ned, and the genius of his
hands. He could kill game and skin it. Eventually he could build
himself a permanent shelter, even make clothes but of hides. In
winter--

But he was not thinking that far ahead. Cole stood by the fire,
staring up at the sky, his hands on his hips. He squinted, suddenly
tense. Something was moving. Something in the sky, drifting slowly
through the grayness. A black dot.

He stamped out the fire quickly. What was it? He strained, trying to
see. A bird?

A second dot joined the first. Two dots. Then three. Four. Five. A
fleet of them, moving rapidly across the early morning sky. Toward the
mountains.

Toward him.

Cole hurried away from the fire. He snatched up the rabbit and carried
it along with him, into the tangled shelter he had built. He was
invisible, inside the shelter. No one could find him. But if they had
seen the fire--

He crouched in the shelter, watching the dots grow larger. They were
planes, all right. Black wingless planes, coming closer each moment.
Now he could hear them, a faint dull buzz, increasing until the ground
shook under him.

The first plane dived. It dropped like a stone, swelling into a great
black shape. Cole gasped, sinking down. The plane roared in an arc,
swooping low over the ground. Suddenly bundles tumbled out, white
bundles falling and scattering like seeds.

The bundles drifted rapidly to the ground. They landed. They were men.
Men in uniform.

Now the second plane was diving. It roared overhead, releasing its
load. More bundles tumbled out, filling the sky. The third plane
dived, then the fourth. The air was thick with drifting bundles of
white, a blanket of descending weed spores, settling to earth.

On the ground the soldiers were forming into groups. Their shouts
carried to Cole, crouched in his shelter. Fear leaped through him.
They were landing on all sides of him. He was cut off. The last two
planes had dropped men behind him.

He got to his feet, pushing out of the shelter. Some of the soldiers
had found the fire, the ashes and coals. One dropped down, feeling the
coals with his hand. He waved to the others. They were circling all
around, shouting and gesturing. One of them began to set up some kind
of gun. Others were unrolling coils of tubing, locking a collection of
strange pipes and machinery in place.

Cole ran. He rolled down a slope, sliding and falling. At the bottom
he leaped to his feet and plunged into the brush. Vines