There were half prepared meals. In one hut a crude cradle swayed with the wind of their passing—empty....
The breeze flapped the skins, and a rude door creaked where it hung bound with rawhide to the lintel.
Slowly the futility of calling struck Keeven. He turned. His hard face was drawn and bloodless.
"Gone," he whispered. "Nothing. No one left."
As though in mockery, a call sounded from the hills. They wheeled in shock, eyes to the rocks, straining against the dusk. A figure scrambled toward the blackened clearing.
It was a girl!
She ran to Keeven. Threw herself in his arms. "Keeven! Oh, Keeven, I thought I was the only one left!"
"Marva!" Into her hair he stammered, "H—How did you escape?"
"I was in the hills for water when the gyros came." Her voice was broken with wild sobs, "I heard the commotion and saw the flames. I hid all this time. Even when the gyros went away. I hid till—till I heard you calling."
Allyn watched how Keeven patted the soft bare shoulders, and stroked the tumble of silken hair that was so black it seemed blue. A stirring of strange passion went through him. His heart stumbled and raced. He had the warped mad urge to tear the girl away from the youth, to study her face, twine that hair round and round his lean long fingers. He stood like a rock, holding back churning emotions.