“I’m afraid not,” Fetterer said.
“There are some,” the priest said sternly, “who feel that it was an error to put this in the hands of the military.”
“Sorry,” Fetterer said cheerfully. “That’s defeatist talk. If you don’t mind—” He gestured at the door. Wearily, the priest left.
“These civilians,” Fetterer mused. “Well, gentlemen, are your troops ready?”
“We’re ready to fight for Him,” General MacFee said enthusiastically. “I can vouch for every automatic in my command. Their metal is shining, all relays have been renewed, and the energy reservoirs are fully charged. Sir, they’re positively itching for battle!”
General Ongin snapped fully out of his daze. “The ground troops are ready, sir!”
“Air arm ready,” General Dell said.
“Excellent,” General Fetterer said. “All other arrangements have been made. Television facilities are available for the total population of the world. No one, rich or poor, will miss the spectacle of the Last Battle.”
“And after the battle—” General Ongin began, and stopped. He looked at Fetterer.
Fetterer frowned deeply. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen after The Battle. That part of it was presumably, in the hands of the religious agencies.
“I suppose there’ll be a presentation or something,” he said vaguely.
“You mean we will meet—Him?” General Dell asked.
“Don’t really know,” Fetterer said. “But I should think so. After all—I mean, you know what I mean.”
“But what should we wear?” General MacFee asked, in a sudden panic. “I mean, what does one wear?”
“What do angels wear?” Fetterer asked Ongin.
“I don’t know,” Ongin said.
“Robes, do you think?” General Dell offered.
“No,” Fetterer said sternly. “We will wear dress uniform, without decorations.”
The generals nodded. It was fitting.
And then it was time.
Gorgeous in their battle array, the legions of Hell advanced over the desert. Hellish pipes skirled, hollow drums pounded, and the great host moved forward.
In a blinding cloud of sand, General MacFee’s automatic tanks hurled themselves against the Satanic foe. Immediately, Dell’s automatic bombers screeched overhead, hurling their bombs on the massed horde of the damned. Fetterer thrust valiantly with his automatic cavalry.
Into this melee advanced Ongin’s automatic infantry and metal did what metal could.
The hordes of the damned overflowed the front, ripping apart tanks and robots. Automatic mechanisms died, bravely defending a patch of sand. Dell’s bombers were torn from the skies by the fallen angels, led by Marchocias, his griffin’s wings beating the air into a tornado.
The thin, battered line of robots held, against gigantic presences that smashed and scattered them, and struck terror into the hearts of television viewers in homes around the world. Like men, like heroes, the robots fought, trying to force back the forces of evil.
Astaroth shrieked a command, and Behemoth lumbered forward. Bael, with a wedge of devils behind him, threw a charge at General Fetterer’s crumbling left flank. Metal screamed, electrons howled in agony at the impact.
Supreme General Fetterer sweated and trembled, a thousand miles behind the firing line. But steadily, nervelessly, he guided the pushing of buttons and the throwing of levers.
His superb corps didn’t disappoint him. Mortally damaged robots swayed to their feet and fought. Smashed, trampled, destroyed by the howling fiends, the robots managed to hold their line. Then the veteran Fifth Corps threw in a counterattack, and the enemy front was pierced.
A thousand miles behind the firing line, the generals guided the mopping up operations.
“The battle is won,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered, turning away from the television screen. “I congratulate you, gentlemen.”
The generals smiled wearily.
They looked at each other, then broke into a spontaneous shout. Armageddon was won, and the forces of Satan had been vanquished.
But something was happening on their screens.
“Is that—is that—” General MacFee began, and then couldn’t speak.
For the Presence was upon the battlefield, walking among the piles of twisted, shattered metal.
The generals were silent
The Presence touched a twisted robot.
Upon the smoking desert, the robots began to move. The twisted, scored, fused metals straightened.
The robots stood on their feet again.
“MacFee,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered. “Try your controls. Make the robots kneel or something.”
The general tried, but his controls were dead.
The bodies of the robots began to rise in the air. Around them were the angels of the Lord, and the robot tanks and soldiers and bombers floated upward, higher and higher.
“He’s saving them!” Ongin cried hysterically. “He’s saving the robots!”
“It’s a mistake!” Fetterer said. “Quick. Send a messenger to—no! We will go in person!”
And quickly a ship was commanded, and quickly they sped to the field of battle. But by then it was too late, for Armageddon was over, and the robots gone, and the Lord and His host departed.
THE MONSTERS
Cordovir and Hum stood on the rocky mountaintop, watching the new thing happen. Both felt rather good about it. It was undoubtedly the newest thing that had happened for some time.
“By the way the sunlight glints from it,” Hum said, “I’d say it is made of metal.”
“I’ll accept that,” Cordovir said. “But what holds it up in the air?”
They both stared intently down to the valley where the new thing was happening. A pointed object was hovering over the ground. From one end of it poured a substance resembling fire.
“It’s balancing on the fire,” Hum said. “That should be apparent even to your old eyes.”
Cordovir lifted himself higher on his thick tail, to get a better look. The object settled to the ground and the fire stopped.
“Shall we go down and have a closer look?” Hum asked.
“All right. I think we have time—wait! What day is this?”
Hum calculated silently, then said, “The fifth day of Luggat.”
“Damn,” Cordovir said. “I have to go home and kill my wife.”
“It’s a few hours before sunset,” Hum said. “I think you have time to do both.”
Cordovir wasn’t sure. “I’d hate to be late.”
“Well, then. You know how fast I am,” Hum said. “If it gets late, I’ll hurry back and kill her myself. How about that’”
“That’s very decent of you.” Cordovir thanked the younger man and together they slithered down the steep mountainside.
In front of the metal object both men halted and stood up on their tails.
“Rather bigger than I thought,” Cordovir said, measuring the metal object with his eye. He estimated that it was slightly longer than their village, and almost half as wide. They crawled a circle around it, observing that the metal was tooled, presumably by human tentacles.
In the distance the smaller sun had set.
“I think we had better get back,” Cordovir said, noting the cessation of light.
“I still have plenty of time.” Hum flexed his muscles complacently.
“Yes, but a man likes to kill his own wife.”
“As you wish.” They started off to the village at a brisk pace.
In his house, Cordovir’s wife was finishing supper. She had her back to the door, as etiquette required. Cordovir killed her with a single flying slash of his tail, dragged her body outside, and sat down to eat.
After meal and meditation he went to the Gathering. Hum, with the impatience of youth, was already there, telling of the metal object. He probably bolted his supper, Cordovir thought with mild distaste.