He looked at his watch, and stood for a moment, pumping the stale air
and tobacco-smoke of the telecast station out of his lungs, as the
light airjeep let down into the street. Oh-one-fifteen--two hours and
a half since the mutiny at the native-troops barracks had broken out.
The Company reservation was still ablaze with lights, and over the
roof of the hospital and dispensary and test-lab he could see the
glare of the burning barracks. There was more fire-glare to the south,
in the direction of the mine-equipment park and the mine-labor camp,
and from that direction the bulk of the firing was to be heard.
The driver, a young lieutenant who seemed to be of predominantly
Malayan and Polynesian blood, slid back the duraglass canopy for him
to climb in, then snapped it into place when he had strapped himself
into his seat.
"Can you handle the armament, sir?" he asked.
Von Schlichten nodded approvingly. Not a very flattering question, but
the boy was right to make sure, before they started out.
"I've done it, once or twice," he understated. "Let's go; I want a
look at what's going on down at the equipment-park and the labor-camp,
first."
They lifted up, the driver turning the nose of the airjeep in the
direction of the flames and explosions and magnesium-lights to the
south and tapping his booster-button gently. The vehicle shot forward
and came floating in over the scene of the fighting. The situation-map
at the improvised headquarters had shown a mixture of pink and white
pills in the mine-equipment park; something was going to have to be
done about the lag in correcting it, for the area was entirely in the
hands of loyal Company troops, and the mob of laborers and mutinous
soldiers had been pushed back into the temporary camp where the
workers had been gathered to await transportation to the Arctic. As he
feared, the rioting workers, many of whom were trained to handle
contragravity equipment, had managed to lift up a number of
dump-trucks and powershovels and bulldozers, intending to use them as
improvised airtanks, but Jarman's combat-cars had gotten on the job
promptly and all of these had been shot down and were lying in
wreckage, mostly among the rows of parked mining-equipment.
From the labor-camp, a surprising volume of fire was being directed
against the attack which had already started from the retaken
equipment-park. This was just another evidence of the failure of
Intelligence and the Constabulary--and consequently of himself--to
anticipate the brewing storm. There was, of course, practically no
chance of keeping Ullerans from having native weapons, swords, knives,
even bows and air-rifles, and a certain number of Volund-made
trade-quality automatic pistols could be expected, but most of the
fire was coming from military rifles, and now and then he could see
the furnace-like backflash of a recoilless rifle or a bazooka, or the
steady flicker of a machine-gun. Even if a few of these weapons had
been brought from the barracks by retreating Tenth Infantry or Fifth
Cavalry mutineers, there were still too many.
Hovering above the fighting, aloof from it, he saw six long
troop-carriers land and disgorge Kragan Rifles who had been released
by the liquidation of resistance at the native-troops barracks. A
little later, two airtanks floated in, and then two more, going off
contragravity and lumbering on treads to fire their 90-mm rifles. At
the same time, combat-cars swooped in, banging away with their lighter
auto-cannon and launching rockets. The titanium prefab-huts, set up to
house the laborers and intended to be taken north with them for their
stay on the polar desert, were simply wiped away. Among the wreckage,
resistance was being blown out like the lights of a candelabrum. Push
the white pills out, girls, he thought. Don't push them anywhere; put
them back in the bottle. This year, there wouldn't be any mining done
at the North Pole; next year, the stockholders'll be bitching about
their dividend-checks. And a lot of new machine operators are going to
have to be trained for next year's mining. If there is any mining,
next year.
He took up the hand-phone and called HQ.
"Von Schlichten, what's the wavelength of the officer in command at
the equipment-park?"
A voice at the telecast station furnished it; he punched it out.
"Von Schlichten, right overhead. That you, Major Falkenberg? Nice
going, major, how are your casualties?"
"Not too bad. Twenty or thirty Kragans and loyal Skilkans, and eight
Terrans killed, about as many wounded."
"Pretty good, considering what you're running into. Get many of your
Kragans mounted on those hipposaurs?"
"About a hundred, a lot of 'saurs got shot, while we were leading
them out from the stables."
"Well, I can see geeks streaming away from the labor-camp, out the
south end, going in the direction of the river. Use what cavalry you
have on them, and what contragravity you can spare. I'll drop a few
flares to show their position and direction."
Anticipating him, the driver turned the airjeep and started toward the
dry Hoork River. Von Schlichten nodded approval and told him to
release flares when over the fugitives.
"Right," Falkenberg replied. "I'll get on it at once, general."
"And start moving that mine-equipment up into the Company area. Some
of it we can put into the air; the rest we can use to build
barricades. None of it do we want the geeks getting hold of, and the
equipment-park's outside our practical perimeter. I'll send people to
help you move it."
"No need to do that, sir; I have about a hundred and fifty loyal North
Ullerans--foremen, technicians, overseers--who can handle it."
"All right. Use your own judgment. Put the stuff back of the
native-troops barracks, and between the power-plant and the Company
office-buildings, and anywhere else you can." The lieutenant nudged
him and pushed a couple of buttons on the dashboard.
"Here go the flares, now."
Immediately, a couple of airjeeps pounced in, to strafe the fleeing
enemy. Somebody must have already been issuing orders on another
wavelength; a number of Kragans, riding hipposaurs, were galloping
into the light of the flares.
"Now, let's have a look at the native barracks and the
maintenance-yards," he said. "And then, we'll make a circuit around
the Reservation, about two or three miles out. I'm not happy about
where Firkked's army is."
The driver looked at him. "I've been worrying about that, too, sir,"
he said. "I can't understand why he hasn't jumped us, already. I know
it takes time to get one of these geek armies on the road, but...."
"He's hoping our native troops and the mine laborers will be able to
wipe us out, themselves," von Schlichten said. "For the timidity and
stupidity of our enemies, Allah make us truly thankful, amen. It's
something no commander should depend on, but be glad when it happens.
If Firkked had had a couple of regiments on hand outside the
reservation to jump us as soon as the Tenth and the Zirks mutinied, he
could have swamped us in twenty minutes and we'll all have had our
throats cut by now."
There was nothing going on in the area between the native barracks and
the mountains except some sporadic firing as small patrols of Kragans
clashed with clumps of fleeing mutineers. All the barracks, even those
of the Rifles, were burning; the red-and-yellow danger-lights around
the power-plant and the water-works and the explosives magazines were
still on. Most of the floodlights were still on, and there was still
some fighting around the maintenance-yard. It looked as though the
survivors of the Tenth N.U.N.I. were in a few small pockets which were
being squeezed out.
There was nothing at all going on north of the Reservation; the
countryside, by day a checkerboard of walled fields and small
villages, was dark, except for a dim light, here and there, where the
occupants of some farmhouse had been awakened by the noise of battle.
The airjeep dropped lower, and the driver slid open the window beside
him; von Schlichten could hear the grunts and snorts and squawks of
farm-animals, similarly aroused.
Then, two miles east of the Reservation, he caught a new sound--the
flowing, riverlike, murmur of something vast on the move.
"Hear that, lieutenant?" he asked. "Head for it, at about a thousand
feet. When we're directly above it, let go some flares."
"Yes, sir." The younger man had lowered his voice to a whisper.
"That's geek, headed for the Reservation."
"Maybe Firkked's army," von Schlichten thought aloud. "Or maybe a city
mob."
"Not quite noisy enough for a mob, is it, sir?"
"A tired mob," von Schlichten told him. "They'd start out on a run,
yelling '_Znidd Suddabit_!' By the time they got across the bridges to
this side of the river, they'd be winded. They'd stop for a blow, and
then they'd settle down to steady slogging to save their wind.
Sometimes a mob like that's worse than a fresh mob. They get stubborn;
they act more deliberately."
The noises were growing clearer, louder. He picked up the phone and
punched the wavelength of the military airport.
"Von Schlichten, my compliments to Colonel Jarman. Tell him there's a
geek mob, or possibly Firkked's regulars, on the main highway from
Skilk, two miles east of the Reservation. Get some combat
contragravity over here, at once. We'll light them up for you. And
tell Colonel Jarman to start flying patrols up and down along the
Hoork River; this may not be the only gang that's coming out to see
us."
The sounds were directly below, now--the scuffing of horny-soled feet
on the dirt road, the clink and rattle of slung weapons, the clicking
and squeeking of Ulleran voices.