Alan saw that they were in the forest. A quiet, starlit evening. From this height at the tower's top, the distant Hudson showed plainly. A dark, rolling area of woods, thick with underbrush. To the south a few lights in the little city of New Amsterdam were visible. Almost directly west, by the river, there was a yellow glow.
"That's where Turber is," said Lentz.
"Yes," Lea agreed. And she pointed southeast. Another camp fire was off there—a mile or so away, perhaps. A band of Indians encamped.
As well as he could, Alan tried to keep in mind the lay of this strange land. Strangely dark and sinister forest. Yet Alan was born right here in this same Space! He had lived here all his life. This, in 1945, was Central Park. The Turber aero lay over by Riverside Drive. But how different now!
Out in the Hudson River a large canoe was coming south. It seemed heading in the direction of the Turber aero.
They went back to the lower tower room. Through the windows here the black woods crowded like a wall.
"Tell them, Lentz, to watch closely. At any sign of trouble, tell them to take the tower and escape."
Lentz told them. They nodded solemnly. Lea gave Alan her hand. Again, as always, its touch thrilled him. She said:
"Good-by, Alan. Good—luck."