The stuff lapped at the tank tread.
“It's got me surrounded,” he told Galing.
“Then we must come out.”
“Give me a chance to use some of the weaponry on this thing,” Joel said. “I think I can make it pull back.”
The fungus slapped over the knobby, armored hood and pushed against the hologram cameras which gave Joel a remote view of the ground behind him. It sheathed his foreward view windows, ebbed and flowed across the machine like a sea of dark gelatin tugging at a wrecked and sunken ship. It probed at the tank with what seemed like curiosity.
A light suddenly flashed on the control panel, and the tank's foot-square computer display screen in the middle of the dash was blinking an ominous, stark warning:
ARMOR CORRODING.
ARMOR CORRODING.
ARMOR CORRODING.
Glancing quickly at the weapons panel, Joel punched control spots and fought back.
Nothing happened.
FLAME THROWERS
OPERATIVE.
He stared at the words flashing on the display screen, and he knew that they were not true. And he suddenly realized that the first message had not been true either. The armor couldn't possibly be corroding. If the fungus could dissolve steel, it would have eaten through the entrance to the pyramid a long time ago.
But why was the computer lying? This was no mere malfunction. If it were not operating properly, it would either remain blank or would check its own circuits and tell him that something was wrong with it. This was not erroneous information; it was an outright deception!
He thought he knew what was causing it.
He touched a control spot labeled first gear — forward.
Nothing happened.
The engine continued to idle.
“This damned stuff is intelligent,” Joel told Galing. “I don't know how… But it's taken control of the tank's computer. I can't fight against it.”
Beside him, the lock lever popped out on the entrance hatch.
“Oh, no you don't!” he said. He hit it hard and held his hand on it to keep it depressed.
“Joel?”
“It just tried to unlock the door,” he said. “Almost had me there.”
“Listen,” Galing said, “there's a manual override for the weapons panel.”
“I know,” Joel said.
armor corroding.
“Sure,” he told it. “Sure.” He sprung open a panel on his left and examined the two dozen toggle switches of the weapons override system. He pushed on a few of them.
He felt the flamethrowers come on this time, and he heard the roar of the fire on all four sides. The temperature within the tank climbed almost at once and was recorded on a lighted circled overhead: temperature: 72,73,74,75,76,77,78…
“Manual system's okay,” he told Gating.
“What are you using?”
“Flamethrowers.”
“That's best”
The battle was a silent one. The pulpy fungus flowed in and tried to put out the flames. It trembled as the fire ticked at it. Bursting like grenades in the intense heat, the pustules became pockmarks in the mother body. The gray-brown muck blackened, smoked, withered, and fell away from the four nozzles as well as from the view windows and the hologram cameras which were positioned near the flames. Yet it kept its grip on the tank, and it persisted, returning to the nozzles with more force than before.
Joel was sweating like a horse at the end of the race. He wiped his face with his sleeve, glanced at Allison to see how she was making out. She seemed sound asleep; the heat had apparently complemented the drugs to put her under once more. Perspiration rolled from her face and dampened her long hair, but otherwise she seemed fine.
temperature: 91,92,93,94…
Joel had taken his hand from the door lock beside him. Now, it popped open with the noise of a gunshot, and he barely had time to slam it back into place.
Five minutes later, the walls of the tank were too hot to touch. The view windows in front of him were steamed over. The temperature seemed to have stabilized at a hundred degrees, although it was many times higher than that outside.
Then the computer display screen flashed a warning that was really — coming from the fungus, as it did — a nasty threat:
AIR CONDITIONING
MALFUNCTION.
MALFUNCTION.
MALFUNCTION.
MALFUNCTION.
MALFUNCTION.
MALFUNCTION.
Joel could not find a manual switch that would override the computer's control of the air conditioning. He looked at the overhead temperature gauge which had begun to wink on and off once more: 101,102,103… 104… 105…
“You can't sweat us out,” Joel said. “We're going to burn you first.”
“What did you say?” Galing asked.
“I'm not talking to you.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine!”
“Joel—”
“Don't bother me!”
106… 107…
The lock lever on the door was burning his hand. He unhooked his safety harness, swiveled on the seat, and held the lever down with the sole of his boot.
108… 109… 110…
He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, tried to make some saliva. He had no luck.
111… 112…
The display screen wiped itself clear and then flashed another message at him:
AIR SUPPLY
MALFUNCTION.
MALFUNCTION.
MALFUNCTION.
How much air would the cab contain? How long could the two of them survive on it if the computer had really sealed off the supply of fresh air? Allison was asleep, so she wouldn't be using as much as he was. And if he remained perfectly still, didn't move around and waste energy, kept his breathing shallow, maybe they could last ten minutes.
113… 114…
The perspiration ran from him like fat melting from a roasting fowl. His clothes were soaked through, and the leatherette seat around him glistened. His head ached. Behind his eyes two mules were kicking their way out. His mouth was as dry as dust, his lips cracked and bleeding. Each breath burned his throat and flared in his lungs like a torch.
115… 116… 117…
Allison moaned, turned in her harness. Her slender hands were curled like claws at her sides.
How much more air?
Five minutes worth?
Less. Surely, they had been suffering more than five minutes since the air supply had been shut down. The air was thick, ammoniac, too hot to breathe. They must have been here ten minutes now. It must be near the end.
118… 119… 120… 120… 120… 120.
When he saw the temperature stabilize again, he knew that they were going to win. Their air supply was rapidly running out, and the heat was already too much to endure. Yet he knew that the battle was won now; the moral superiority was theirs and the physical challenge would be met as well.
You're raving, he thought, as he realized that he was laughing and that he had vocalized most of those thoughts.
120… 120… 120…
Outside, the fungus shriveled in the fire. It writhed and pitched, rose up and fell down, formed and re-formed in what could only be called a fit of rage. Gradually, grudgingly, it drew back from the superheated tank.
“I knew it,” Joel said weakly.
The display screen went blank.
The vents brought the sound of highspeed fans. Cool air rushed out into his face.