ned to his questions. She grunted finally,
and reached out for the reward. Shuffling ahead of him, she went up the
rubble-littered street and around a corner, to point. "Go in," she
said. "Ronda'll be back."

Duke shoved the crude door back and stepped into what was left of a
foyer in a cheap apartment house. The back had been blasted away, but
the falling building had sealed over one corner, covering it from most
of the weather. Light came from the shattered window, showing a scrap
of blanket laid out on the floor near a few possessions. At first,
nothing identified the resident in any way, and he wondered if it were
a trap. Then he bent over a broken bracelet, and his breath caught
sharply. The catch still worked, and a faded miniature of him was
inside the little holder. Ronda's!

Duke dropped onto the blanket, trying to imagine what Ronda would be
like, and to picture the reunion. But the present circumstances
wouldn't fit into anything he could imagine. He could only remember the
bravely smiling girl who had seen him off five years before.

He heard a babble of voices outside, but he didn't look out. The walk
had exhausted him. Hard as the bed was, it was better than standing up.
Anyhow, if Ronda came back, he was pretty sure she would be warned of
his presence.

He slept fitfully, awakened by the smells and sounds from outside. Once
he thought someone looked in, but he couldn't be sure. He turned over,
almost decided to investigate, and dozed off again.

It was the hoarse sound of breathing and a soft shuffle that wakened
him that time. His senses jarred out of slumber with a feeling of
wrongness that reacted in instant caution. He let his eyes slit open,
relieved to find there was still light.

Between him and the door, a figure was creeping up on hands and knees.
The rags of clothes indicated it was a woman and the knife in one hand
spelled murder!

Duke snapped himself upright to a sitting position, his hand darting
for the gun in his pocket. A low shriek came from the woman, and she
lunged forward, the knife rising. There was no time for the gun. He
caught her wrist, twisting savagely. She scratched and writhed, but the
knife spun from her grasp. With a moan, she collapsed across his knees.

He turned her face up, staring at it unbelievingly. "Ronda!"

Bloated and stained, lined with fear, it still bore a faint resemblance
to the girl he had known. Now a fleeting look of cunning crossed her
face bri