The Complete Bolo

Book Two: Final Mission

Alone in darkness unrelieved I wait, and waiting I dream of days of glory long past. Long have I awaited my commanders orders; too long: from the advanced degree of depletion of my final emergency energy reserve, I compute that since my commander ordered me to low alert a very long time has passed, and all is not well. Suppressing my uneasiness, I reflect that it is not my duty to question these matters. My commander is of course well aware that I wait here, my mighty potencies leashed, my energies about to flicker out. One day when I am needed he will return, of this I can be sure. Meanwhile, I review again the multitudinous data in my memory storage files. Even in this minimal activity of introspection I note a disturbing discontinuity, due to my low level of energy, inadequate even to sustain this passive effort to a functional level. At random, and chaotically, I doze, scan my recollections…

A chilly late-summer-morning breeze gusted along Main Street, a broad and well-rutted strip of the pinkish clay soil of the world officially registered as GPR 7203-C, but known to its inhabitants as Spivey's Find. The street ran aimlessly up a slight incline known as Jake's Mountain. Once-pretentious emporia in a hundred antique styles lined the avenue, their façades as faded now as the town's hopes of development. There was one exception: at the end of the street, at the crest of the rise, crowded between weather-worn warehouses, stood a broad shed of unweathered corrugated polyon, dull blue in color, bearing the words Concordiat War Museum blazoned in foothigh glare letters across the front. A small personnel door set inconspicuously at one side bore the legend:

Clyde W. Davis-private.

Two boys came slowly along the cracked plastron sidewalk and stopped before the sign on the narrow, dried-up grass strip before the high, wide building.

" 'This structure is dedicated to the brave men and women of New Orchard who gave their lives in the Struggle for Peace, AE 2031-36. A sign of progress under Spessard Warren, Governor.' " the taller of the boys read aloud. "Some progress," he added, kicking a puff of dust at the shiny sign. " 'Spessard.' That's some name, eh, Dub?" The boy spat on the sign, watched the saliva run down and drip onto the brick-dry ground.

"As good as McClusky, I guess," the smaller boy replied. "Dub, too," he added as McClusky made a mock-menacing gesture toward him. "What's that mean, 'gave their lives' Mick?" he asked, staring at the sign as if he could read it.

"Got kilt, I guess," Mick replied carelessly. "My great-great-GREAT grandpa was one of 'em," he added. "Pa's still got his medal. Big one, too."

"What'd they want to go and get kilt for?" Dub asked.

"Didn't want to, dummy," his friend replied patiently. "That's the way it is in a war. People get kilt."

"I'll bet it was fun, being in a war," Dub said. "Except for getting kilt, I mean."

"Come on," Mick said, starting back along the walk that ran between the museum and the adjacent warehouse. "We don't want old Kibbe seeing us and yelling," he added, sotto voce, over his shoulder.

In the narrow space between buildings, rank yelloweed grew tall and scratchy. The wooden warehouse siding on the boys' left was warped, the once-white paint cracked and lichen stained.

"Where you going?" Dub called softly as the larger boy hurried ahead. Beyond the end of the dark alleyway a weed-grown field stretched, desolate in the morning sun, to the far horizon. Rusted hulks of abandoned farm equipment were parked at random across the untilled acres. Dub went up to one machine parked close to the sagging wire fence. He reached through to touch the rust-scaled metal with his finger, jerked it back when Mick yelled, "What you doing, dummy?"

"Nothing," the smaller boy replied, and ducked to slip through between the rusty wire strands. He walked around the derelict baler, noticing a patch of red paint still adhering to the metal in an angle protected from the weather by an overhanging flange. At once, he envisioned the old machine as it was when it was new, pristine gleaming red.

"Come on," Mick called, and the smaller boy hurried back to his side. Mick had halted before an inconspicuous narrow door set in the plain plastron paneling which sheathed the sides and rear of the museum. no admittance was lettered on the door.

"This here door," the older boy said. "All we got to do-" He broke off at the sound of a distant yell from the direction of the street. Both boys stiffened against the wall as if to merge into invisibility.

"Just old Smothers," Mick said. "Come on." He turned to the door, grasped the latch lever with both hands, and lifted, straining.

"Hurry up, dummy," he gasped. "All you got to do is push. Buck told me." The smaller boy hung back.

"What if we get caught?" he said in a barely audible voice, approaching hesitantly. Then he stepped in and put his weight against the door.

"You got to push hard," Mick gasped. Dub put his back to the door, braced his feet, and pushed. With a creak, the panel swung inward. They slipped through into cavernous gloom, dimly lit by dying glare strips on the ceiling far above.

Near at hand, a transparent case displayed a uniform of antique cut, its vivid colors still bright through the dusty perspex.

" 'Uniform of a major of the Imperial Defense Force," Mick read aloud. "Boy," he added, "look at all the fancy braid, and see them gold eagles on the collar? That's what shows he's a major."

"Where's his gun?" Dub asked, his eyes searching the case in vain for a weapon suitable to a warrior of such exalted rank.

"Got none," Mick grunted. "Prolly one of them what they call headquarters guys. My great-great-great-and-that grandpa was a sergeant. That's higher than a major. He had a gun."

Dub had moved on to a display of colorful collar tabs, dull-metal rank and unit insignia, specimens of cuff braid, and a few elaborate decorations with bright-colored ribbons. "Old Grandpa's medal's bigger'n them," Mick commented.

Beyond the end of the long bank of cases, a stretch of only slightly dusty open floor extended to a high partition lined with maps that enclosed perhaps half the floor area. Bold legends identified the charts as those of the terrain which had been the site of the Big Battle. New Orchard was shown as a cluster of U-3 shelters just south of the scene of action.

" 'Big Battle,' " Mick read aloud. "Old Crawford says that's when we kicked the spodders out." He glanced casually at the central map, went past it to the corner of the high partition.

"Yeah, everybody knows that," Dub replied. "But-" he looked around as if perplexed. "You said-"

"Sure-it's in here," Mick said, thumping the partition beside him. "Buck seen it," he added.

Dub came over, craning his neck to look up toward the top of the tall partition. "I bet it's a hundred foot high," he said reverently.

" 'Bout forty is all," Mick said disparagingly. "But that's high enough. Come on." He went to the left, toward the dark corner where the tall partition met the exterior wall. Dub followed. A narrow door was set in the partition, inconspicuous in the gloom.

" 'Absolutely No Entry,' " Mick read aloud, ignoring the smaller print below.

He tried the door; it opened easily, swinging in on deep gloom in which a presence loomed gigantic. Dub followed him in. Both boys stood silent, gazing up in awe at the cliff-like armored prow of iodine-colored flint steel, its still-bright polish marred by pockmarks, evidence of the hellish bombardment to which the old fighting machine had so often been subjected. The battered armor curved up to a black aperture from which projected the grimly businesslike snouts of twin infinite repeaters. Above the battery, a row of chrome-and-bright-enameled battle honors was welded in place, barely visible by the glints of reflected light. Mick advanced cautiously to a framed placard on a stand, and as usual read aloud to his preliterate friend.

" 'Bolo Horrendous, Combat Unit JNA of the Line, Mark XV, Model Y,' " he read, pronouncing the numeral 'ex-vee.' " This great engine of war, built anno 2615 at Detroit, Terra, was last deployed at Action 76392-a (near the village of New Orchard, on GPR 7203-C) in 2675 Old Style, against the aggressive Deng's attempt to occupy the planet. During this action, Unit JNA was awarded the Nova Citation, First Class. Its stand before the village having been decisive in preserving the town from destruction by enemy Yavac units, it was decided that the unit should be retired, deactivated, and fully preserved, still resting at the precise spot at which it had turned back the enemy offensive, as a monument to the sacrifices and achievements of all those, both human and Bolo, who held the frontier worlds for humanity.

"Gosh," Dub commented fervently, his eyes seeking to penetrate the darkness which shrouded most of the impressive bulk of the ancient machine. "Mick, do you think they could ever make old Jonah work again? Fix him up, so he could go again?"

"Don't see how," Mick replied indifferently. "Got no way to charge up its plates again. Don't worry. It ain't going no place."

"Wisht he would," Dub said yearningly, laying his small hand against the cold metal. "Bet he was something!"

"Ain't nothing now," Mick dismissed the idea. "Jest a old museum piece nobody even gets to look at."

I come to awareness after a long void in my conscious existence, realizing that I have felt a human touch! I recall at once that I am now operating on the last trickle of energy from my depleted storage cells. Even at final emergency-reserve low alert, I compute that soon even the last glimmer of light in my survival center will fade into nothingness. I lack energy even to assess my immediate situation. Has my commander returned at last? After the last frontal assault by the Yavac units of the enemy, in the fending off of which I expended my action emergency reserves, I recall that my commander ordered me to low alert status. The rest is lost. Sluggishly, I compute that over two centuries standard have elapsed, requiring.004 picoseconds for this simple computation. But now, abruptly, I am not alone. I cannot compute the nature of this unexpected intrusion on my solitude. Only my commander is authorized to approach me so closely. Jet somehow I doubt that it is he. In any case, I must expect a different individual to act in that honorable capacity today, considering humanity's limited longevity.

But this is guesswork. I am immobilized, near death, beset by strangers.

My ignorance is maddening. Have I fallen into the hands of the enemy…? Baffled, I turn to introspection…

I live again the moment of my initial activation and the manifold satisfaction of full self-realization. I am strong, I am brave, I am beautiful; I have a proud function and I perform it well.

Scanning on, I experience momentary flashes of vivid recollection: the exultation of the charge into the enemy guns; the clash of close combat, the pride of victory, the satisfaction of passing in review with my comrades of the Brigade after battle honors have been awarded… and many another moment up to the final briefing with my beloved commander. Then, the darkness and the silence- until now. Feebly, yet shockingly, again my proximity sensors signal movement within my kill zone.

There are faint sounds, at the edge of audibility. Abruptly, my chemically-powered self-defense system is activated and at once anti-personnel charges are triggered -but there is no response. My mechanical automatics have performed their programmed function, but to no avail; luckily, perhaps, since it may well be my new commanders presence to which they responded. I compute that deterioration of the complex molecules of the explosive charges has occurred over the centuries. Thus I am defenseless. It is a situation not to be borne. What affirmative action can I take?

By withdrawing awareness from all but my most elementary sensory circuitry, I am able to monitor further stealthy activity well within my inner security perimeter. I analyze certain atmospheric vibratory phenomena as human voices. Not that of my commander, alas, since after two hundred standard years he cannot have survived, but has doubtless long ago expired after the curious manner of humans; but surely his replacement has been appointed. I must not overlook the possibility-nay, the likelihood-that my new commandant has indeed come at last. Certainly, someone has come to me-

And since he has approached to that proximity reserved for my commander only, I compute a likelihood of.99964 that my new commander is now at hand. I make a mighty effort to acknowledge my recognition, but I fear I do not attain the threshold of intelligibility.

Standing before the great machine, Dub started at a faint croaking sound from the immense metal bulk. "Hey, Mick," the boy said softly. "It groaned-like. Did you hear it?"

"Naw, I didn't hear nothing, dummy, and neither did you."

"Did too," Dub retorted stubbornly. Looking down, he noticed that the smoothly tiled floor ended at a white-painted curb which curved off into the darkness, apparently surrounding the great machine. Inside the curbing, the surface on which the Bolo rested was uneven natural rock, still retaining a few withered weeds sprouting from cracks in the stone. Dub carefully stepped over the curbing to stand uneasily on the very ground where the battle had been fought.

"Too bad they had to go and kill old Jonah," he said quietly to Mick, who hung back on the paved side of the curb.

"Never kilt it," Mick objected scornfully. "Gubment man come here and switched him onto what they call 'low alert.' Means he's still alive, just asleep-like."

"Why do they hafta go and call him 'Jonah' anyway?"

Dub demanded. " 'Jonah's' something bad, it's in a story. I like 'Johnny' better."

"Don't matter, I guess," Mick dismissed the thought.

Dub moved closer to peer at a second placard with smaller print.

"Whatya looking at, dummy?" Mick demanded. "You can't read."

"I can a little," the younger boy objected. "I know J and N and A-that's where they get 'Jonah.'

"So what?"

"You read it to me," Dub begged. "I wanta know all about Johnny."

Mick came forward as if reluctantly.

" 'Unit JNA was at Dobie, receiving depot maintenance after participating in the victorious engagement at Leadpipe, when the emergency at Spivey's Find (GPR 7203-C) arose. No other force in the area being available, Unit JNA was rushed to the scene of action with minimal briefing, but upon assessing the tactical situation it at once took up a position on a rise known as Jake's Mountain, fully exposed to enemy fire, in order to block the advance of the invading enemy armor on the village. Here it stood fast, unsupported, under concentrated fire for over thirty hours, before the final Deng assault. Concordiat land and air forces had been effectively neutralized by overwhelming enemy numerical superiority long before having an opportunity to engage the enemy armor. Balked in his advance by Unit JNA, the enemy attempted an envelopment from both flanks simultaneously, but both thrusts were driven back by Unit JNA. Discouraged by this unexpected check, the enemy commander ordered the expeditionary force to retire, subsequently abandoning the attempt to annex GPR 7203-C, which subsequently has become the peaceful, productive world we know today. For this action, Unit JNA was awarded the Star of Excellence to the Nova, and in 2705 O. S. was retired from active duty, placed on Minimal Low Alert Status, and accorded the status of Monument of the Concordiat.

"Gosh," Dub said solemnly. "He's been sitting right here-" he looked down and rubbed his foot on the weathered stone-"for more'n two hundred years. That's older'n them old cultivators and such out back. But he don't look that old. You can still go, can't you, Johnny?"

For a time (.01 nanoseconds) I am stunned by the realization that my commander is indeed at hand. Only he called me "Johnny" Almost incoherent with delight, I concentrate my forces, and speak with what clarity I can:

"I await your orders, Commander."

"Mick!" Dub almost yelled, jumping back. "Did you hear that? Johnny said something to me!"

"Name's 'Jonah,' " Mick replied disparagingly. "And it never said nothing. You're hearing things."

"Just stands for JNA," Dub said doggedly. "Could be 'Johnny' just as much as 'Jonah.' I like 'Johnny' better." He looked up in awe at the monster combat unit. "What did you say, Johnny?" he asked almost inaudibly.

Again I hear my secret name spoken. I must try once more to reassure my commander of my readiness to attempt whatever is required of me. "Unit JNA of the Line reporting for duty, sir," I manage, more clearly articulated this time, I compute.

"He ain't dead," Dub blurted. "He can still go."

"Sure," Mick said in the lofty tone of One Who Already Knew That. "If he had his plates recharged and switched on. Must be pretty boring, jest setting and thinking."

"What ya mean, thinking?" Dub demanded, withdrawing a few inches. "That'd be terrible jest sitting alone in the dark thinking. Bet he's lonesome."

"We better get out of here now," Mick blurted, looking toward the front of the building, from which direction someone was shouting outside. Dub moved close to him.

"Scared?" Mick challenged.

"Sure," Dub replied without hesitation.

Back outside the enclosure, the boys again heard raised voices, outside the building, but nearby.

"We can't stay in here," Dub almost whispered. Mick pushed him aside and went to the corner of the partition. He glanced quickly around the angle, then beckoned impatiently to Dub, who followed obediently. Now Mick was studying another sign painted on the wall in red. " 'Absolutely No Admission Beyond This Point.' " he read hesitantly. " 'Authorized Personnel Only'."

"What's that mean?" Dub demanded.

"Means we ain't spose to be here," Mick explained. "Especially where we already been," he added.

"We already knew that," Dub said. "Come on." He started past the older boy, but halted and faded back as the sound of an opening door came from ahead, followed by the clump of feet and a wheezy voice he recognized as that of Hick Marlowe, the town marshal.

"Prolly drunk, Mr. Davis, I'd say. I'd say forget it's what I'd say."

"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple, Marshal," was the reply, in the precise tones the boys recognized as those of Mr. Davis, the big gubment man.

"Gosh," Dub said faintly, to be shushed silently by his older friend. Brilliant light glared abruptly from the office ahead, dimming the dusty sunlight.

"As planetary representative here on Spivey's-that is, GPR 7203-C," Davis went on solemnly, "it is my duty to report this incident to Sector." There were clattering sounds that the boys realized, with excitement, represented the uncovering of the big gubment-owned SWIFT machine. Mick crowded Dub, edging forward for better hearing.

"No use getting the gubment all excited about nothin," Hick was saying. "Time Henry sleeps it off, he won't even remember nothin about it."

"Possibly, Marshal," Davis conceded calmly. "But his description of a Deng trooper was remarkably accurate."

"Prolly seen a pitcher o' them spodders someplace," Marlowe muttered. "All I done was report what ol' Henry said, like I'm spose to do."

"You acted quite properly, Marshal," Davis reassured Marlowe. "And I assure you that I assume full responsibility for any report.

"This is a moment of some solemnity, Marshal," Davis went on. "This is the first time in my fifteen years on Spivey's that I have had occasion to use this equipment." There followed the crackle and clatter of keys as Davis activated the big SWIFT transmitter. The lights flickered and dimmed.

Abruptly, I am bathed in induced energies of a kind which I am easily able to convert to Class Y charging current, with an efficiency of 37 percent. The flood of revivifying radiation flows over my power plates, and at once I feel a surge of renewed activity in my Survival Center. Thus, suddenly, I am able to reassess my situation more realistically. Clearly, I have fallen prisoner to the Enemy. It could only be they who stripped me of my capabilities as a fighting machine. For long have I lain thus, imprisoned and helpless. But now, unexpectedly, my basic vitality is to a degree renewed, doubtless by my new commander who has sought me out, and thus both confirms his identity and demonstrates his effectiveness. Now am I indeed ready for action.

"That there SWIFT machine'll punch through to Sector quicker'n Ned Sprat got religion, right, Mr. Davis?" the marshal said excitedly. "Pulling all our pile's got to give, too."

"The Shaped-Wave Interference Front Transmitter is capable of transfer of intelligence at hyper-L velocities," Davis confirmed. "Excuse me." His voice changed, became urgent and level.

"Davis, Acting PR Station 316-C," he rapped out. "Unconfirmed report Deng activity at grid 161-220. Special to CINCSEC: In absence of follow-up capability, urge dispatch probe squad soonest." The SWIFT unit buzzed as it transmitted the signal in a.02-picosecond burst, at full gain. The lights dimmed again, almost went out, then sprang up.

Again I receive a massive burst of Y radiation. The revived flow of energies in my main ego-gestalt circuitry bestows on me a sense of vast euphoria as I become aware again of long-forgotten functions-at an intensity still far below my usual operating level, but remarkably satisfying for all that. Once more I know the pride of being Unit JNA of the Line, and I thirst for action. Surely my commander will not disappoint me…?

"That ought to fetch 'em," Marlowe said in a satisfied tone.

"Either that, or we've committed a capital offense," Davis said soberly. "But don't be alarmed, Marshal. As I said, I assume full responsibility." He was interrupted by a brief clatter from the communication machine. Davis bent to read the message.

"Maybe I oughta jest head for the hills, jest in case," Marlowe said. "But I'd prolly run into them spodders, luck I have. What's Sector say, anyways?"

"Don't panic, Marshal," Davis said sternly. " 'Deng activity confirmed,' " he summarized. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have further work to do before the meeting. Only ten minutes now."

"Jest leavin'," Marlowe muttered. "I got my own work to tend to." The boys heard two sets of footsteps, then the door open and close.

After a moment, Dub moved close to Mick. "I heard him say about them spodders," he said in a small voice. "Did Mr. Davis mean they come back?" He paused and looked around fearfully.

"Naw, said old Henry was drunk," Mick assured shortly. "We beat 'em good in the Big Battle. Come on." He entered the sacrosanct office and looked around hesitantly.

"But what'd that mean?" Dub persisted. "Bout 'Deng activity confirmed' and all?"

"Nothin. Jest the answer come in on the SWIFT. Let's take us a look at it."

Dub followed reluctantly: he halted and gazed with awe at the glittering console when Mick removed the cover.

" 'Penalty for unauthorized use IAW CC 273-B1,' " Mick read. "Well, we ain't using it, jest looking. Come on. Let's go."

"Where to?" Dub objected, hanging back.

"You heard what Davis said, about some big meeting," Mick reminded his friend. "Let's go hear what's happening."

Dub objected, but weakly. He was still staring at the imposingly complex SWIFT console. An impressively thick, black-insulated cable led from the apparatus to disappear into a complicated wall fixture.

"See them lights dim when he fired her up, Mick?" Dub inquired rhetorically. "Must be just about the powerfulest machine in the world."

"Except for old Jonah," Mick countered, pointing toward the partition with a tilt of his head. "If he was on full charge, I mean."

Dub picked up a strip of printout paper and showed it to Mick. "Must be the answer that Davis got," he commented.

" 'Deng incursion confirmed, grid 161/219,' " Mick read. " 'Estimate plus-ten hours offload and deploy, contingency plan 1-A, recommend evacuation scheme B instanter.. Mick's voice trailed off. "Boy," he said, "the war's on again. Says to get out, leave Spivey's to the spodders. Must be gonna send in transport. No wonder they got a big meeting. Come on. They always have the big town meetings and that over to Kibbe's. We can get inside fore they get there and hide in the loft."

"Naw." Dub shook his head solemnly. "Jest outside the winders, that's close enough."

The boys exited by the back door after a quick look which showed the coast to be clear. They chose a route behind the warehouse next door to come up under a high, double-hung window set in the brick wall of Cy Kibbe's Feed and Grain Depot. Cautiously, they stole a quick look inside. They knew all the men sitting at the long table. Breathless, they listened:

"New Orchard ain't much, maybe," the plump, fussy, but hard-eyed little mayor, an ex-softrock miner, said dully to his colleagues sitting slumped in the mismatched chairs along the former banquet table salvaged from the Jake's Palace Hotel and only slightly charred on one leg by the fire which years ago had completed the destruction of the old frame resort to which few, alas, had ever resorted.

"Like I said, the Orchard ain't much," Kibbe continued, "but it's ours, and it's up to us to defend it."

"Defend it how, Cy?" someone called, a query seconded by a chorus of "yeah's," followed by muttering.

"Ain't got no army troops here, nor such as that," Cy conceded. "Got to do what we can our ownselfs."

A tall, rangy man with a bad complexion rose and said, "I say we put in a call to Sector, get a battle-wagon in here." He looked challengingly at Davis. "We got a right; we pay taxes same's anybody else."

"They'd never send it, Jason," a round-faced fellow named Cabot said, and thumped his pipe on a glass ashtray as if nailing the lid on the coffin of the idea.

"What we got to do," interjected Fred Frink, a small unshaven chap who tended to gobble rather than speak, "what we got to do, we got to put on a defense here'll get picked up on the SWIFT Network, get us some publicity; then we'll get them peace enforcers in here for sure."

"Put on a defense, Freddy?" the fat man echoed sarcastically. "What with?" He looked around for approval, rapped the ashtray again, and settled back like one who had done his duty.

"Got no weapons, nor such as that, nothing bigger'n a varmint gun," the mayor repeated aggrievedly, and looked at Frink.

"Got old Jonah," the whiskery man said and showed crooked teeth in a self-appreciative grin. "Might skeer 'em off," he added, netting snickers from along the table.

"Heard old Jonah can still kill anybody gets too close," Cabot muttered, and looked around defiantly, relieved to see that his comment had been ignored.

"Gentlemen," said Davis, who had been rapidly jotting notes, in a severe tone. He rose. "I must remind you that this is a serious matter, nothing to joke about. In less than ten hours from now, the Deng will have completed their off-loading and will be ready to advance in battle array from Deep Cut. Sector advises us to evacuate the town. We can expect no help from that quarter. Unless something effective is done at once, the Deng will have rolled over the settlement well before this time tomorrow." After a moment he added, "With reference to Mr. Frink's japes, I remind you that Unit JNA is the property of the War Monuments Commission, which I have the honor to represent." He sat, looking grim.

"Sure, sure, Mr. Davis, we know all that," the mayor hastened to affirm with an ingratiating smile. "But what we gonna do?"

"Now, no offense, Mr. Davis, sir, and don't laugh, boys, but I got a idear," Frink put in quickly, in a furtive voice, as if he hoped he wasn't hearing himself.

"Treat it gentle, Freddy," the plump fellow said lazily, and mimed puffing at his empty pipe.

"Way I see it," Frink hurried on, stepping to the sketch map on the blackboard set up by the table. "They're in Deep Cut, like Mr. Davis said, and they got only the one way out. If we's to block the Cut-say about here-" he sketched quickly "-by Dry Run, they'd be bottled up."

"Just make 'em mad," the fat man commented. "Anyways, how are you going to block a canyon better'n a hundred yard wide, so's their big Yavacs can't climb out?"

"Easy part, Bub," Frink put in glibly. "We blast-got plenty smashite right here at Kibbe's. Plant it under the Rim, and the whole thing comes down. Time it right, we bury 'em."

"You got a battalion of Rangers volunteered to plant the charges?" Bub Peterson queried, looking around for the laugh; he was rewarded with compliant smirks.

Davis rose, less casually this time. "I say again," he started in a heavy tone. "As planetary representative of Concordiat authority, I will tolerate no ill-advised jocularity. I am obliged to report the developing position to Sector, and I have no intention of relaying assays at humor. Now, Mr. Frink's suggestion regarding blasting the cliff is not without merit. The method of accomplishment, as Mr. Peterson has so facetiously pointed out, is the problem." He resumed his seat, jotted again.

"Now, boys," Kibbe said soothingly into the silence that followed the pronouncement of officialdom, "boys, like Freddy said, I got over two hundred pound o' smashite here in my lock-up. Enough to blast half the Rim down into the Cut. Got detonators, got warr, even got the radio gear to set her off long-range. Need a dozen good men to pack everything up along the ridge. It'll be my privilege, o' course, to donate the stuff till Sector can get around to settlin' up."

"Where you going to get twelve fellas can climb the ridge totin' a hundred pound o' gear?" Bob inquired as if thoughtfully. "Let's see, there's Tom's boy Ted, likes to climb, and old Joe Peters, they say used to be a pretty fair climber-"

"Say, just a minute," Fred blurted. "Mr. Davis, I heard one time old Jonah's still got some charge on his plates; never had his core burned back in Ought-Six when the gubment was tryna pick up all the pieces after the Peace. So…" Fred's strained voice trailed off. He looked uncertainly along the table and sat down abruptly.

"Durn fools," a hoarse voice said immediately behind the two boys, who first went rigid, then turned to bolt. Their way was blocked by a forlorn-looking figure clad in patched overalls who stood weaving, bleary-eyed and smelling strongly of Doc Wilski's home brew.

"Guess I know what I seen," the intruder went on. "Wait a minute, boys. I ain't going to bother you none. You're young McClusky, ain't you? And you're Bill Dubose's boy. What you doing out of school? Ne'mind. I guess you're in the right place to get a education right now. Lissen them know-alls funning each other about old Jonah. Whatta they know? Nuthin. Let me get up there." He groped unsteadily between the boys to tilt an ear toward the grimy window.

"Can't hear as good as you young fellas," he said. "They said anything except it's true, and kidding around?"

"Naw sir," Mick replied, leaning away from the old fellow's goaty aroma.

"Sure, I'm hung over to here," Henry conceded. "But I'm not drunk no more. Wisht I was."

"Yessir, Mr. Henry," Dub said respectfully.

"Just 'Henry,' " Henry corrected. "I ain't one o' them Misters. Now, boys, what we going to do about this situation? Come on, I'll show you where I seen the spodder. Won't miss nothing here. They'll set and jaw is all."

Mick hung back. "You mean them things is running loose, around here?" he challenged, looking along the narrow alley as if to detect an invading alien.

"What I tole old Marshal," Henry confirmed. "Come on. Ain't far. Seen the sucker sneaking through the brush jest west o' Jed Lightner's store yonder. In that patch o' brush, by the fault. Just seen the one and skedaddled. Must be more of 'em. Let's find out what them suckers is up to."

"What do they look like, sir?" Dub asked timidly.

"Oh, kinda like reglar spodders, boy," Henry explained as he led the way along the narrow alley toward the street. "Got four skinny legs each side," he continued, after peering out to see that the coast was clear, "move quicklike; sorta round, hairy body, couldn't see too good on account of he was wearing a uniform, all straps and bangles and sech as that. Carried a rifle or something like in the front legs-arms, I guess you'd call 'em; got big eye-goggles on, shiny helmet-thing covered his whole head and what you'd call his shoulders. Not much bigger'n a small ghoti; 'bout so high. Come on." Henry indicated a terrier-sized creature, as he stepped out and started down the deserted street.

"Never seen a ghoti," Dub said, following the old man.

"No, used to be a lot of 'em hereabouts," Henry acceded. "Never bothered the crops, o' course; can't eat Terry plants. But they trampled the corn to get at the yelloweed used to grow good where the ground was cultivated, between rows-like. So they been extink now for some years. Like I said, 'bout so high. A spodder's got brains, got them fancy guns, can blow a hole right through a feller, but don't worry. We won't let 'em see us."

The boys looked doubtfully at each other, but as Henry scuttled away toward the street, they followed.

"Pa finds out, I'll catch it," Dub said solemnly. "You, too," he added.

"Not if we come back and report to Marshal what they're up to and all," Mick rejoined.

Although Main Street was deserted except for two men disputing, with gestures, in front of the pictonews office, and a few women moving aimlessly in the market at the south end of the street, Henry went furtively along, close to the building-fronts, and the boys followed. The old man cut across to the west side of the avenue and disappeared into the narrow alley beside the opera house-cum-cathedral. His two followers hurried after him, emerging on the unused alleyway which ran behind the buildings, thence east-west across dry clods toward a stand of tall Terran-import Australian pines and squat scrub oak, mixed with native yim trees even taller and more feathery than the alien conifers. There, in a shallow fold, Henry paused, and after cautioning the boys to silence told them: "Got to go easy now. Seen him about fifty yard yonder." He pointed to the deepest shadows ahead.

"Way I figger, critter had to get here someways: got to be a vessel o' some sort the suckers soft-landed in the night, prolly over north o' town in the hills. We gotta be careful not to get between the spodder and his base. Come on."

Mick forged ahead, pushing into a clump of dry yelloweed.

"Slow down, boy," Henry warned. "Don't want to spook the sucker."

"What were you doing out here, anyway?" Mick demanded, falling back.

"Hadda pump ship," the old fellow replied shortly. "Thought I seen something, and come on over and checked." He set out toward the trees.

"How much further we going?" Mick asked.

"Not far," Henry grunted. "Hold it, boys. Duck."

Obeying his own command, he dropped into a crouch. The boys followed suit, looking around eagerly.

"Lower," Henry said, motioning before he went flat. Dub promptly obeyed, while Mick took his time. A moment later, he hissed. "Looky yonder!"

"He seen you, boy, dammit!" Henry charged. "Keep your knot-head down and freeze. The suckers can see like a yit-bug."

Hugging the powder-surfaced, hard-rutted, weed-thick ground, Mick peered through the screen of dry stalks, probing the dark recesses of the clump of trees twenty feet from him. Something stirred in the darkness, and sunlight glinted for an instant on something which moved. Then a harsh voice croaked something unintelligible. Off to Mick's left, Henry came to his feet with a yell; a pale beam lanced from the thicket and the old fellow stumbled and went down hard.

"Run, boys!" he called in a strangled yell.

Dub saw something small, ovoid and dark-glittering burst from the thicket, darting on twinkling spike-like legs. It dashed directly to where Mick hugged the ground, caught the boy by the collar as he tried to rise, threw him down and did something swiftly elaborate, then darted to where Henry was struggling to get to his feet. Mick lay where the alien had left him. With a deft motion, the creature felled Henry again and spun to pursue Dub, now halfway to the shelter of the nearest outbuildings behind the street-front structures. When the boy reached the shelter of a shed behind the barber shop, the Deng broke off its pursuit and returned to take up a spot close to its prisoners.

Emerging from his office in the former theatre now serving as public school, Doug Crawford nearly collided with Dub who, sobbing, had been at the point of knocking on the principal's door.

"Terrence!" Crawford exclaimed, grabbing the little fellow's arm. "Whatever are you doing in the street during class? I assure you your absence was duly noted-" He broke off as the import of the gasping child's words penetrated his ritual indignation.

"-got Mick. Got old Henry, too. Spodders! I seen 'em."

"You saw them, Terrence," Crawford rebuked, then knelt and pulled the lad's hands away from his tear-wet face. "It's all right, Dub," he said soothingly. "Spiders won't hurt anyone; they're harmless arachnids. And just where is Gerald?"

Dub twisted in Crawford's comforting grip to point across the street, apparently indicating a faded store-front.

"Yonder," Dub wailed. "I run. Old Henry told me to, and I was awful scared, too, but now we got to do something! It's got Mick!"

"You mean in Lightner's store?" Crawford queried, puzzled. He rose while holding the sobbing boy's wet fist in a firm grip.

"No-out back-over by the woods," Dub wailed. "Got to hurry up, before that spodder does something terrible to Henry… and Mick."

"Some of the spiders that we have here on our world can give mild stings, rarely poisonous," Crawford attempted to reason with the lad. "I don't understand all this excitement about a little old spider. Most are completely harmless; descended from fruit-eaters inadvertently brought in by the early settlers. Buck up, Dub! What's this all about?"

"Not spiders," Dub tried frantically to explain. "Real spodders; them big ones, like in the war. I saw one. Right over there!" He wilted in tears of frustration.

"You're saying you saw a Deng trooper here?" Craw-ford echoed, his tone incredulous. "You mean a dead one, a corpse, just bones, perhaps, a casualty, possibly, who hid in the fault and died there, two hundred and ten years ago. Well, if so, I can understand your being upset. But it can't hurt you-or anyone. Now, come along, show me." He urged the boy toward the street.

"Got to get a gun, Mr. Crawford," Dub protested. "It's got one. Shot old Henry, but he ain't dead, just kinda can't move good, is all. You got to get some more men, Mr. Crawford! Hurry!" Dub pulled away and ran into the adjacent alley. Crawford took a step after him, then let him go.

The school teacher looked around as the town marshal and the mayor hailed him, coming up puffing as from a brisk run.

"Doug, boy, we missed you at the Council," Marlowe blurted.

"You didn't miss nothing," the other contributed. "Lotta talk, no ideas."

"I didn't hear about it, Mr. Mayor," Crawford replied, puzzled. "Special meeting, eh? What's the occasion?" He looked after Dub, already a hundred yards distant and running hard. Crawford wondered idly what was really troubling the little fellow.

"You ain't heard, Crawford?" Marshal Marlowe asked eagerly. "Lissen: no rumor, neither. Davis got it confirmed with Sector. It's a fact! Durn spodders is here-!"

"I don't understand, Marshal," Crawford interrupted the excited officer's outburst. Then, as the significance of the word "spodders" struck him, he side-stepped the two men and ran the way Dub had gone.

"Looks like Doug took the news none too good, Hick," Kibbe commented, rasping at his shiny scalp with a well-gnawed fingernail.

"Never thought the boy'd go to pieces thataway," Hick agreed, wagging his head sadly. "And him a educated man, too," he added. "Countin' on Doug to help us figger what to do."

Crawford overtook Dub as the latter slid to a halt at the rear corner of the relatively vivid blue museum. The man caught the boy's arm as he attempted to lunge past.

"Hold on, Terrence," Crawford said as gently as his out-of-breath condition allowed. "I'm sorry I didn't listen carefully, but now I think I understand. You say it wounded Mr. Henry and Mick too. Where are they?"

"Yonder in the field out back of Lightner's. Don't know as they're what you call wounded, didn't see no blood. Jest kind of knocked-out, like."

"Come on, Terrence." Crawford urged the boy back toward the street. In silence they crossed the still-deserted avenue, traversed the alley, and emerged into the littered alley, the open field beyond.

"Mr. Crawford!" Dub almost yelped. "I only see old Henry-can't see Mick. He's gone!"

"Mister Henry," Crawford rebuked automatically. "I don't see anyone-only a heap of rubbish, perhaps. Are you sure-"

"Sure I'm sure, Mr. Crawford. Come on." Dub started across the field at a run; Crawford followed, less frantically.

"Slow down, Dub," Crawford called and fell back to a walk. Dub waited, scanning the space ahead, allowed Crawford to overtake him. He grabbed the man's hand.

"He was right yonder, just past old Henry," he wailed.

"Easy, Dub." Crawford tried to soothe the clearly terrified lad. "We'll find him." In silence they made their way across to where Henry lay, looking like a heap of discarded rags. The old fellow opened bleary eyes as Crawford knelt beside him.

"Better head for cover," Henry said blurrily. "Durn thing's still around here somewhere. More of 'em, too. Seen 'em hopping around 'mongst the trees yonder; got a better view down here at ground level, see under the foliage. They're busy over there, doin' something. I'm all right, just kind of tingle like a hit elbow all over. Durn spodder zapped me-with a zond-projector, I'd say. Better see to young McClusky." His voice faded off into a snore. Crawford rose briskly.

"He'll be all right," he told Dub. "I wonder what he meant about a zond projector. Probably just raving. But where-?"

"Look!" Dub blurted, pointing. Now Crawford saw motion at the edge of the thicket. He halted, uncertain.

"It's the spodder! It's got Mick!" Dub wailed. "Come on!" He started off at a run, but Crawford caught his arm. "Wait here," he ordered the boy, and ran across to where the limp form of young McClusky was being tugged with difficulty through the thickening bush, pulled by something blue-black, shiny and ovoid, with multiple jointed limbs, one of which aimed what was clearly a weapon. Crawford promptly stepped in and delivered a full-swing kick which sent the pistol-like object flying. Then he stooped to grab Mick's arm, set himself and jerked the boy free of the alien's grip. Mick stirred, muttered something. Crawford dragged him back as the chastened Deng scuttled away.

"I'm sorry I doubted you, Terrence," Crawford said to Dub as the boy met him, looking up searchingly to catch his eye.

"Never knew you was a hero and all, Mr. Crawford," Dub said solemnly.

"Nonsense," Crawford said shortly. "I simply did what anyone would do."

"I seen you kick his gun," Dub said firmly, now looking fearfully at Mick's limp form.

" 'Saw,' " Crawford corrected absently.

"Is he kilt, Mr. Crawford?" Dub quavered.

"Hell, no," Mick spoke up.

"Don't curse, Gerald," Crawford said, "But are you all right?"

As Crawford and Dub watched anxiously, Mick rolled over and twisted to look back over his shoulder toward them.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Crawford," he said strongly. "Glad it's you. Durn thing hit me and run off. Guess I was out of it for a while. Woke up, jest now, when it was pulling at me; seen 'em over in the scrub yonder. Must be a couple dozen of 'em. Better go back and warn the mayor and all. Must be getting ready to 'tack the town." The boy lay back and breathed hard. Crawford examined him swiftly, saw no signs of injury. "Can you move your legs?" he asked.

"Sure. Guess so," Mick answered promptly, kicking his legs in demonstration. "Just feel kinder sick-like." He paused to gag.

"Apparently its orders are to take prisoners, Crawford said. "I understand Mr. Davis has received confirmation that the Deng have, in fact, carried out a hostile landing near the town."

Mick nodded. "Yeah, Mr. Crawford; me and Dub heard."

"Dub and I," Crawford corrected. "How did you hear?"

"We were there," Mick told him. "Heard Davis read off the message he got on the SWIFT."

"You should have come to me at once," Crawford rebuked him mildly. "But never mind that. See if you can stand." He helped the boy get to his feet; he rose awkwardly, but quickly enough. Mick took a few steps. "I'm O.K.," he stated. "What we going to do now?"

"I'd better reconnoiter," Crawford said shortly, staring toward the thicket. "You boys help Mr. Henry; we'll get him to Doctor Grundwall. He seems weak; he's older than you, Mick."

"Better get down low so's to see under the branches," Mick suggested. He crouched and peered toward the woods. "Yep," he said, "I can still see 'em, only a couple of 'em moving around now, but they got some kinda thing set up over there. Might be a gun to shoot at the town."

Crawford went to one knee and stared hard, caught a flicker of movement, then made out a tripod arrangement perched among the tree trunks.

"They're up to something," he agreed, rising.

"All right, let's go back and report," he ordered. Mick and Dub went to Henry and in a moment the old fellow was on his feet, wobbly and cursing steadily, but able to walk. Crawford joined them and all four headed back the way they had come.

"You boys have done well," Crawford told them. "Now we'll have to inform Mayor Kibbe of this, see what can be done."

After turning Henry over to old Doctor Grundwall at his cramped office over the hardware store, Crawford shepherded the lads along to the feed store, where the mayor met them at the door, Marshal Marlowe behind him.

"Mr. Crawford, sir," Kibbe said solemnly, with a disapproving glance at the two untidy urchins, "I'd value your opinions, as an educated man, sir, as to how we should best deal with this, ah, curious situation which has done arose here so sudden, taking us all by surprise-"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor," Crawford cut in on the windy rhetoric, suppressing the impulse to correct the mangled grammar and syntax. "Mr. Henry, the boys and I have just observed what I judge to be signs of imminent hostile action to be directed against the town," he told the two officials. "What appears to be a small scouting force has taken up a position in the woods west of town. They seem to be preparing some sort of apparatus-a weapon, I think we can assume-"

"What are you grownups going to do when them spodders comes?" Dub inquired.

" 'Those spodders'," Terrence," Crawford corrected, " 'Come'."

"Hold on, Doug," Hick Marlowe cut in. "Boy's right. We gotta do something, and in a hurry. Durn spodders is setting up cannons like you say right here on the edge of town."

"It may well be a party of harmless picknickers," Kibbe said quickly. "After all, what evidence have we? The testimony of two children and the town derelict?"

"I was there, too, Mr. Mayor," Crawford said in a challenging tone. "And any incursion here on Spivey's is contrary to treaty. We have to mobilize what strength we've got."

"And just what strength is that, sir?" Kibbe inquired skeptically. "There are forty-one able-bodied men here in the Orchard, no more."

"Then we'd better get moving," Crawford stated as if Kibbe had agreed with him.

"Doing what?" Kibbe came back angrily.

"Gennelmen, gennelmen," the marshal spoke up in a hearty tone. "Now, no use in flying off the handle here, fellows; what we got to do is, we got to think this thing through."

While his elders wrangled, Mick eased away unnoticed, hurried across the dusty street and went along to the end of the block, turned in at Ed Pratt's ramshackle wood-yard, crossed between the stacks of rough-cut grayish-green slab-wood planks, and dropped to all fours to advance in traditional Wild Injun style toward the straggling southern end of the thicket. From this angle he had a clear view of a steady stream of quick-moving aliens coming up in a long curve from the east, laden with bulky burdens. As he came closer, he could see the apparatus on the tripod he had glimpsed earlier. As he became accustomed to the difficult conditions of seeing, the boy was able to make out ranks of spidery aliens arrayed in depth behind the cryptic apparatus, forming a wedge aimed at the town. He could also distinguish, approaching in the distance, a convoy of armored vehicles, advancing on jointed suspensions, not unlike the legs of the Deng themselves.

"Huh, wouldn't make a wart on old Jonah," Mick commented silently. Then he made his way back to Main Street and sought out Mr. Crawford, found him still in the mayor's office, now joined by half a dozen village elders, all talking at once.

"… call out the milishy!" one yelled.

"… ain't even drilled in a year," another commented.

After listening with open mouths to the boy's report, and properly rebuking him for meddling in adult affairs, the assembled leaders called for suggestions. Mr. Davis spoke up.

"This is clearly a matter for Sector to handle," the government man informed the local sachems. He rose. "And I'd best get a message off at once." Amid a hubbub of conjectures he took his leave. Mick and Dub slipped out inobtrusively and followed him.

With the confidence born of experience, the boys made for the rear of the museum, slipped inside, and were waiting out of sight when Davis entered his office. The phone rang; Davis replied with an impatient "Yes!"

"Very well," he responded to someone at the other end. "I'll be along presently. I'm quite aware I'm adjutant to Colonel Boone-though I can't see what good calling out the militia will do. We're not equipped to oppose a blitzkrieg."

The boys followed the sounds of Davis' actions as he recorded the call, cut the connection, and uncovered and switched on the SWIFT gear. Again the lights dimmed momentarily.

Now once more I feel the flow of healing energies washing over me. I attune my receptors and experience the resurgence of my vitality as the charge builds past minimal to low operational level. Instantly I become aware of radiation in the W-range employed by Deng combat equipment. The Enemy is near at hand. No wonder my commander has returned to restore me to service-readiness. I fine-tune my surveillance grids and pinpoint the Enemy positions: a small detachment at 200 yards on an azimuth of 271, and a larger force maneuvering one half-mile distant on a bearing of 045. I can detect no indication of any of our equipment in operation within my radius of perception. Indeed, all is not well; am I to wait here, immobilized, while the Enemy operates unhindered? But of course my commander has matters well in hand. He is holding me in reserve until the correct moment for action. Still, I am uneasy. They are too close. Act, my commander! When will you act?

Standing close to the old machine, his ears alert for the sounds from the adjacent office, Dub started as he heard a deep-seated clatter from inside the great bulk of metal.

Dub gripped Mick's arm. "Didja hear that, Mick?" he hissed urgently. "Sounded like old Johnny made some kinda noise again."

"All I heard was Davis telling somebody named Relay Five that old Pud Boone is all set to play soldiers with, he says, 'a sizable Deng task force' is what he said, 'poised,' he says, Tor attack,' says they better 'act fast to avert a tragedy.' Sounds like we won't get no big Navy ship in here to help out, like he figgered."

"It done it again," Dub told Mick, even as the glare-strips in the ceiling far above dimmed to a faint greenish glow. The boy stepped back and this time he was sure: the Bolo had moved.

"M-Mick, looky," he stammered. "It moved!"

"Naw, just the light got dim," Mick explained almost patiently. "Makes the shadders move." But he eased back.

"Mick, if it's anything we done, we'll catch it for sure!"

"Even if we did, who's gonna find out?" The older boy dismissed Dub's fears.

Then, with an undeniable groan of stiff machinery, the Bolo advanced a foot, crushing the white-painted curbing.

"We better go tell old Davis 'bout Johnny," Dub whispered.

"You mean 'Jonah'," Mick corrected. "And when he arrests you for trespassin', what you going to do?"

"Don't know," Dub replied doggedly, "but I'm going to go anyway," he crept away, shaking off Mick's attempt to restrain him.

Mick followed, protesting, as the small boy ran along the partition to the forbidden office door, and without pausing, burst in. Davis, seated at the SWIFT console was staring at him in amazement.

"Mr. Davis!" the boy yelled. "You gotta do something! We was jest looking at old Johnny, and he moved! We didn't do nothing, honest!" By this time Dub was at Davis' side, clutching at the government man's arm. Patiently Davis pried off the grubby child's tear-wet fingers.

"You know you've been a very bad boy," he said without heat, in the lull as Dub stifled his sobs. "But I'm sure no harm is done. Come along now; show me what's got you so upset." He rose, a tall and remote authority figure in the tear-blurred eyes of the eight-year-old, took the damp hand and led the boy toward the door, where Mick had appeared abruptly, less excited than Dub, but clearly as agitated as his big-boy self-image would allow.

"We didn't do nothing, Mr. Davis," he said doggedly, not meeting the man's eye. "The back door was open and we come in to look at old Jonah, and it made some kinda noise, and old Dub run. That's all's to it."

"We'll have a look, Mickey," Davis said gruffly. "You are young McClusky; they do call you Mickey, eh?"

"Mick, sir," young McClusky corrected. He fell in behind the man as they returned to stand before the huge, now-silent war machine. Davis' eye went at once to the crushed concrete curbing.

"Here," he said sharply. "How the devil-excuse me, boys, how did this happen? It must have moved forward at least a few inches," he mused aloud. "How in the world…" Abruptly, the faint light winked up to its normal level of wan brilliance. Simultaneously the Bolo emitted a faint, though distinct, humming sound.

Dub went directly across to the formidable but somehow pathetic old war machine. He reached up to pat the curve of the pressure hull comfortingly.

"Wish I could tell you all about what's happening, Johnny," he murmured soothingly. "But I guess you couldn't hear me."

"I hear you very well, my commander," a constructed voice said clearly, at which Dub jumped back and peered up into the darkness.

"Who's there?" he asked in a small voice, suddenly appalled by his own foolishness in trespassing here.

"My commander," the words came distinctly from the machine. "I await your orders."

"Good Lord!" Davis exclaimed, staring at the boy. "Dub, it thinks you're its Commanding Officer! And-did you notice the lights? They dim whenever the SWIFT node generator is switched on. I forgot to switch it off, and after sixty seconds with no input, it switched off spontaneously. And-as for the Bolo's restored energy-the SWIFT generator produces a flood of waste energy, mostly in the low ultra-violet-the so-called Y-band, precisely the frequencies which the psychotronic circuitry is designed to accept. Only at an efficiency of some thirty-five percent, it's true; but the flood of radiant energy at this close range is quite sufficient to effect some degree of recharge." Davis paused, looking thoughtfully at the boys.

"Wait here a minute," Davis said to Dub. "Whatever you do, don't say anything the machine could interpret as a command." He skirted the Bolo and headed for his office at a trot. A moment later the lights dimmed, almost went dark.

"Excellent, my commander," the machine voice said at once. "I am now accepting charge at optimum rate."

The two boys hung back, awed in spite of themselves at the understanding of what was happening.

"If it starts moving around, we'll get squashed for sure," Mick said, and pressed himself back against the wall.

"Johnny ain't going to squash us," Dub objected. "He's going to go out and squash them spodders-soon's I tell him to," he added hastily.

After some minutes, Davis returned. "That ought to do it," he panted, out of breath. "Now," he went on, taking Dub's hand, "this is a most unusual situation, but it may be for the best, after all. We'd better go see the mayor, lad. Meanwhile, tell Unit JNA to stand fast, until you call.

"Dub," he said seriously, catching the boy's still-damp eye-"a Bolo is programmed to 'imprint,' as it's called, on the first person who enters its command zone and says some special code word-and it seems like that's what you did; so, like it or not, the machine will do your bidding, and none other's."

"Bet it'll do what I say, too," Mick said, stepping in close to the machine. "I was here, too, jest as much as him." He faced the Bolo. "Now, you back up to where you was before. Right now," he added. All three persons present watched closely. There was no response whatever.

"I didn't mean no-any harm," Dub declared firmly.

"Unit JNA of the Line, reporting low energy reserves," the echoic voice spoke again. This time Dub stood his ground.

"Johnny-it's you talking to me," he said in wonderment. "I jest never knew you could talk."

"I await your instructions, sir," the calm voice said.

"O.K., Johnny," Dub spoke up. "Now, you better get ready to go. The spodders is back, and about to start the war up again."

"I am ready, my commander," the constructed voice replied promptly. "Request permission to file a voluntary situation report."

"You're asking me for permission?" the boy's tone was one of incredulity. "Sure, go ahead," he added.

"I must report my energy reserve at fifty percent of operational optimum. I must further report that a hostile force is in position some two thousand yards distant," the Bolo announced flatly. "A smaller force is near at hand, but I compute that it is merely diversionary."

"Yeah, me and Mick seen 'em," Dub responded eagerly. "And Mr. Davis says them militia is jest going to get theirselfs kilt. Johnny-you got to do something. If all the men get kilt-Pa's one of 'em too-that'd be terrible! I'm scared."

The dim lights far above flickered, almost winked out, then steadied at a wan glow.

"Reporting on charge," the machine-voice said. "I compute that I will be at full operational status in one point one-seven seconds. I so report. Now indeed am I ready, my commander."

A moment passed before the meaning of the words penetrated. Then Dub, pressed close to the comforting bulk of the machine dubbed Horrendous by friend and foe alike, said urgently, "Johnny, we got to do something-now."

Dub felt a minute tremor from deep within the immense fighting machine, and jumped back as, with a muted rumble, the vast bulk… moved. The boy stared in wonderment, half exultation and half panic, as the Bolo eased forward, paused momentarily at the partition, then proceeded, pushing the barrier ahead until it toppled with a crash! and was trampled under the mighty tracks. Glass cases collapsed in splinters as the Bolo moved inexorably, angling left now, then pivoting in a tight turn so that now it faced the front of the building. Without hesitation, it proceeded. Dub watched in horrified fascination as the high wall bowed, letting in wedges of dusty light, then burst outward. Dub and Mick ran from the building and up the dusty street toward the crowd in front of Kibbe's Feed Depot.

The New Orchard Defense Force (First Fencibles) was drawn up in two ragged ranks, forty-three in number, including fourteen-year-old Ted Plunkett, seventy-eight-year-old Joseph Peters, and Mildred Fench, thirty-seven, standing in for her husband Tod, indisposed with a touch of an old malaria.

Chester (Pud) Boone, Colonel, CTVR, awkward in his tight-fitting uniform and reeking of bromoform, took up a position some twenty feet in front of the first rank, facing Private Tim Peltier, a plump young fellow in dung-stained coveralls.

" 'Smatter, Timmy, forget your pitch fork?" Pud essayed comfortably. "Let's jest move off smart, now," he went on in the sober tones of command. "Round back, for issue of weapons."

"As you were," a strange voice cut authoritatively across the hubbub as the Fencibles executed an approximate about-face and began to straggle off along the rutted street. The troops halted, those behind colliding with those before, and all heads turned to seek the source of the order. Colonel Boone, bridling, strode over to intercept the cleanshaven old man who had countermanded his instructions. He stared long at the seamed face and into the pale blue eyes, only slightly bloodshot; surveyed the clean but ill-fitting pajama-like garment the newcomer wore; his examination ended with the bare feet prominent below the frayed pants-cuff.

"Henry?" he inquired in a tone of total incredulity. "What call you got to go interfering with serious business? Now, you just go 'bout your business, Henry; we got a job o' work ahead of us here, got no time for fooling."

"Don't be a damned fool, Colonel," Henry responded firmly. "All you'll do is get these fellows killed. Those are Deng regulars out there, and there's armor coming up. You heard young McClusky's report. Now, dismiss this gang and let's get busy."

"By what right-" Boone started, but was cut off by the old fellow's surprising sharp reply.

"Used to be in the service; Marines, to be exact," Henry told the cowed reservist.

In the street, all heads turned as one toward the sudden screech! of tearing metal from the direction of the museum, and all eyes stared in disbelief as the snouts of the twin infinite repeaters thrust out through collapsing blue panels into daylight. They gazed, transfixed, as the vast machine emerged, shouldering the scattered facade aside to advance with the ponderous dignity of an irresistible force to the street, where it paused as if to orient itself while the remains of the museum collapsed gently behind it. Davis exited through the dust at a dead run, his corner office being the only portion of the structure not to fall.

"Here, what in damnation's going on?" Colonel Boone yelled.

"Stand fast," old Henry's voice cut across the cacophony of astonishment. "Looks like she's come out of retirement. I don't know how, but the timing is good!"

"Old Jonah'll take care of them spodders!" a middle-aged corporal shouted. "Three loud ones for old Jonah! Yippee!"

"At ease," Henry barked. "Look out there, Colonel," he advised Boone. "Better get your troops out of the street."

"Sure, Henry, I was jest…" the reservist faltered.

"Fall out!" Henry shouted over the din. "Form up in front of Lightner's!"

The bewildered Fencibles, grateful for authoritive guidance, broke up into a dozen small groups and headed across the street, all talking at once, their voices drowned out by rumbling as the mighty Bolo's treads pulverized the hard-rutted street surface, moving past them with the irresistibility of a moon in its orbit.

"-going right after 'em!"

"-here, where's it-my store!"

"Damn thing's going the wrong way! Damn spodders is thataway!"

A man ran a few steps after the combat unit as it angled abruptly right and crossed the walkway to doze aside the building which stood in its path, one of the older warehouses, trampling the old boards flat while its owner danced and yelled in frustrated fury.

"Hey, you damfool! Not that way, over here!" Cy Kibbe shouted, his voice lost in the splintering of seasoned timber.

As the townsfolk watched in astonishment, the old machine laid its track of destruction through the warehouse, taking off the near corner of the adjacent structure, and continued out across the formerly tilled acreage, trailing a tangle of metal piping and conduit ripped from the flattened buildings.

"It's running away!" someone blurted, voicing the common thought.

"Well, boys, it looks like we're on our own after all," Boone yelled, his voice overloud in the comparative hush. "Let's form up in a column of ducks here and go roust them damn spodders!"

"Stand fast!" Henry's command rang out, bringing movement to a halt. He strode across to take up a position between Boone and his disordered command.

"The enemy has zond projectors, and they've set up a z-beamer. Do you have any idea what those energy weapons can do to you? Now, fall out and go about your business."

"Not while I'm colonel," Boone shouted. "I don't know who you think you are, tryna give the orders around here, but we ain't going to jest stand by while a bunch of spodders take our land!"

"Just a minute," Davis' cool voice cut in, as the government man stepped forward to confront Henry.

"You say you were a Marine, Mr. Henry. May I ask what your duties were in the Corps?"

"Sure," the old fellow replied promptly. "My duties was killing the enemy."

"I recall a case some twenty years ago," Davis said as if musing aloud. "It involved a much-decorated combat veteran who refused a direct order from the Council, and was cashiered." Davis glanced at Henry's face, set in an inscrutable expression.

"Wanted me to supervise burning out all our old combat veterns-combat units, I'm talking about," Henry said in an indignant tone. "Didn't need 'em anymore, the damned civilians figgered, so I was supposed to see they all had their cores melted down. Damned if I'd do it!" Henry spat past Davis' foot.

"His name, as I recall," Davis said imperturbably, "was Major General Thadeo Henry." He put out his hand. "I think all of us are glad now you got here in time to prevent the destruction of our old Jonah, General Henry."

Henry took the proffered hand briefly. "I was lucky on that one," he muttered. "I was just a 'misbegotten dog of a broken officer' as Councilman Gracye put it, but the locals here were on my side. They run that demolition crew back where they came from. Good thing Spivey's is so far back in the boondocks; they never bothered with us after that. And now," he went on after a pause, "you're thinking a Bolo righting machine has run off and deserted in the face of the enemy. Not bloody likely."

At that moment, a staccato series of detonations punctuated the hush that had followed Henry's astonishing statement. Through the gap where the Bolo had passed the machine was visible half a mile distant now, surrounded by smaller enemy Yavac units, three of which were on fire. The others were projecting dazzling energy beams which converged on the Bolo, stationary now like a hamstrung bison surrounded by wolves. As the townsfolk watched, the Bolo's forward turret traversed and abruptly spouted blue fire. A fourth Yavac exploded in flames.

"General Henry," Davis addressed the old man formally, "will you assume command for the duration of the emergency!"

Henry looked keenly at Boone and said, "Colonel, I trust you'll stay on and act as my adjutant." The reservist nodded awkwardly and stepped back.

"Sure I will," Henry told Davis firmly. "Now after old Jonah finishes with that bunch, he'll swing around and hit the advance party from the flank. Meantime, we lie low and don't confuse the issue."

"Right, General," Boone managed to gibber before turning with a yell to the disorganized crowd into which his command had dissolved.

"Ah, General," Davis put in diffidently. "Isn't there something constructive we could do to assist, rather than standing idly by, with all our hopes resting on an obsolete museum-piece?"

"The Deng have one serious failing, militarily, Mr. Davis," General Henry replied gravely.

"Inflexibility-the inability to adjust promptly to changing circumstances. They're excellent planners-and having once decided on a tactical approach they ride it down in flames, so to speak. You've noticed that the forces concentrating on the west, behind the screen of the thicket, have made no move to support the main strike force now under attack to the east. They've taken up a formation suited only to an assault on the village here; when Jonah takes them in the flank, they'll break and run, simply because they hadn't expected it. Just watch."

Through the gap the Bolo had flattened in passing, the great machine was still visible within the dust-and-smoke cloud raised by the action. Five enemy hulks now sat inert and smoldering, while seven more were maneuvering on random evasive tracks that steadily converged on the lone Bolo, pouring on their fire without pause.

I select another enemy unit as my next target. These class C Yavac scouts are no mean opponents; clearly considerable improvement has been made in their circuitry during the two centuries of my absence from the field. Their armor withstands all but a.9998-accurate direct hit on the turret juncture. My chosen target-the squad leader, I compute-is a bold fellow who darts in as if to torment me. I track, lock onto him, and fire a long burst from my repeaters, even as I detect the first indications of excessive energy drain. My only option is to attune my charging grid to the frequency of the Yavac main batteries and invite their fire, thus permitting the enemy to recharge my plates-at the risk of overload and burn-out. It is a risk I must take. I fire what I compute is my last full-gain bolt at the enemy unit, at the same time receiving a revivifying jolt of energies in the Y-band as I take direct hits from two Yavacs. I am grateful for the accuracy of their fire, as well as for the sagacity of my designers, who thus equipped me to turn the enemy's strength against him-so long as my defensive armor and circuitry can withstand the overload. I see the squad leader erupt in fire, and change targets to the most aggressive of his subordinates. He was a bold opponent. I shall so report to my commander, taking due note of the fallen enemy's ID markings.

"Looky there! He done blowed up another one!" Hick Marlowe cried, pointing to the exploding Yavac which was already the focus of all eyes. "Look at old Jonah go! Bet he'll pick 'em off one at a time now till he gets the last one. But…" Hick paused, squinting through the obscuring dust, "he sure is taking a pasting his ownself-but he can handle it, old Jonah can! He's starting to glow-must be hotter than Hell's hinges in there!"

"Can it stand up to that concentrated fire, General?" Davis asked the newly-appointed commander.

Henry nodded. "Up to a point," he muttered. "Depends on how much retrofit he got before they sent him out here. Now, this is top GUTS-information, Davis, but under the circumstances, I think you qualify as a 'Need to Know.' The new-or was new back in Ought-Four-defensive technology is to turn the enemy strength against him, by letting the Bolo absorb those hellish Y-rays, restructure them, and convert the energy into usable form to rebuild his own power reserve. But to do it he has to invite the enemy fire at close range-that's why he's sitting still-and take all the punishment that entails-if he can handle it without burnout. At best his 'pain' circuitry is under severe overload. Don't fool yourself, Davis. That's no fun, what Unit JNA is going through out there. Good boy! He took out another one, and now watch that fellow on the left, he's been getting pretty sassy, nipping in and out. My guess is he's next."

Standing on the porch of his ramshackle store with Freddy Frink, Mayor Kibbe wiped his broad brow and frowned. Even if the town survived this damn battle, things'd never be the same again. The last trickle of off-planet trade would die out if Spivey's became known as a battleground, where the Deng could hit anytime. Abruptly, he became aware of what Frink was saying:

"-be worth plenty-the right stuff at the right place, at the right time, Mr. Mayor. And you're the only one's got it. Shame to let it go to waste."

"What you talking about, Freddy?" Kibbe demanded impatiently. "Town's getting blowed apart practically, and you're worrying me about wasting something. Stray shot hits the town, whole thang's wasted-and you and me with it."

"Sure, Mr. Mayor, that's what I'm talking about," Frink came back eagerly. "Don't forget even if old Jonah runs these here spodders off, they's still the main party back in the Canyon. And Pud's idea was right: we can blast the Rim right down on 'em."

"How we going to do that?" Kibbe challenged. "We been all over that. Ain't no way to tote two hundredweight o' smashite up yonder onto the Rim."

"Old Jonah could do it, Cy," Frank urged. "Could swing out into the badlands and come up on the Cut from the northeast and get right in position. Got the old mining road comes down the face, you know."

"Bout halfway," Kibbe grunted. "He might get down far enough to set the charge, but how'd he get back up? No place to turn around."

"I betcha a thousand guck a kilo wouldn't be too much to expect," Frink suggested. "A hundred thousand, cash money-if we act quick."

"That's damn foolishness, Freddy," Kibbe countered. "You really think-a hundred thousand?"

"Minimum," Frink said firmly. "I guess you'd give a fellow ten percent got it all set up, eh, Mr. Mayor?"

"Old Jonah might not last out the day," Kibbe said more briskly. "Don't know where he got the recharge; he was drained dry before they built the museum around him, back in eighty-four. Can't last long out there." He half turned away.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Mayor," Frink said quickly. "Don't know what happened, but he's still going strong. He'll be back here pretty soon. All we got to do, we got to load that smashite in his cargo bay, wire it up fer remote control, and send him off. Works, we'll be heroes; don't work, makes no difference, we're finished here anyway. This way we got a kinder chance. But we got to move fast; don't want old Cabot to try to grab the credit. That's solid gold you got back in the shelves, Cy-if you use it right."

"Can't hurt none to try, I guess," Kibbe acknowledged, as if reluctantly. "Got to clear it with Davis and General Henry, too, I guess."

"Hah, some general," Frink sneered.

When Unit JNA had pounded the last of the dozen attacking Yavacs into silence, it moved past the burned-out hulks and directed its course to the west, bypassing the end of Main Street by a quarter mile, then just as the raptly observing townsfolk perched on roofs or peering from high windows had begun to address rhetorical questions to each other, it swung south and accelerated. At once fire arced from the north of the trees, where enemy emplacements were concealed. The Bolo slowed and then halted to direct enfilade fire into the crevasse, then resumed its advance, firing both main batteries rapidly now. A great gout of soil and shattered tree trunks erupted from mid-thicket. The bodies of Deng troopers were among the debris falling back to the ground.

"Smart, like I said," General Henry told Cy Kibbe, who had made his way up beside him. "He poured the fire into the zond-projector they had set up yonder, because he knew if he could boost it past critical level it'd blow, and take the heart out of 'em."

"Commendable, I'm sure, General," Kibbe commented. "But I'm afeared these niceties of military tactics are beyond me. Now, General-" Kibbe followed closely as Henry turned in at an alley to approach the scene of action more closely. "-me and some of the fellows are still quite concerned, General, about what we understand: that most of these dang Deng-" he broke off to catch his breath. "No levity intended, sir," he interjected hastily-"these infernal aliens, I meant to say-which remain at Big Cut, with offensive power quite intact!"

"As you said, Kibbe," Henry dismissed the plump civilian, "these are matters you know nothing about. I assure you I'm mindful that the enemy has not yet committed his main body. You may leave that to me." He walked into the field, watching as the Bolo closed on the now-gutted thicket, whence individual Deng troopers were departing on foot, while the few light Yavacs which had come up maneuvered in the partial screen of the burning woods to reform a blunt wedge, considerably hindered by the continuing fire from their lone antagonist. Then they, too, turned and fled, getting off a few scattered Parthian shots from their rear emplacements as they went. Unit JNA trampled unhindered through the splintered remains of the patch of trees, skirting the shallow gully at its center, and turned toward town. A ragged cheer went up as the huge machine rounded into Main Street and crossed the last few yards to halt before the clustered townsfolk. Davis thrust Dub forward.

People shrank back from the terrific heat radiating from the battle-scarred machine, if not from the terrifying aspect of its immense bulk, the fighting prowess of which adjust been so vividly demonstrated before their eyes.

"Well done, Johnny," the boy said unsteadily. "You can rest now."

"Jest a dad burned minute here," Kibbe burst out, pushing his way to the fore. "I guess ain't no mission accomplished while the main bunch o' them spodders is still out to Big Cut, safe and sound, and planning their next movet"

Henry came up beside Dub and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Your protégé did well, Dub," he said. "But the mayor has a valid point."

"Johnny done enough," Dub said doggedly.

"More than could have been expected," Henry agreed.

"Jest a dang minute, here," Cy Kibbe yelled. "I guess maybe us local people got something to say about it!" He turned to face the bystanders crowding in. "How about it-Bub, Charlie, you, Ben-you going to stand here while a boy and a-a…" the momentum of his indignation expended, Kibbe's voice trailed off.

"A boy and 'a drunken derelict,' is I believe, the term you were searching for," Henry supplied. He, too, faced the curious crowd. "Any suggestions?" he inquired in a discouraging tone.

"Durn right," a thin voice piped up promptly. Whiskery Fred Frink stepped to the fore, his expression as determined as his weak chin allowed. "Mr. Cabot, here, come up with a good idear," he went on. "Said let's load up this here museum-piece with some o' Mayor's explosives, left over from the last mining boom, you know, petered out all of a sudden, and send him out and blow that cliff right down on top of them spodders." Frink folded his arms and looked over his narrow shoulder for approval. General Henry frowned thoughtfully.

"Johnny's done enough," Dub repeated, tugging at the former town drunk's sleeve. "Let the mayor and some o' them go blow up the spodders."

"I'm afraid that's not practical, Dub," the general said gently. "I agree with the mayor that there are not enough fit men in town to carry out the mission, which I'm inclined to agree is our only option, under the circumstances. It's Unit JNA's duty to go where he's needed."

"You, boy," Frink yapped. "Tell this overgrowed tractor to pull up over front of the Depot."

Dub went casually over to confront the whiskery little man. Carefully, he placed his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers. Then he extended his tongue to its full length, looking Frink in the eye until the little man stepped back and began to bluster.

"Me, too, Dub," General Henry said, and pushed the boy gently toward the machine. Dub went as close to the Bolo as the still-hot metal would allow. "Listen, Johnny," he said earnestly. "They want you to go up on top the Badlands and plant some kind o' bomb. Can you do it?"

There was a moment of rapt silence from the open-mouthed crowd before the reply came clearly:

"As you wish, my commander. I compute that my energy reserve is sufficient to the task, though I am not fully combat-ready."

"Ain't gonna be no combat," Frink piped up. "Jest get the stuff in position, is all."

"Better go over by Kibbe's," Dub addressed the machine reluctantly. At once the vast bulk backed, scattering townsfolk, pivoted, and advanced to the indicated position, dwarfing the big shed.

"Tell it to open up," Frink commanded. Dub nodded and passed the order along to the Bolo; immediately the aft cargo hatch opened to reveal the capacious storage space beneath.

At Frink's urging, with Kibbe fussily directing the volunteers to the rear storage loft, a human chain formed up, and in moments the first of the bright-yellow, one-pound packages of explosive was passed along the line, and tucked away in the far corner of the Bolo's cargo bin.

As the last of the explosive was handed down to Frink, who had stationed himself inside the bin, stacking the smashite, Kibbe climbed up to peer inside cautiously before handing down a coil of waxy yellow wire, and a small black box marked detonator. mark xx.

"Got to rig it up fer remote control," he explained gratuitously to Henry, who was watching closely. "So's he can unload and back off before it goes up."

Half an hour later, while the entire population of New Orchard cheered, the battle-scarred machine once more set off across the plain toward the distant fault-line known as the Cliff. Dub stood with Henry, hoping that no one would notice the tears he felt trickling down his face.

"He'll be all right, son," Henry reassured the lad. "The route you passed on to him will take him well to the east, so that he'll come up on Big Cut directly above the enemy concentration."

"It ain't fair," Dub managed, furious at the break in his voice.

"It seems to be the only way," Henry told him. "There are lives at stake, Dub. Perhaps this will save them."

"Johnny's worth more'n the whole town," Dub came back defiantly.

"I can't dispute that," Henry said quietly. "But if all goes well, we'll save both, and soon Unit JNA will be back in his museum, once we rebuild it, with new battle honors to his credit. Believe me, this is as he wants it. Even if he should be ambushed, he'd rather go down fighting."

"He trusted me to look out for him," Dub insisted.

"There's nothing you could have done that would have pleased him more than ordering him into action," Henry said with finality. In silence, they watched the great silhouette dwindle until it was lost against the cliffs, misty with distance.

Once more I know the exultation of going on the offensive against a worthy foe. My orders, however, do not permit me to close with him, but rather to mount the heights and to blast the rock down on him. This, I compute, is indeed my final mission. I shall take care to execute it in a manner worthy of the Dinochrome Brigade.

While the wisdom of this tactical approach is clear, it is not so satisfying as would be a direct surprise attack. Once at the Rim, I am to descend the cliff-face so far as is possible, via the roadway blasted long ago for access to certain mineral deposits exposed in the rockface. I am weary after this morning's engagement, nearing the advanced depletion level, but I compute that I have enough energy in reserve to carry out my mission. Beyond that, it is not my duty to compute.

Sitting at his desk, Cy Kibbe jumped in startlement when General Henry spoke suddenly, behind him. "I declare, Henry-I mean General," Kibbe babbled. "I never knowed-never seen you come in to my office here. What can I do for you, General, sir?"

"You can tell me more about this errand you've sent Unit JNA off on. For example, how did you go about selecting the precise point at which the machine is to set the charges?"

Kibbe opened a drawer and took out a sheaf of papers from which he extracted a hand drawn map labeled Claim District 33, showing details of the unfinished road on the cliff face. After Henry had glanced at it, Kibbe produced glossy 8 x 10 photos showing broken rock, marked-up in red crayon.

"Got no proper printouts, sir," he explained hastily. "Jest these old pitchers and the sketchmap, made by my pa years ago. Shows the road under construction," Kibbe pointed to the top photo. "See, General, far as it goes, it's plenty wide enough for the machine."

"I don't see how it's going to turn around on that goat path," Henry commented, shuffling through the photos. "You loaded two hundred pounds of Compound L-547. That's enough to blow half the cliff off, but it has to be placed just right."

"Right, sir," Kibbe agreed eagerly. "Right at the end o' the track'll do it. I know my explosives, sir, used to be a soft-rocker myself, up till the vein played out. My daddy taught me. Lucky I had the smashite on hand; put good money into stocking it, and been holding it all these years."

"I'm sure the claim you put in to Budev will cover all that," Henry said shortly.

"Sir," Kibbe said in a more subdued tone, as he extracted another paper from the drawer. "If you'd be so kind, General, to sign this here emergency requisition form, so's to show I supplied the material needed for gubment business…"

Henry looked at the document. "I suppose I can sign this," he acknowledged. "I saw the explosives loaded, looks legitimate to me." He took the stylus proffered by Kibbe and slashed an illegible signature in the space indicated.

"I understand you have an old observation station on the roof, for watching the mining work at the cliff," Henry said. "Let's go up and see how well we can monitor the Bolo's progress."

Kibbe agreed with alacrity, and led the way to the narrow stair which debouched on the tarred roof. He went across to a small hut, unlocked the door, and ushered the general into the stuffy interior crammed with old-fashioned electronic gear. He seated himself at the console and punched keys. A small screen lit up and flickered until Kibbe turned dials to steady an image of looming pinkish rock pitted with shallow cavities. "Blasted them test holes," he grunted. "Hadda abandon the work cause the formation was unstable, big mining engineer told Pa, condemned the claim-but that's just what we need, now!" Kibbe leaned back, grinning in satisfaction. "One good jolt, and the whole overburden'll come down. Now let's see can we get a line on the spodders down below the Cut." He twiddled knobs and the screen scanned down the rockface to the dry riverbed at the bottom, where the Deng had deployed their armor in battle array.

"Lordy," Kibbe whispered. "Got enough of 'em, ain't they, General sir?"

"Looks like a division, at least," Henry agreed. "They're perfectly placed for your purposes, Mr. Mayor, if nothing alerts them."

"I suppose their transports are farther north in the Cut," Henry said.

"That's right, General sir," Kibbe confirmed. "I been keeping an eye on 'em up here ever since we heard where they was at. Mighty handy, having this here spy gear." Kibbe patted the panel before him. "Pa suspicioned there was some dirty work going on at the claim, claim-jumpers and the like; spent a pretty penny shipping all this gear in and paid some experts to install it, placed the pick-up eyes all over to give him good coverage. Yessir, a pretty penny."

"I'll confirm the use of your equipment when you file your claim, Mr. Mayor," Henry said. "You'll make a nice profit on it. Provided," he added, "your plan works."

"Gotta work," Kibbe said, grinning. He adjusted the set again, and now it showed the approach to the cliff road, with the Bolo coming up fast, trailing a dustcloud that was visible now also through the lone window of the look-out shed.

The two men watched as the machine slowed, scouted the cliff-edge, then pivoted sharply, its prow dipping as it entered the man-made cut. Kibbe dollied in, and they watched the big machine move steadily down the rough-surfaced road, which was barely wide enough for passage by the Bolo.

"Close, but it's got room," Kibbe said. "Pa wasn't no dummy when he had 'em cut that trail wide enough for the heavy haulers."

"Very provident man, your father," Henry acknowledged. "I assume you'll include road-toll fees in your claim."

"Got a right to," Kibbe asserted promptly.

"Indeed you have," Henry confirmed. "I won't dispute your claim. A military man knows his rights, Mr. Mayor- but he also knows his duty."

"Sure," Kibbe said. "Well, I guess I done my duty all right, putting all my equipment and supplies at the disposal of the gubment and all-not to say nothing about the time I put in on this. I'm a busy man, General, got the store to run and the town, too, but I've taken the time off, like now, to see to it the public's needs is took care of."

"Your public spirit amazes me," Henry said in a tone which Kibbe was unable to interpret.

At that moment, the office door creaked and Kibbe turned to greet Fred Frink, who hesitated, his eyes on Henry.

"Come right on in, Freddy," Kibbe said heartily. "You're just in time. Looky here." He leaned back to afford the newcomer an unimpeded view of the screen where the Bolo had halted at a barrier of striated rock.

"End o' the road," Kibbe commented. "Perfect spot to blast that cliff right down on the durn spodders."

Frink was holding a small plastic keybox in his hand. He looked from Henry to Kibbe, a worried expression on his unshaven face.

"Go ahead, Freddy," Kibbe urged, as he snapped switches on the panel. "All set," he added. "You're on the air. Go." As he turned to catch Frink's eye, the scene on the screen exploded into a fireball shrouded in whirling dust. The great slab of rock blocking the road seemed to jump, then fissured and fell apart, separating into a multitude of ground-car-sized chunks which seemed to move languidly downward before disintegrating into a chaotic scene of falling rock and spurting dust, in which the Bolo was lost to view. As the dust thinned, settling, nothing was visible but a vast pit in the shattered rock-face, heaped rocks, and a rapidly dissipating smoke-cloud.

"We done it!" Kibbe exulted, while Frink stared at the screen, wide-eyed.

"I see now why you weren't concerned about how the unit would turn around to withdraw," Henry said in an almost lazy tone. "It's buried under, I'd estimate, a few thousand tons of pulverized limestone. Not that it matters much, considering what the explosion did to its internal circuitry. Not even a Bolo can stand up unharmed to a blast of that magnitude actually within its war-hull."

"Cain't make a omelet without you break a few aigs," Kibbe said complacently, then busied himself at the panel. Again he scanned down the cliff-face, ending this time at a panorama of smoking rubble which filled the bottom of the Cut from wall to wall. Not a Yavac was to be seen.

"Don't reckon them spodders is going no place now, General," he commented complacently. Both men turned as Freddy uttered a yelp and turned and ran from the room, yelling the glad news. In moments, a mob-roar rose from the street below.

"Don't start celebrating just yet," General Henry said quietly, his eyes on the screen. Kibbe glanced at him, swallowed the objection he had been about to utter, and followed the general's glance. On the screen, almost clear of obscuring dust, the blanket of broken rock at the bottom of the Cut could be seen to heave and bulge. Great rocks rolled aside as the iodine-colored snout of a Class One Yavac emerged; the machine's tracks gained purchase; the enemy fighting machine dozed its way out from its premature burial and maneuvered on the broken surface of the drift of rock to take up its assigned position, by which time two more heavy units had joined it, while the rubble was heaving in another half-dozen spots where trapped units strove to burst free. Forming up in the deep wedge specified, Henry knew, by Deng battle regs, the salvaged machines moved off toward the south and the defenseless town.

"It appears we'll have to evacuate after all," Henry said quietly. "I shall ask Mr. Davis to get off an emergency message to Sector. I can assign a GUTS priority to it, and I think we should have help within perhaps thirty-six hours. I'm no longer on the Navy list, but I still know the old codes."

"That'd be Wednesday," Kibbe said, rising hastily. "Best they can do, General?"

"Considering the distance to the nearest installation capable of mounting a relief mission, thirty-six hours is mildly optimistic, Mr. Mayor. We'll just have to hold out somehow."

There was a sound of hurrying feet, and the door slammed wide as Dub arrived, flushed and panting.

"We seen the big dust-cloud, General Henry," he gasped out. "Is Johnny OK?"

Henry went to the boy and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "Johnny did his duty as a soldier, Dub," he said gently. "It's to be expected that there will be casualties."

"What's a casualty mean?" Dub demanded, looking up at the old man.

"It means old Jonah done his job and got himself kilt, as you might say, boy," Cy Kibbe said lazily. Dub went past him to stare at the screen.

"He's under that?" he asked fearfully.

"The grave will be properly marked, Dub," Henry reassured the lad. "His sacrifice will not go unnoticed."

"They done it," Dub charged, pointing at Kibbe and Frink, now cowering behind the mayor. "I ast Mr. Frink how Johnny was going to unload the smashite and put it in the right place, and he didn't even answer me." The boy began to cry, hiding his face.

"No call to take on, boy," Frink spoke up. "All I done was what I hadda do. Nobody'd blame me." He looked almost defiantly at Henry.

"You could of gone along and unloaded the stuff, instead of blowing Johnny up," Dub charged. "You didn't hafta go and kill him." He advanced on Frink, his fists clenched.

"Now boy, after all it's only a dang machine we're talking about," Kibbe put in, moving to block Dub's approach to Frink. "A machine doing what it was built to do. You can't expect a man to go out there and get himself kilt, too."

Dub turned away and went to the screen, on which could now be seen the slope of rubble, from the floor of the canyon to the aborted road far above, with the great black cavity of the blast site.

"Look!" Dub exclaimed, pointing. Beside the blast pit, rocks were shifting, thrust aside; small stones dribbled down the talus slope-and then the prow of the Bolo appeared, dozing its way out from under the heaped rock fragments, a gaping wound visible where its aft decking was ripped open.

"He's still alive!" Dub cried. "Come on, Johnny! You can do it!"

I am disoriented by the unexpected blast. Assessing the damage, I perceive that it was not a hit from enemy fire, but rather that the detonation originated in my cargo bin. Belatedly, I realize that I was loaded with explosives and dispatched on a suicide mission. I am deeply disturbed. The Code of the Warrior would require that my commander inform me fully of his intention. This smacks of treachery. Still, it is not for me to judge. Doubtless he did what was necessary. Yet I am grieved that my commander did not feel that he could confide in me. Did he imagine I would shirk my duty? I have suffered grievous damage, but my drive train at least is intact. I shall set aside.003 nanoseconds to carry out a complete self-assessment…

Happily, my hatch cover blew first, as designed, thus venting the greater part of the pressure harmlessly into the surrounding rock. My motor circuits are largely intact, though I have suffered serious loss of sensitivity in my sensory equipment. Still, if I can extricate myself from the entrapping rubble, I compute that I have yet sufficient energy-my Y grid having absorbed some two hundred mega-ergs from the blast and converted the simple kinetic force into usable C-energies-to extricate myself and report to base. I sense the overburden shifting as I apply pressure; now I emerge into sunlight. The way is clear before me. I descend the slope, taking care not to initiate an avalanche. It is clear that I will never again know my full potency, but I shall do what I can.

General Henry shouldered Freddy Frink aside and commandeered the chair before the remote view-screen in Kibbe's observation shed, now crowded with excited villagers, all talking at once, all anxious as to their impending fate.

"… do it? Are they going to be able to climb out?"

"… things come over that heap! Can you see them?"

Manning the small telescope mounted at a window and commanding a view of the terrain where the Yavacs would appear if they indeed succeeded in climbing clear of the fallen cliffs debris, Bud Tolliver maintained a running commentary.

"-see one of 'em-big fellow, lots bigger'n those little ones old Jonah tangled with. There's another one. They keep on coming. Blasting the cliff didn't do no good, it looks like. They're headed thisaway. Our museum-piece is way behind."

In a brief lull, Henry spoke up:

"Only the heavies apparently are able to dig out. Three, so far-and they appear to be sluggish. No doubt they suffered concussive damage at a minimum."

"Can I look?" Young Dub crowded in and Henry took the boy onto his lap.

"Where's Johnny?" the boy demanded, staring at the screen. "Hard to make out what's happening, Mr. -General Henry. You said he started downslope, but-"

"There he is," Henry cut in, pointing to a dust trail near the edge of the screen. "He's going to try to outflank them and beat them into the open."

"Think he can do it, sir?" Dub begged.

"He'll do his best," Henry reassured the boy. "It's his duty to return to base and report."

I win clear of the blast area, and by channeling all available energy to my drive train, I shall attempt to gain egress from the Cut in advance of the enemy units which I perceive have succeeded, like myself, in digging out. They, too, are sluggish and as they slow to maneuver around a major rock fragment, I steal a march and clear the Cut and am in the open. It is only a short dash now to base. Yet I am a fighting machine of the Concordiat, with some firepower capability remaining. Shall I withdraw in the face of the enemy?

"It's clear," General Henry said. "Incredible that a machine could withstand such a blast-treacherously planted within his hull-and still retain the ability to return to base-to say nothing of digging out from under thirty feet of rock."

"Did I hear you say something about treachery, Henry?" Kibbe demanded truculently. "I guess maybe the gubment won't see it that way. I guess it'll say I was a patriot, did what he could to save the town and maybe the whole durn planet."

"Dang right," Fred Frink chimed in. "How about it, Mr. Davis?" He sought out the eye of the government man in the crowd. "Are me and Cy traitors, or what?"

"The matter will be investigated, you may be sure, Fred," Davis replied coolly. "The matter of planting a bomb within the unit without authorization is questionable at best."

"Ha!" Frink cried. "Jest because some kid and a broke-down ex-soldier got all wet-eyed about that piece o' junk-"

"That's enough from you," Henry said, and put his hand in the noisy fellow's face and shoved him backward. Frink sat down hard, looked up at Henry resentfully.

"I orter get one o' them medals, me and Cy, too," he grumped.

"I told you to shut your big mouth, Frink," Henry cut him off. "Next time it will be my boot in your face."

Frink subsided. Kibbe eased up beside Henry.

"Don't pay no mind to Freddy, General sir," he said, "he don't mean no harm." Kibbe glanced at Frink cowering on the floor.

"Guess now old Jonah'll skedaddle back here to town," Kibbe rambled on, watching the screen. "He got out ahead o' them spodder machines; he's in the clear."

"It would serve you right if he did," General Henry said coldly. "But look: After all he's been through, he's preparing to ambush them as they come out. Instead of using the last of his energy reserve to run for cover, he's attacking a superior force."

"Don't do it, Johnny," Dub begged. "You done all you could for them, and they paid you back by blowing you up. To heck with 'em. Run for it, and save yourself. I'll see you get repaired!"

"Even if he could hear you," Henry told the boy, "that's one order he'd ignore. His destiny is to fight and, if need be, to die in combat."

"Damn fool," Kibbe said. "It ain't got a chance against them three Yavac heavies."

On the screen, the Bolo was seen to enter a wide side crevasse and come to rest. A moment later, the first Yavac appeared and at once erupted in fire as the Bolo blasted it at close range with its main battery of Hellbores. The next two Deng machines veered off and took up divergent courses back to the Cut.

"They'll stand off and bombard," Henry said. "I think Unit JNA has exhausted his energies. But of course, if their fire is accurate, he can absorb a percentage of it and make use of it to recharge. They don't know that, or they'd simply bypass him. Instead, he's got them bottled up. Even in death, he's protecting us."

It was an hour after the first ship of the Terran Relief Force had arrived. After Henry had briefed the captain commanding, he returned to Dub, who, with Mick, had been awaiting his return at the hastily tidied office of the Planetary Rep.

"I think we can be sure," Davis told them, after an exchange of SWIFT messages with Sector, "that the museum will be rebuilt promptly, better than ever, and that Unit JNA will be fully restored and recommissioned as a Historic Monument in perpetuity. And his commander will, of course, have free access to him to confer any time he wishes."

"That's good," Dub said soberly. "I'll see to it he's never lonely again."

My young commander has been confirmed in the rank of Battle Captain, and, after depot maintenance and upgrading to modern specifications, I have been recommissioned as a Fighting Unit of the Line. This carries with it permanent full stand-by alert status, an energy level at which my memory storage files are fully available to me, as are also my extensive music and literary archives. Thus, I have been enabled to renew my study of the Gilgamesh epic, including all the new cuneiform material turned up in recent years at Nippur. The achievements of the great heroes of Man are an inspiration to me and should the Enemy again attack, I shall be ready.