One by one his contacts were snuffed out. He ran down the lists in his code book, calling people he hadn't buzzed in years, just trying to hear human voices again.
"Come in, W3XFA. Come in, W3XFA."
No answer. None at all.
The aliens held all of Asia, most of Europe; he got a brief response from Belgium on the third day, but was unable to pick up the signal an hour later. An underground worker in an Iron Curtain country called him that afternoon—and then he went. The marauders from space covered the globe.
Haverford looked at his map. They were working in an ever-tightening ring. Soon they would be in Chicago. Then the strength of his improvised fortress would be sorely tested.
By the fourth day, he was down to just one contact—a man in upper Illinois, a ham operator out of a Chicago suburb.
"You there, Haverford?"
"I'm here. What do you hear?"
"Nothing. The aliens are everywhere. I can see them from my window, swarming in the streets. They've won, all right. Mankind is defeated."
"You can see them, eh? Must be a ghastly sight." Haverford's own window faced the back.