"Half-life over one hundred years," Reynolds answered shortly. "The last skirmish of the war was fought near here. Apparently this is where they buried the radioactive equipment left over from the battle."
"But what the hell, that was seventy years ago-"
"There's still enough residual radiation to contaminate anything inside a quarter-mile radius."
"They must have used some hellish stuff." Mayfield stared at the dull shine half a mile distant.
"Reynolds, how are you going to stop this thing?" The mayor had turned on the PA engineer.
"Me stop it? You saw what it did to my heaviest rigs: flattened them like pancakes. You'll have to call out the military on this one, Mr. Mayor."
"Call in Federation forces? Have them meddling in civic affairs?"
"The station's only sixty-five miles from here. I think you'd better call them fast. It's only moving at about three miles per hour but it will reach the south edge of the Mall in another forty-five minutes."
"Can't you mine it? Blast a trap in its path?"
"You saw it claw its way up from six hundred feet down. I checked the specs; it followed the old excavation tunnel out. It was rubble-filled and capped with twenty-inch compressed concrete."
"It's incredible," Eaton said from the screen. "The entire machine was encased in a ten-foot shell of reinforced armocrete. It had to break out of that before it could move a foot!"
"That was just a radiation shield; it wasn't intended to restrain a Bolo Combat Unit."
"What was, may I inquire?" The mayor glared from one face to another.
"The units were deactivated before being buried," Eaton spoke up, as if he were eager to talk. "Their circuits were fused. It's all in the report-"
"The report you should have read somewhat sooner," the mayor snapped.
"What-what started it up?" Mayfield looked bewildered. "For seventy years it was down there, and nothing happened!"
"Our blasting must have jarred something," Reynolds said shortly. "Maybe closed a relay that started up the old battle reflex circuit."
"You know something about these machines?" The mayor beetled his brows at him.
"I've read a little."
"Then speak up, man. I'll call the station, if you feel I must. What measures should I request?"
"I don't know, Mr. Mayor. As far as I know, nothing on New Devon can stop that machine now."
The mayor's mouth opened and closed. He whirled to the screen, blanked Eaton's agonized face, punched in the code for the Federation station. "Colonel Blane!" he blurted as a stern face came onto the screen. "We have a major emergency on our hands! I'll need everything you've got! This is the situation…"
9
I encounter no resistance other than the flimsy barrier, but my progress is slow. Grievous damage has been done to my main drive sector due to overload during my escape from the trap; and the failure of my sensing circuitry has deprived me of a major portion of my external receptivity. Now my pain circuits project a continuous signal to my awareness center, but it is my duty to my Commander and to my fallen comrades of the Brigade to press forward at my best speed; but my performance is a poor shadow of my former ability.
And now at last the Enemy comes into action! I sense aerial units closing at supersonic velocities; I lock my lateral batteries to them and direct salvo fire, but I sense that the arming mechanisms clatter harmlessly. The craft sweep over me, and my impotent guns elevate, track them as they release detonants that spread out in an envelopmental pattern which I, with my reduced capabilites, am powerless to avoid. The missiles strike; I sense their detonations all about me; but I suffer only trivial damage. The Enemy has blundered if he thought to neutralize a Mark XXVIII Combat Unit with mere chemical explosives! But I weaken with each meter gained.
Now there is no doubt as to my course. I must press the charge and carry the walls before my reserve cells are exhausted.
10
From a vantage point atop a bucket rig four hundred yards from the position the great fighting machine had now reached, Pete Reynolds studied it through night glasses. A battery of beamed polyarcs pinned the giant hulk, scarred and rust-scaled, in a pool of blue-white light. A mile and a half beyond it, the walls of the Mall rose sheer from the garden setting.
"The bombers slowed it some," he reported to Eaton via scope. "But it's still making better than two miles per hour. I'd say another twenty-five minutes before it hits the main ringwall. How's the evacuation going?"
"Badly! I get no cooperation! You'll be my witness, Reynolds, I did all I could-"
"How about the mobile batteries; how long before they'll be in position?" Reynolds cut him off.
"I've heard nothing from Federation Central-typical militaristic arrogance, not keeping me informed-but I have them on my screens. They're two miles out-say three minutes."
"I hope you made your point about N-heads."
"That's outside my province!" Eaton said sharply. "It's up to Brand to carry out this portion of the operation!"
"The HE Missiles didn't do much more than clear away the junk it was dragging." Reynolds' voice was sharp.
"I wash my hands of responsibility for civilian lives," Eaton was saying when Reynolds shut him off, changed channels.
"Jim, I'm going to try to divert it," he said crisply. "Eaton's sitting on his political fence; the Feds are bringing artillery up, but I don't expect much from it. Technically, Brand needs Sector okay to use nuclear stuff, and he's not the boy to stick his neck out-"
"Divert it how? Pete, don't take any chances-"
Reynolds laughed shortly. "I'm going to get around it and drop a shaped drilling charge in its path. Maybe I can knock a tread off. With luck, I might get its attention on me and draw it away from the Mall. There are still a few thousand people over there, glued to their Tri-D's. They think it's all a swell show."
"Pete, you can't walk up on that thing! It's hot-" He broke off. "Pete, there's some kind of nut here-he claims he has to talk to you; says he knows something about that damned juggernaut. Shall I…?"
Reynolds paused with his hand on the cut-off switch. "Put him on," he snapped. Mayfield's face moved aside and an ancient, bleary-eyed visage stared out at him. The tip of the old man's tongue touched his dry lips.
"Son, I tried to tell this boy here, but he wouldn't listen-"
"What have you got, old timer?" Pete cut in. "Make it fast."
"My name's Sanders. James Sanders. I'm… I was with the Planetary Volunteer Scouts, back in '71-"
"Sure, dad," Pete said gently. "I'm sorry, I've got a little errand to run-"
"Wait…" The old man's face worked. "I'm old, son-too damned old. I know. But bear with me. I'll try to say it straight. I was with Hayle's squadron at Toledo. Then afterwards, they shipped us-but hell, you don't care about that! I keep wandering, son; can't help it. What I mean to say is-I was in on that last scrap, right here at New Devon-only we didn't call it New Devon then. Called it Hellport. Nothing but bare rock and Enemy emplacement-"
"You were talking about the battle, Mr. Sanders," Pete said tensely. "Go on with that part."
"Lieutenant Sanders," the oldster said. "Sure, I was Acting Brigade Commander. See, our major was hit at Toledo-and after Tommy Chee stopped a sidewinder at Belgrave-"
"Stick to the point, Lieutenant!"
"Yessir!" The old man pulled himself together with an obvious effort. "I took the Brigade in; put out flankers, and ran the Enemy into the ground. We mopped 'em up in a thirty-three hour running fight that took us from over by Crater Bay all the way down here to Hellport. When it was over, I'd lost sixteen units, but the Enemy was done. They gave us Brigade Honors for that action. And then…"