He was not prepared for the deputation that came to him as he finished supper. A mess hall had been set up, and although the women were cooking outside, eating was being done inside– off broken tables with much eroded cutlery. Robert the Fox was sitting there with him.
Angus MacTavish held out the weapon to him. “It works. We cleaned it and figured out how to load and operate it, and the ammunition will fire.”
Jonnie could see that others in the mess hall were giving them their silent attention.
“There's lots of these and lots of ammunition,” said Angus MacTavish.
"If you climb the hill and look over to the east, off in the distance you can see the Psychlo minesite." He smiled. “A group could sneak over tonight and blow them to pieces!”
There was an instant cheer from the rest.
Young men from other tables stood up and crowded around.
Jonnie had a horrible vision of slaughtered Scots and blasted plans.
Robert the Fox caught Jonnie's eye. He seemed to want a nod and Jonnie gave him one. He stood up.
The old veteran was one of the few Scots who had ever seen a Psychlo up close before the freighter had arrived. Raiding for cattle down into the lowlands where cattle now wandered amid ruins, Robert the Fox had once encountered a party of Psychlo hunters from the minesite in Cornwall. The Psychlos had wiped out the other members of the party. But Robert, clinging to the belly of a horse, had been able to flee the carnage unobserved. He was well aware of the power of the Psychlo weaponry and the murderous character they exercised.
“This young man,” said Robert the Fox, pointing to Angus MacTavish who was standing there holding his man-machine gun, “has done very well. It is a credit to be resourceful and brave.”
The young man beamed. “But,” continued Robert the Fox, “it is one of the great wisdoms that one best succeeds at what one prepares totally. One minesite destroyed will not end the power of the Psychlos. Our war is against the entire Psychlo empire and for this we must work hard and prepare.” He became conspiratorial, “We must not wipe out just one base and alert them to our intent.”
That did it. The young men thought this was very wise and happily finished their dinner of roasts and steaks.
“Thank you,” said Jonnie to Robert the Fox. The precipitate war was averted for the moment.
A bit later, in the lingering twilight, Jonnie took the older men down to show them the trench.
He had begun to realize he had a sort of council. It consisted of Robert the Fox, the parson, the schoolmaster, and the historian.
Jonnie probed about in the grass, looking for iron bits, and at last he uncovered the almost totally eroded frame of a weapon that might have been similar to the Thompson. It was very hard to tell what make it was, but it had been a gun.
Jonnie told his council the history of the spot according to Psychlo records.
They hardly needed to get the point. Such weapons had not stopped the Psychlos.
Then the historian– Doctor MacDermott– looked about curiously. “But where are the remains of the tank?”
“It defeated them,” said Jonnie.
“Now that is very odd,” said the historian. “Not that they were defeated here, but that there's no rusting remains of any Psychlo battle equipment.”
“This was a defeat,” said Jonnie. “The Psychlos may have suffered damage, maybe not. But they would have taken any damaged equipment from the field.”
“No, no, no,” said the historian. And he told them about a handwritten romance in the university library about a similar battle. It had occurred on a line between two ancient villages known as Dumbarton and Falkirk, at the narrowest point above where England and Scotland had once met, just below the Highlands. “And the remains of Psychlo tanks can be detected there to this very day.”
“That's true,” said Robert the Fox. “I have seen them.”
The historian said, “No Psychlo has ever come north of that point– not until you, MacTyler, flew in your demon. It is the only reason we can still exist in the Highlands.”
“Tell me more of this romance,” said Jonnie.
“Oh, it is quite badly written,” said the historian. “A curiosity, not literature. It was scribbled by a private in the Queen's Own Highlanders who escaped north from the battle. A sapper, I think he was. They handle land mines.”
“Land mines?” said the parson. “Mines for ore?”
“No, no,” said the historian. “I think they used the word 'mine' for explosives buried in the earth– when the enemy crossed them, they exploded. The private used the term 'tactical nuclear weapons.' He goes on about how a fragment of a regiment that had been in bunkers escaped the gassing and withdrew north. The captain, I think, had a girl in the Highlands. And they laid a string of mines from Dumbarton to Falkirk. Psychlo tanks in pursuit hit them and these mines exploded. The Psychlos were not out of tanks or troops. They simply withdrew south and they never came back to recover their dead or their equipment. The romance says it was due to the spirit of Drake intervening, for drums could be heard....”
“Wait,” said Jonnie. “Those were nuclear weapons.”
“Whatever those are,” said the parson.
“Uranium,” said Jonnie. “There must still be a band of uranium dust between those two towns.” He explained to them about Psychlo breathe-gas.
“Aye, it fits,” said Robert the Fox.
The historian looked enlightened and drew his shabby old cloak around his shrunken shoulders. “It sounds like the magic ring of fire, or the geometric signs the creatures of the netherworld dare not cross.”
Jonnie looked at the eroded remains of the weapon in his hands and then along the trench. “These poor men didn't have any uranium, didn't even really know about Psychlos. They had only these.”
“They died like brave men,” said the parson, removing his cap.
The others also removed theirs.
“We just have to be sure,” said Jonnie, “we don't wind up like them!”
“Aye,” said Robert the Fox.
Jonnie laid the remains of the gun down and they walked back thoughtfully toward the cooking fires. The wail of a piper was soft in the night wind.
Chapter 3
Terl was working with maps of the mountains. He had the latest recon drone pictures of the lode and he was trying to find any trails or roads that came near this deep gash. It was one awfully difficult operation, and when he thought about the animals undertaking something that would make an experienced Psychlo miner cough, it put spots in front of his eyes. The site was simply not accessible by ground travel.
His newly acquired secretary, Chirk, came in. She was stupid enough not to be any menace and good-looking enough to be decorative. She got drunk with economical speed and had other advantages. Her utility was in blocking off callers and shuffling administration papers back for somebody else to handle. Since he was now in reality the top Psychlo on the planet, he shouldn't be bothered with trivial details. Overload the already crushed Numph, was his motto.
“The animal is here to see you,” she trilled.
Terl had hastily covered up the maps when her paws touched the door. He scraped them into a top drawer and out of sight. “Send it in.”
Wearing his air mask and clothing of Chinko cloth, Jonnie came in. He had a long list in his hand.
Terl looked at him. Things were working out pretty well. The animal was on his good behavior, despite having no button camera surveillance now. They had an arrangement whereby Jonnie could come over every few days and take care of food for the girls and confer.