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. It didn't make sense."
Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. "This information you've reported," he
said hurriedly. "This rather fantastic story that the Soetti originated
in the Cloud, that they're seeking a foothold in the main Galaxy
because they've literally eaten themselves out of subsistence--how did
you get it? The one or two Soetti we attempted to question, ah...."
Magnan coughed again. "There was an accident," he finished. "We got
nothing from them."
"The Jorgensens have a rather special method of interrogating
prisoners," Retief said. "They took one from a wreck, still alive but
unconscious. They managed to get the story from him. He died of it."
"It's immaterial, actually," Magnan said. "Since the Soetti violated
their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of
fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually
occupied half a dozen additional minor bodies in the Whate system."
Retief clucked sympathetically.
"You don't know who to trust, these days," he said.
Magnan looked at him coldly.
"Spare me your sarcasm, Mr. Retief," he said. He picked up a folder
from his desk, opened it. "By the way, I have another little task for
you, Retief. We haven't had a comprehensive wild-life census report
from Brimstone lately--"
"Sorry," Retief said. "I'll be tied up. I'm taking a month off. Maybe
more."
"What's that?" Magnan's head came up. "You seem to forget--"
"I'm trying, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "Good-by now." He reached
out and flipped the key. Magnan's face faded from the screen. Retief
stood up.
"Chip," he said, "we'll crack that keg when I get back." He turned to
Anne-Marie.
"How long," he said, "do you think it will take you to teach me to ski
by moonlight?"