Snipe nodded, trying to decide what to do. He skipped aside as Chocolate Harry roared by on his hovercycle, leaning over the handlebars with an expression that meant business. Major Botchup had been monitoring the electronic traffic, so he should have picked up any such communication-and the major had not changed his orders. Snipe shook his head and said, "The CO will tell us if there's any word on that front. For now, stay ready for anything."
"In case you hadn't noticed, Lieutenant, that's what we were doing," said Armstrong. He picked up the stereoculars and looked at the approaching ship again, pointedly turning his back to Snipe.
After a few moments, while the noise of the approaching ship got progressively louder, Snipe turned to Brandy. "Sergeant, what plan do you have if the ship opens hostilities?"
Brandy snorted. "Depends a whole lot on what they throw at us, Lieutenant. Landing this close, I don't think they're going to be using any nukes, do you?"
"Nukes?" Snipe gulped. He hadn't even considered that possibility.
"Course, this could be some kind of fanatical suicide mission," Brandy continued. "Maybe they'll try a quick push with conventional force, and then blow the ship's core if we're too tough a nut to crack. Been done before. Not much we can do if that's what we're looking at, is there?"
"Uh, I suppose not," said Snipe. His face was growing pale.
Brandy continued in a voice that carried over the sound of space drives throttling down. "More likely what we get is some softening up with whatever heavy armament the ship's carrying. Something that size could have Class 4 UV lasers, I'd say. Shouldn't hurt as long as you're behind about six inches of lead shielding, or maybe ten feet of packed earth."
"Ten feet?" Snipe looked around, trying to determine where in the trenches he'd have that much cover.
"Yeah, ten feet oughta do," said Brandy. "Once they've got us keeping our heads down, they turn loose whatever they've got in the way of infantry-and then it gets nasty."
"Nasty?" Snipe gulped.
"Yeah, nothing worse than close-quarters combat," said Brandy at top volume. "But you've probably seen it all before, being a second lieutenant and all that."
Snipe had his mouth open, gulping air, when Armstrong called out, "Ship's touching down. Look alive there."
"Look alive!" repeated Brandy at the top of her voice, turning to look at the dust cloud rising around the ship. "Once that dust settles, they can cut loose with any rays they have, so be ready to get down."
The infernal racket of the ship's engines abruptly ceased, and there was a long moment of expectant silence. The dust began to thin out, and Snipe cringed at the notion that death rays might even now be warming up to fry him. He looked around for something to crouch behind and finally settled for a nearby hoverjeep. It wasn't perfect cover, but perhaps it was thick enough to protect against the Class 4 UV that Brandy had warned of. From somewhere out of sight he heard Armstrong say, "Hatches opening."
Snipe stuck his head around a corner, only to fall almost instantly backward as something large came roaring directly at him. From a position flat on his butt he watched Chocolate Harry rush past on his "hawg," and heard the shouted warning, "Yo, man, heads up!" as the supply sergeant whipped on past at incredible speed.
Another more cautious peek around the corner showed him shadowy figures in the dust cloud by the mysterious ship. Several of them were busy catching and stacking unidentifiable equipment being tossed to them from an open cargo bay. Now some kind of vehicle emerged from the ship, followed by several more figures (were they humans?) on foot.
Deciding that it was for the moment safe to expose himself to possible fire, Snipe ran quickly to join Armstrong, who stood behind a waist-high pile of crates, surveying the action through the stereoculars. "What's going on?" Snipe asked, panting a bit from the exertion. He crouched behind the crates, admiring Armstrong's coolness in the face of the enemy.
"They're unloading their equipment," said Armstrong helpfully. He looked down at the cowering Snipe and added, "Here they come."
Snipe risked a peek over the crates. Here came the vehicle, slowly advancing toward the Legion position. It had the look of a hoverjeep, and several of the figures seated in it were carrying what might be beam projectors-or almost anything else, Snipe realized. A small group of invaders trudged along behind it. In the defensive line, Snipe could hear Brandy talking to her troops: "Steady now, steady."
Seeing that the invaders had so far done nothing that could be taken as a hostile move, Snipe decided it was safe to stand up. The dust had settled enough for him to make out that the hoverjeep was painted a bright yellow. That's not a military color, he realized. There appeared to be some sort of writing on the side, although from this angle Snipe couldn't make it out. A figure in the front of the jeep was standing up, exposed to the Legion defenders. "This doesn't look like an invasion force," he muttered;
"No, it doesn't, does it?" said Armstrong. "But if they're who I suspect they are, you and the major may wish they had been."
"What?" said Snipe. He peered at the approaching jeep. Now it was close enough for him to discern the figure standing up: a woman, smiling and waving to the Legion camp. "I've seen that face somewhere," he said, frowning.
"I bet you have," said Armstrong, lowering the stereoculars and waving back. The troops in the front line were also standing and waving. What was going on?
Then the jeep turned to avoid a spot of rough terrain, and at last Snipe could clearly see what was painted on its side: Interstellar News Service. The woman standing in the jeep was none other than Jennie Higgins, the reporter who had made Captain Jester a media darling.
They'd been invaded, all right-by the intergalactic press corps.
Being confined in a dimly lit enclosure, even with companionship, was boring. There was no other term for it. It was quite some time since Phule and Beeker had run out of useful observations to make on their current condition, and no other topic of conversation got very far. It was incredibly boring.
At one point, Phule had gotten so bored he'd tried bouncing the gravball their captors had given them against the opposite wall of their cell, but the bell inside jingled every time the ball moved. That got on his nerves-and on Beeker's, as well-after about three bounces, and he went back to slouching against the wall, trying to think of a way to escape-or to communicate with their captors. So far, Beeker had relentlessly shot holes in all his good ideas.
Even so, every once in a while, when he was starting to get really bored, he'd cast an eye over at the ball again. Maybe there was some way to get the bell out...but trying it would undoubtedly make more noise, and then he'd have to put up with more of Beeker's baleful looks and sarcastic comments. Compared to that...well, he thought he could put up with the boredom a little while longer, anyhow.
Maybe it was starting to get to him, though. He hadn't touched the ball, and yet he could swear he'd heard the bell jingling again very softly. The ball wasn't visibly moving. His nerves must be starting to fray. They said that solitary confinement could drive a person mad. They didn't say anything about confinement with one's butler, but Phule was beginning to think it must be at least as bad.
"Sir, would you please stop that?" snapped Beeker, as if to reinforce Phule's thoughts.
"Stop what?" said Phule. "Can't a fellow sit and think without you complaining?"
"You're doing something to the ball, sir," said Beeker, glaring at him. "I hear the bell ringing."
Phule sat up straight. "Do you hear it, too? I thought it was my imagination."
"No-look, sir, it's moving," said Beeker, pointing. Sure enough, the ball was wobbling slightly, as if the floor below it were shaking.