tank,” Retief said. “A museum piece, by the look of it.”
“I’ll say,” Chip said. “That’s a Bolo Resartus, Model M. Built mebbe two hunderd years ago in Concordiat times. Packs a wallop, too, I’ll tell ye.”
The tank wheeled, brought a gun muzzle to bear in the base of the tower.
“Send ’em out,” the speaker growled. “Or I blast ’em out.”
“One round in here, and I’ve had a wasted trip,” Retief said. “I’d better go out.”
“Wait a minute, Mister,” Chip said. “I got the glimmerin’s of a idear.”
“I’ll stall them,” Tove said. He keyed the mike.
“ACI 228, what’s your authority for this demand?”
“I know that machine,” Chip said. “My hobby, old-time fightin’ machines. Built a model of a Resartus once, inch to the foot. A beauty. Now, lessee….”
VII
The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief’s face.
“Keep your hands in your pockets, Chip,” he said. “Numb hands won’t hack the program.”
“Yeah.” Chip looked across at the tank. “Useta think that was a perty thing, that Resartus,” he said. “Looks mean, now.”
“You’re getting the target’s-eye view,” Retief said. “Sorry you had to get mixed up in this, Old Timer.”
“Mixed myself in. Durn good thing, too.” Chip sighed. “I like these folks,” he said. “Them boys didn’t like lettin’ us come out here, but I’ll give ’em credit. They seen it had to be this way, and they didn’t set to moanin’ about it.”
“They’re tough people, Chip.”
“Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain’t it, Mister? Few minutes ago we was eatin’ high on the hog. Now we’re right close to bein’ dead men.”
“They want us alive, Chip.”
“It’ll be a hairy deal, Mister,” Chip said. “But t’hell with it. If it works, it works.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“I hope I got them fields o’ fire right—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll bet a barrel of beer we make it.”
“We’ll find out in about ten seconds,” Chip said.
As they reached the tank, the two men broke stride and jumped. Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. The chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an angry whuff! anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull.
“Okay, Mister,” Chip called. “I’m going under.” He slipped down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar eyes searching for its tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed, stopped, moved forward, pivoted.
Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.
“It’s stuck,” he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.
“Take over here,” Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitched himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds, probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.
The tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a dizzying sine curve. Retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads.
The machine ground to a halt. Retief found the lever, braced his back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both feet against the frozen bar and heaved.
With a dry rasp, it slid back. Immediately two heavy rods extended themselves, moved down to touch the pavement, grated. The left track creaked as the weight went off it. Suddenly the tank’s drive raced, and Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaved the fifty-ton machine forward. The jacks screeched as they scored the tarmac, then bit in. The tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. The jacks extended, lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface as the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.
The tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as another charge rocked the tank. He clambered to the turret, crouched beside Chip. They waited, watching the entry hatch.
Five minutes passed.
“I’ll bet Old Tony’s givin’ the chauffeur hell,” Chip said.
The hatch cycled open. A head came cautiously into view in time to see the needler in Retief’s hand.
“Come on out,” Retief said.
The head dropped. Chip snaked forward to ram a short section of steel rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned, stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch popped open.
Retief half rose, aimed the needler. The walls of the tank rang as the metal splinters ricocheted inside.
“That’s one keg o’ beer I owe you, Mister,” Chip said. “Now let’s git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us.”
* * * *
“The biggest problem the Jorgensen’s people will have is decontaminating the wreckage,” Retief said.
Magnan leaned forward. “Amazing,” he said. “They just keep coming, did they? Had they no inter-ship communication?”
“They had their orders,” Retief said. “And their attack plan. They followed it.”
“What a spectacle,” Magnan said. “Over a thousand ships, plunging out of control one by one as they entered the stress-field.”
“Not much of a spectacle,” Retief said. “You couldn’t see them. Too far away. They all crashed back in the mountains.”
“Oh.” Magnan’s face fell. “But it’s as well they did. The bacterial bombs—”
“Too cold for bacteria. They won’t spread.”
“Nor will the Soetti,” Magnan said smugly, “thanks to the promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data.” He looked narrowly at Retief. “By the way, you’re sure no…ah…message reached you after your arrival?”
“I got something,” Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye. “It must have been a garbled transmission.
