"Then what?"
"Then the triple-dyed yellow-bottoms at Headquarters put out the order the Brigade was to be scrapped; said they were too hot to make decon practical. Cost too much, they said! So after the final review-" he gulped, blinked-"they planted 'em deep, two hundred meters, and poured in special high-R concrete."
"And packed rubble in behind them," Reynolds finished for him. "All right, Lieutenant, I believe you! Now for the big one: What started that machine on a rampage?"
"Should have known they couldn't hold down a Bolo Mark XXVIII!" The old man's eyes lit up. "Take more than a few million tons of rock to stop Lenny when his battle board was lit!"
"Lenny?"
"That's my old command unit out there, son. I saw the markings on the Tri-D. Unit LNE of the Dinochrome Brigade!"
"Listen!" Reynolds snapped out. "Here's what I intend to try…" He outlined his plan.
"Ha!" Sanders snorted. "It's a gutsy notion, mister, but Lenny won't give it a sneeze."
"You didn't come here to tell me we were licked," Reynolds cut in. "How about Brand's batteries?"
"Hell, son, Lenny stood up to point-blank Hellbore fire on Toledo, and-"
"Are you telling me there's nothing we can do?"
"What's that? No, son, that's not what I'm saying…"
"Then what!"
"Just tell these johnnies to get out of my way, mister. I think I can handle him."
11
At the field comm hut, Pete Reynolds watched as the man who had been Lieutenant Sanders of the Volunteer Scouts pulled shiny black boots over his thin ankles and stood. The blouse and trousers of royal blue polyon hung on his spare frame like wash on a line. He grinned, a skull's grin.
"It doesn't fit like it used to; but Lenny will recognize it. It'll help. Now, if you've got that power pack ready…"
Mayfield handed over the old-fashioned field instrument Sanders had brought in with him.
"It's operating, sir-but I've already tried everything I've got on that infernal machine; I didn't get a peep out of it."
Sanders winked at him. "Maybe I know a couple of tricks you boys haven't heard about." He slung the strap over his bony shoulder and turned to Reynolds.
"Guess we better get going, mister. He's getting close."
In the rock car, Sanders leaned close to Reynolds' ear. "Told you those Federal guns wouldn't scratch Lenny. They're wasting their time."
Reynolds pulled the car to a stop at the crest of the road, from which point he had a view of the sweep of ground leading across to the city's edge. Lights sparkled all across the towers of New Devon. Close to the walls, the converging fire of the ranked batteries of infinite repeaters drove into the glowing bulk of the machine, which plowed on, undeterred.
As he watched, the firing ceased.
"Now, let's get in there, before they get some other damn-fool scheme going," Sanders said.
The rock car crossed the rough ground, swung wide to come up on the Bolo from the left side. Behind the hastily rigged radiation cover, Reynolds watched the immense silhouette grow before him.
"I knew they were big," he said. "But to see one up close like this-" He pulled to a stop a hundred feet from the Bolo.
"Look at the side ports," Sanders said, his voice crisper now. "He's firing antipersonnel charges-only his plates are flat. If they weren't, we wouldn't have gotten within half a mile." He undipped the microphone and spoke into it:
"Unit LNE, break off action and retire to ten-mile line!"
Reynolds' head jerked around to stare at the old man. His voice had rung with vigor and authority as he spoke the command.
The Bolo ground slowly ahead. Sanders shook his head, tried again.
"No answer, like that fella said. He must be running on nothing but memories now…" He reattached the microphone, and before Reynolds could put out a hand, had lifted the anti-R cover and stepped off on the ground.
"Sanders-get back in here!" Reynolds yelled.
"Never mind, son. I've got to get in close. Contact induction." He started toward the giant machine. Frantically, Reynolds started the car, slammed it into gear, pulled forward.
"Better stay back." Sanders' voice came from his field radio. "This close, that screening won't do you much good."
"Get in the car!" Reynolds roared. "That's hard radiation!"
"Sure; feels funny, like a sunburn, about an hour after you come in from the beach and start to think maybe you got a little too much." He laughed. "But I'll get to him…"
Reynolds braked to a stop, watched the shrunken figure in the baggy uniform as it slogged forward, leaning as against a sleet storm.
12
"I'm up beside him." Sanders' voice came through faintly on the field radio. "I'm going to try to swing up on his side. Don't feel like trying to chase him any farther."
Through the glasses, Reynolds watched the small figure, dwarfed by the immense bulk of the fighting machine, as he tried, stumbled, tried again, swung up on the flange running across the rear quarter inside the churning bogie wheel.
"He's up," he reported. "Damned wonder the track didn't get him…"
Clinging to the side of the machine, Sanders lay for a moment, bent forward across the flange. Then he pulled himself up, wormed his way forward to the base of the rear quarter turret, wedged himself against it. He unslung the communicator, removed a small black unit, clipped it to the armor; it clung, held by a magnet. He brought the microphone up to his face.
In the comm shack, Mayfield leaned toward the screen, his eyes squinted in tension. Across the field, Reynolds held the glasses fixed on the man lying across the flank of the Bolo. They waited…
13
The walls are before me, and I ready myself for a final effort, but suddenly I am aware of trickle currents flowing over my outer surface. Is this some new trick of the Enemy? I tune to the wave energies, trace the source. They originate at a point in contact with my aft port armor. I sense modulation, match receptivity to a computed pattern. And I hear a voice:
"Unit LNE, break it off, Lenny. We're pulling back now, boy. This is Command to LNE; pull back to ten miles. If you read me, Lenny, swing to port and halt."
I am not fooled by the deception. The order appears correct, but the voice is not that of my Commander. Briefly I regret that I cannot spare energy to direct a neutralizing power flow at the device the Enemy has attached to me. I continue my charge.
"Unit LNE! Listen to me, boy; maybe you don't recognize my voice, but it's me. You see, boy-some time has passed. I've gotten old. My voice has changed some, maybe. But it's me! Make a port turn, Lenny. Make it now!"
I am tempted to respond to the trick, for something in the false command seems to awaken secondary circuits which I sense have been long stilled. But I must not be swayed by the cleverness of the Enemy. My sensing circuitry has faded further as my energy cells drain; but I know where the Enemy lies. I move forward, but I am filled with agony, and only the memory of my comrades drives me on.
"Lenny, answer me. Transmit on the old private band-the one we agreed on. Nobody but me knows it, remember?"
Thus the Enemy seeks to beguile me into diverting precious power. But I will not listen.
"Lenny-not much time left. Another minute and you'll be into the walls. People are going to die. Got to stop you, Lenny. Hot here. My God, I'm hot. Not breathing too well, now. I can feel it; cutting through me like knives. You took a load of Enemy power, Lenny; and now I'm getting my share. Answer me, Lenny. Over to you…"
It will require only a tiny allocation of power to activate a communication circuit. I realize that it is only an Enemy trick, but I compute that by pretending to be deceived, I may achieve some trivial advantage. I adjust circuitry accordingly and transmit:
"Unit LNE to Command. Contact with Enemy defensive line imminent. Request supporting fire!"