Paxton let his breath out slowly and looked around. The trench with the stairway came down to the door, and the door, he saw, was wider than the trench, so that at the foot of the steps the area had been widened into a sort of letter T, with narrow embrasures scooped out to face the door.
“You all right, sir?” asked Pertwee.
“Perfectly all right,” Paxton told the robot stiffly.
“And now,” said Pertwee happily, “I’ll explain the fire and tactical control.”
It trotted up the steps and Paxton trailed behind it.
“I’m afraid that would take too long,” said Paxton.
But the robot brushed the words aside. “You must see it, sir,” it pleaded plaintively. “Now that you are out here, you must not miss seeing it.”
He’d have to get away somehow, Paxton told himself. He couldn’t afford to waste much time. As soon as the house had settled down to sleep, the bishop would come hunting him, and by that time he must be gone.
Pertwee led the way around the curving base of the battle bowl to the observation tower which Paxton had come upon that evening.
The robot halted at the base of the ladder.
“After you,” it said.
Paxton hesitated, then went swiftly up the ladder.
Maybe this wouldn’t take too long, he thought, and then he could be off. It would be better, he realized, if he could get rid of Pertwee without being too abrupt about it.
The robot brushed past him in the darkness and bent above the bank of controls. There was a snick and lights came on in the panels.
“This, you see,” it said, “is the groundglass—a representation of the battlefield. It is dead now, of course, because there is nothing going on, but when there is some action certain symbols are imposed upon the field so that one can see at all times just how things are going. And this is the fire control panel and this is the troop command panel and this…”
Pertwee went on and on with his explanations.
Finally it turned in triumph from the instruments.
“What do you think of it?” the robot asked, very clearly expecting praise.
“Why, it’s wonderful,” said Paxton, willing to say anything to make an end of his visit.
“If you are going to be around tomorrow,” Pertwee said, “you may want to watch us.”
And it was then that Paxton got his inspiration.
“As a matter of fact,” Paxton said, “I’d like to try it out. In my youth, I did a bit of reading on military matters, and if you’ll excuse my saying so, I have often fancied myself somewhat of an expert.” Pertwee brightened almost visibly. “You mean, sir, that you’d like to go one round with me?”
“If you’d be so kind.”
“You are sure you understand how to operate the board?”
“I watched you very closely.”
“Give me fifteen minutes to reach my tower,” said Pertwee. “When I arrive, I’ll press the ready button. After that, either of us can start hostilities any time we wish.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“It may not take me that long, sir. I’ll be quick about it.”
“And I’m not imposing on you?”
“Sir,” Pertwee said feelingly, “it will be a pleasure. I’ve fought against young Master Graham until the novelty has worn off. We know one another’s tactics so well that there’s little chance for surprise. As you can understand, sir, that makes for a rather humdrum war.”
“Yes,” said Paxton, “I suppose it would.”
He watched Pertwee go down the ladder and listened to its footsteps hurrying away.
Then he went down the ladder and stood for a moment at the foot of it.
The clouds had thinned considerably and the moonlight was brighter now and it would be easier travelling, although it still would be dark in the denser forest.
He swung away from the tower and headed for the path, and, as he did so, he caught a flicker of motion in a patch of brush just off the trail.
Paxton slid into the denser shadow of a clump of trees and watched the patch of brush.
He crouched and waited. There was another cautious movement in the brush and he saw it was the bishop. Now suddenly it seemed that there was a chance to get the bishop off his neck for good—if his inspiration would only pay off.
The bishop had been let down by the flier in the dark of night, with the rain still pouring down and no moonlight at all. So it was unlikely that he knew about the battle bowl, although more than likely he must see it now, glittering faintly in the moonlight. But even if he saw it, there was a chance he’d not know what it was.
Paxton thought back along the conversation there had been after the bishop had arrived and no one, so far as he remembered, had mentioned a word of young Graham or the war project.
There was, Paxton thought, nothing lost by trying. Even if it didn’t work, all he’d lose would be a little time.
He darted from the clump of trees to reach the base of the battle bowl. He crouched against the ground and watched, and the bishop came sliding out of his clump of brush and worked his way along, closing in upon him.
And that was fine, thought Paxton. It was working just the way he’d planned.
He moved a little to make absolutely sure his trailer would know exactly where he was and then he dived down the stairs that led to the door.
He reached it and thumbed the button and the door slid slowly upward without a single sound. Paxton crowded back into the embrasure and waited.
It took a little longer than he had thought it would and he was getting slightly nervous when he heard the step upon the stairs.
The bishop came down slowly, apparently very watchful, and then he reached the door and stood there for a moment, staring out into the churned-up battlefield. And in his hand he held an ugly gun.
Paxton held his breath and pressed his shoulders tight against the wall of earth, but the bishop didn’t even look around. His eyes were busy taking in the ground that lay beyond the door.
Then finally he moved, quickly, like a leopard. His silken garments made a swishing noise as he stepped through the door and out into the battle area.
Paxton held himself motionless, watching the bishop advance cautiously out into the field, and when he was far enough, he reached out a finger and pressed the second button and the door came down, smoothly, silently.
Paxton leaned against the door and let out in a gasp the breath he had been holding.
It was over now, he thought.
Hunter hadn’t been as clever as he had thought he was.
Paxton turned from the door and went slowly up the stairs.
Now he needn’t run away. He could stay right here and Nelson would fly him, or arrange to have him flown, to some place of safety.
For Hunter wouldn’t know that this particular assassin had hunted down his quarry. The bishop had had no chance to communicate and probably wouldn’t have dared to even if he could.
On the top step, Paxton stubbed his toe and went down without a chance to catch himself, and there was a vast explosion that shook the universe and artillery fire was bursting in his brain.
Dazed, he got to his hands and knees and crawled painfully, hurling himself desperately down the stairs—and through the crashing uproar that filled the entire world ran an urgent thought and purpose.
I’ve got to get him out before it is too late! I can’t let him die in there! I can’t kill a man!
He slipped on the stairs and slid until his body jammed in the narrowness and stuck.
And there was no artillery fire, there was no crash of shells, no wicked little chitterings. The dome glittered softly in the moonlight and was as quiet as death.
Except, he thought, a little weirdly, death’s not quiet in there. It is an inferno of destruction and a maddening place of sound and brightness and the quietness doesn’t come until afterward.