He had slept in frozen suspended animation for more than five hundred years.
He was alive, and the men and women with whom he had fought the Gharrians were dead and dust for centuries. He was alive, and the refuge he had built had never been used. He was alive—and alone.
II
Nine days had passed since Kimball Trent's awakening. He was more alert now, the flat muscles of his body swelling again because of the rich solid food that he ate to replenish his strength. He had found razors and cream and had shaved, and with scissors he had given his unruly dark mane of hair a close cropping, leaving it only long enough that it did not drop over his eyes.
The nine days had been busy; for he had spent hours at the televisor, trying vainly to pick up any messages that might be sent by enemy or friend. He had found clothing still good in their air-tight lockers, had strapped on a flame gun automatically, still unable to make himself believe that five centuries had passed in the few short moments of eternity that he had been unconscious.
He stood now before the televisor, turning off the visual screen, cutting in the automatic relay that would record any scene or message that came through in his absence. He knew that none would arrive; but there was in his heart something that would not admit total defeat.
He shrugged the small food pack into a more comfortable position on his wide shoulders, lifted the radi-needle gun and looped it from his right shoulder by the sling. Slowly, then with greater determination, he began to walk to the door that led to the refrigerator room.
He entered the room, climbed through the earth fault to the outside, carefully replacing the camouflage mat he had made to cover the entrance. Standing straight and tall in the warm sunlight, he checked his wrist compass, then paced lightly forward through the trees.