They surveyed their armies—half a million strong, counting women and children. Their camp covered a three-mile radius around an intersection of the canal-river bed and the 50:00 border rock pile. Rocky high ground was held by bowmen. Blades and spears held shaft caps—there were ten in camp. The perimeter was dotted by a hundred Agromecks—each about a quarter of a mile apart and each burdened again by bowmen.
Tinker smiled.
“Bowmen on the high ground and Agromecks—spearchuckers and short swords in the shaft caps. We’re secure.”
Moses tended to agree. He could see Hugh Konte’s platoon moving around the perimeter—daring a Huntercraft to engage them.
From two thousand feet up the viewpoint changed. The sea of Agrifoam ebbed and flowed for an additional three miles—an area four times that occupied by the army. The Big ES could just as easily blanket a ten- or a hundred-mile radius. As they climbed, their egos shrank. Shaft caps marched endlessly to the circumference of the Earth, it seemed—thousands, tens of thousands.
A hive Huntercraft approached awkwardly. Tinker circled it. The viewplates were opaque from the outside. He checked the communicator frequencies. Nothing.
“Let’s try and shoot it down,” said Tinker, enthusiastically. “I want three of you bowmen to kneel down under the ceiling hatch and shoot when I open the hatch.”
He maneuvered under the craft and put his hand on the manual hatch control. The other craft’s airstream buffeted him about.
“Now!” he shouted, pulling back the lever. The hatch opened to whirling blades. A fusilade of arrows clinked. Tinker banked hard right. The hive craft wobbled off, spitting parts. It landed in a grove of fruit trees.
Tinker swooped down to examine the stricken craft.
“Look at the way it landed,” he cheered. “Right on a tree trunk. It’ll never fly again. Shall we set down and polish off the crew?”
Moses studied the terrain.
“We’re ten miles from our camp.”
“So? We don’t have to set down. Say! A couple of you fellows buckle on a harness. I’ll swing you right down on the roof. You can hack open the hatch and dice up the Nebish crew. No problems.”
Moses glanced at Toothpick. No admonition. He nodded.
Tinker held her steady while the coup de grace was administered by the two harnessed blademen. Their craft ran smoothly. Moses kept a sharp lookout.
“Huntercraft!” warned Toothpick.
The foliage blocked their view of most of the sky, but Moses feared the worst. Toothpick squeaked and tried to estimate range and number.
“Hurry up down there.”
“Don’t you want a head for a souvenir?”
“No.”
“Twenty craft. Closing fast,” said Toothpick.
Tinker reeled in the blademen as he lifted off.
“Try a run for it,” suggested Moses. He pointed Toothpick out the window. The little cyberspear sparked menacingly.
The squadron passed overhead at two thousand feet, and then peeled out of formation one at a time to track in single file.
“We’ve picked them up, that’s for sure,” said Tinker banking sharply.
The tracking craft closed after his right-angle turn by crossing the hypoteneuse.
“They aren’t blundering into each other,” said Moses.
Tinker squinted through the craft’s optic set at 10 X magnification.
“Those craft are from Orange Country.”
Tinker flipped open the communicator. Val’s face appeared. They eyed each other bitterly.
“Still fly pretty good,” said Val.
“Doing all right,” said Tinker, climbing.
“Let’s see how good you are,” challenged Val. The screen went dead. One of the Huntercraft left formation and tracked fast. The others broke off contact and scattered at low altitudes.
Tinker tried to get under the hive craft for a bowshot at the blades, but it dove to tree-top level. Hatches opened several times and Tinker’s hands felt the tick, tick, tick of arrows striking the hull. Three of the other craft returned abruptly and triangulated on him, closing fast. When he tried for escape altitude the hive craft flew under him and began plinking arrows at his blades.
“They certainly learn fast,” said Tinker. His forehead was dampening. He darted off on a zigzag course.
Toothpick flickered coherent light beams at the pursuing craft’s view ports hoping to bleach out a few retinas. The craft hesitated and then turned back. Tinker raced for his camp. The hive squadron formed up again and flew high over the fugitive army dropping a couple of tons of building blocks. Again, they were easy to avoid, and casualties were light.
The perimeter patrols reported three enemy squadrons, over fifty Huntercraft, sighted. There had been only one skirmish—a food column through the Agrifoam was broken up.
“More craft today. Still no concerted attacks. They’re probably building up their forces now, trying to starve us. When they’re stronger, they’ll attack,” said Tinker.
Moses nodded.
“And we really can’t attack them effectively on foot. Those are Huntercraft assembling out there. They must be about ten miles away—watching us.”
Hugh returned from patrol and walked up smiling. He had a generous hunk of boiled meat in a platter of tiny vegetable flakes.
“At least we don’t have to worry about food, anymore. This guy Moon has a regular food train over there.”
Tinker and Moses approached the shaft cap where Moon and the squad of bowmen had entered the night before. Buckeyes and fugitives from Dundas filed in empty-handed and came out carrying sides and quarters of red-yellow meat. Trails of pink drippings marked the passing of thousands of meat porters. Nothing looked human to Moses. He thought he’d better investigate.
He found the porter lines ran all the way downspiral to shaft base. Crawlways and cubicles were silent. Moon and the bowmen had set up a blind at the tubeway entrance. Using crude harpoons with thin cables, they were spearing Nebishes right off the tubes. The impact of the harpoon head usually stilled their victims—if not, the brief drawing and quartering did.
Moon shouted instructions to a score of busy coweyes.
“Get those heads and entrails back in the tubeways. Be neat. I want every bit of skin off—hands and feet too. We mustn’t offend the cooks.”
“What about this little one. Shall I throw it back?”
“If it’s still alive. If it isn’t, don’t let it go to waste.”
Old Moon smiled when he saw Moses.
“How we doing?”
“Wonderful,” said Moses, without enthusiasm. “Wonderful. But you’re going to have to knock off for a while. The Hip is having another ceremony tonite. He wants all his people around him.”
“The Ass at Tabulum—” mumbled Moon.
Moses changed the subject.
“We captured a nice Huntercraft today. Tinker has it running smoothly. We took a look around. Huntercraft are gathering outside the foam.”
“It figures,” said Moon, wiping his hands. “There is enough meat here for the guys on the spiral. Let’s knock off, you guys. Get your asses back to the Hip. He’s having one of his mystic fits again.”
Moon and Moses walked upspiral while Dan munched on a hand.
The orange glow of forges created an eerie background for Hip’s chants. The fugitives from Dundas found tons of soft iron in the garages—old meck energy converters. It was soft enough to fashion quickly into the double-headed bipennis and the twenty-inch short sword, it was hard enough to hold an edge through a hundred Nebishes.
Moses, Moon and Tinker sat in the cabin of their Huntercraft listening to a hive entertainment channel while Hip ranted and raved in the distance.
“Are the patrols doubled tonite?” asked Moses.
“Hugh saw to it,” said Tinker. “He’s a regular little organizer. His patrol squads contain men from both camps—brawn and brains, he says.”