He watched, expressionless, as the planet exploded. He shrugged. There was nothing to do now but go see Dr. Gar.
Roy's foescope clamored insistently and he tensed, thinking a spaceborne enemy was on him, but it was only a piece of exploding Earth stumbling by.
Dr. Gar was alone in the space station because all able-bodied men had been called to fight World War V. The governments of Earth, in a rare moment of conscience during the Short Truce, had agreed that Dr. Gar, as the embodiment of all Earthly knowledge, should be protected from harm.
Pilot Officer Roy Vanjan didn't receive as warm a reception from old Dr. Gar as he might have, considering that they were the only two people left. The old man was combing his white beard with his fingers and didn't offer to shake hands.
"Well," said Roy as he defused his bomb and secured his single-seater in the spacelock, "I guess it's all over."
"Scarcely a historic statement," Dr. Gar said, "but it describes the situation."
"If you don't have anything for me to do I'd just as soon have a drink. They usually let me have a stiff one after I complete a mission."
Dr. Gar examined the hard young pilot from under shaggy white eyebrows. "I do have another mission for you but you can have a drink first. Peach brandy is all that's left."
"That'll be fine," Roy said. "I was never particular."