America. Nor even an Earth."

Roger looked up at Ann, eyes wide. "But those jet-planes--the
bombing--_who is doing the bombing?_"

Ann Strang stared down at the sullen red fires of the city for a
moment, her quiet eyes sad. "Those are Martian planes," she said.

* * * * *

The 'copter settled silently down into the heart of the city, glowing
red from the flames and bombing. They hovered over the shining Palace,
still tall, and superb, and intact, gleaming like a blood-streaked
jewel in the glowing night. The 'copter settled on the roof of a low
building across a large courtyard from the glittering Palace. Ann
Strang stepped out, and motioned Roger to follow down a shaft and
stairway into a small room below. She knocked at a door, and a strange
man dressed in the curious glowing fabric opened it. His face lit up
in a smile.

"Roger!" he cried. "We were afraid we couldn't locate you. We weren't
expecting the Security to meddle. Someone got suspicious, somewhere,
and began checking your references from their sources--and of course
they were false. We were lucky to get you back at all, after Security
got you." He clapped Roger on the back, and led him into the room.

John Morrel and Martin Drengo were standing near the rounded window,
their faces thrown into grotesque relief against the red-orange glow
outside. They turned and saluted, and Roger almost cried out, his mind
spinning, a thousand questions cutting into his consciousness,
demanding answers. But quite suddenly he was feeling a new power, a
new effectiveness in his thinking, in his activity. He turned to
Martin Drengo, his eyes questioning but no longer afraid. "What year
is this?" he asked.

"This is 2165. March, 2165, and you're in New Albany, in the United
States of North America. This is the city where you were born, the
city you loved--and look at it!"

Roger walked to the window. The court below was full of people now,
ragged people, some of them screaming, a disconsolate muttering rising
from a thousand throats--burned people, mangled people. They milled
about the mammoth courtyard before the glorious Palace, aimlessly,
mindlessly. Far down the avenue leading from the Palace Roger could
see the people evacuating the city, a long, desolate line of people,
strange autos, carts, even animals, running down the br