“It wasn’t there any longer. But there wasn’t a single monstrous atomic-bomb crater, as he might have expected. Half a dozen relatively small craters—no more than two to three hundred feet across—had obliterated a third of the town entirely and flattened all the rest. Then there’d been a fire. There was nothing left.He regarded it without shock, but with a grim regret. This had been his home town. He’d spent a long time making his way to it from the vicinity of Thomas University, after there was... no longer any hope there. He’d waited nearly four months, in the rapidly-appearing wasteland on the edge of the campus, hoping against hope for someone like himself to turn up able to help him on the work he still believed might partly repair the world catastrophe.After there was no more chance there, it had taken him three months to get here—four hundred miles. There’d been interludes, of course. Once he stopped and joined a group who called themselves guerillas. Before he left them he’d killed a man in cold blood, an act he still remembered with satisfaction.Then he’d had to hide from his late companions, and then he’d stayed on at a tiny community where the people were uninformed but resolute—too resolute entirely—and now he’d reached his home town and it was waste.“Let’s go out and cut our throats,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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