When he arrived, near to its perimeter, he sought the shed he had seen.

There ...

It was unlocked and there was a warm corner. Covers for some sort of equipment had been thrown there. They were heavy with dust, but it did not matter. By then he was coughing again, anyhow.

A couple days, he told himself. Let the scar tissue start. That's all.

Malacar kept abreast of the news. He pulled it in, listened, turned it off. He thought about it, digested it, turned it back on again.

_The Perseus_ slid beneath the suns ...

He drowsed through weather reports for one hundred twelve planets. He grew bored while listening to News Central. He meditated sleepily upon sex while hearing a program out of Pruria.

He rushed on. His ship was in hd, and it would not stop till he was home again.

_We did it_, said Shind.

_We did it_, he answered.

_And the dead?_

_I would say we will have a tally before we strike home port_.

Shind did not reply.

CHAPTER 2

Within the highest tower of the greatest port, he sat, one man opposing an empire.

Idiotic? he asked himself. No. Because they cannot hurt me.

Glaring down at the ocean, now momentarily visible, he inspected the wet miles of distance that lay beyond the Manhattan Citadel, his home.

It could be worse.

How?

When there's nobody else in port, you sometimes get fidgety ...

Looking at the waters, he watched the great plume cover them again, like an opening fan.

Someday, maybe ...

Dr. Malacar Miles was the only man on Earth. He was lord, he was monarch here. And he did not care. The Earth was his. Nobody else wanted it.

He stared through the bubble-window. It afforded him a prospect of half of what remained of Manhattan.