Tomlin, the greatest living biochemist in the empire, was nothing but a sad, huddled corpse. His beautiful mansion was slashed and looted, and then fired to the ground. The air was filled with the odor of burning, of death—but especially the mentally sickening, defeating odor of violence.
This was true of the whole planet, especially in the cities. The great houses beseiged by furious mobs, shattered. Night full of stray shots and casual death. Every man with that cold gleam in his eye when he looked at even his best friend.
"Did you cause it?"
Yma lay in her father's arms, her mind reeling through this wax works of personal horror and death.
This scene was interrupted by a gyro landing on the lawn.
Erol watched it curiously; his daughter, tensely. A man emerged and strode towards them. He was a young man, with good and intelligent features, and Erol felt no fear.
"Dr. Garbin," the man addressed him, "I'm delighted to find you. I tried to see others—I was always too late." He paused, then said, "If anyone should be able to tell me what has happened, you should."
A slight suspicion showed in Erol's face while Yma looked as wary as an animal.
"If I can help you in any way, sir, I shall be delighted," Erol said.