s held the pitted, warped hulks of
Meloan battleships. There were no native freighters, and no sign of
tending equipment or hangars.

The pilot had come up behind him, following his gaze. Now the man
nodded. "That's it, captain. Most cities are worse. Kordule escaped the
blasts until our rocket cannon failed. Got any script on you?" At
Duke's nod, he pointed. "Better exchange it at the booth, before the
rate gets worse. Take Earth dollars. Our silver's no good."

He held out a hand, and Duke shook it. "Good luck, captain," he said,
and swung back into the ship.

* * * * *
_
Mercifully, most of Kordule was blanketed by the dust fog. There was
the beginning of a series of monstrous craters where men had begun
rebuilding underground, the ruined landing field, and a section of what
had been the great business district. Now it was only a field of
rubble, with bits of windowless walls leading up to a crazy tangle of
twisted girders. Only memory could locate where the major streets had
been. Over everything lay the green wash of _incandite_, and the wind
carried the smell of a charnel house. There was no sign of the
apartment where he and Ronda had lived.

He started down the ramp at last, seeing for the first time the motley
crew that had come out to meet the heroes of the battle of Throm. They
had spotted him already, however, and some were deserting the men at
the sight of his officer's uniform. Their cries mingled into an insane,
whining babble in his ears.

"... Just a scrap for an old man, general ... three children at home
starving ... fought under Jones, captain ... cigarette?"

It was a sea of clutching hands, ragged bodies with scrawny arms and
bloated stomachs, trembling and writhing in its eagerness to get to him
first. Then as one of the temporary officers swung back with a couple
of field attendants, it broke apart to let him pass, its gaze riveted
on him as he stumbled between the lines.

He spotted a billboard one man was wearing, and his eyes focused
sharply on it. "Honest Feroiya," it announced. "Credit exchange. Best
rates in all Kordule." Below that, chalked into a black square, was the
important part: "2,345 credits the dollar."

Duke shook his head but the sign did not change. A quarter million
credits for a hundred dollars. And he'd thought--

"Help a poor old widow." A trembling hand plucked at his sleeve, and he
swung to face a woman in worse rags tha