byIt had been nearly fifteen years since the civilian rocket field had seen more than local traffic. Now, in spite of the bustle of emergency attendants and crews, the field buildings looked forlorn—and deserted. Even some of the posters were of vintage brand. One, sheltered from the rain and sun, was still legible in its early crudity:
TO BE BEATEN
TO BE BEATENIS TO BE EATEN!
IS TO BE EATEN!The red letters were smeared across the faded, scabrous purple of a tree-like horror with exaggerated fangs and filthy hands clutching at a tender young girl, its grotesque mouth drooling. Such direct appeal to fear of the Xanthot was no longer used, and the idea of being beaten was no longer mentioned, of course. Someone had slapped a modern win NOW slogan over it, but inferior paste had loosened a
