"No. There were other people for awhile. They went away."
"And you've been alone since?"
"Yes."
Hendricks glanced down. The boy was strange, saying very little.
Withdrawn. But that was the way they were, the children who had
survived. Quiet. Stoic. A strange kind of fatalism gripped them.
Nothing came as a surprise. They accepted anything that came along.
There was no longer any _normal_, any natural course of things, moral
or physical, for them to expect. Custom, habit, all the determining
forces of learning were gone; only brute experience remained.
"Am I walking too fast?" Hendricks said.
"No."
"How did you happen to see me?"
"I was waiting."
"Waiting?" Hendricks was puzzled. "What were you waiting for?"
"To catch things."
"What kind of things?"
"Things to eat."
"Oh." Hendricks set his lips grimly. A thirteen year old boy, living
on rats and gophers and half-rotten canned food. Down in a hole under
the ruins of a town. With radiation pools and claws, and Russian
dive-mines up above, coasting around in the sky.
"Where are we going?" David asked.
"To the Russian lines."
"Russian?"
"The enemy. The people who started the war. They dropped the first
radiation bombs. They began all this."
The boy nodded. His face showed no expression.
"I'm an American," Hendricks said.
There was no comment. On they went, the two of them, Hendricks walking
a little ahead, David trailing behind him, hugging his dirty teddy
bear against his chest.
* * * * *
About four in the afternoon they stopped to eat. Hendricks built a
fire in a hollow between some slabs of concrete. He cleared the weeds
away and heaped up bits of wood. The Russians' lines were not very far
ahead. Around him was what had once been a long valley, acres of fruit
trees and grapes. Nothing remained now but a few bleak stumps and the
mountains that stretched across the horizon at the far end. And the
clouds of rolling ash that blew and drifted with the wind, settling
over the weeds and remains of buildings, walls here and there, once in
awhile what had been a road.
Hendricks made coffee and heated up some boiled mutton and bread.
"Here." He handed bread and mutton to David. David squatted by the
edge of the fire, his knees knobby and white. He examined the food and
then passed it back, shaking his head.
"No."
"No? Don't you want any?"
"No."
Hendricks shrugged. Maybe the boy was a mutant, used to special food.
It didn't matter. When he was hungry he would find something to eat.
The boy was strange. But there were many strange changes coming over
the world. Life was not the same, anymore. It would never be the same
again. The human race was going to have to realize that.
"Suit yourself," Hendricks said. He ate the bread and mutton by
himself, washing it down with coffee. He ate slowly, finding the food
hard to digest. When he was done he got to his feet and stamped the
fire out.
David rose slowly, watching him with his young-old eyes.
"We're going," Hendricks said.
"All right."
Hendricks walked along, his gun in his arms. They were close; he was
tense, ready for anything. The Russians should be expecting a runner,
an answer to their own runner, but they were tricky. There was always
the possibility of a slipup. He scanned the landscape around him.
Nothing but slag and ash, a few hills, charred trees. Concrete walls.
But someplace ahead was the first bunker of the Russian lines, the
forward command. Underground, buried deep, with only a periscope
showing, a few gun muzzles. Maybe an antenna.
"Will we be there soon?" David asked.
"Yes. Getting tired?"
"No."
"Why, then?"
David did not answer. He plodded carefully along behind, picking his
way over the ash. His legs and shoes were gray with dust. His pinched
face was streaked, lines of gray ash in riverlets down the pale white
of his skin. There was no color to his face. Typical of the new
children, growing up in cellars and sewers and underground shelters.
* * * * *
Hendricks slowed down. He lifted his fieldglasses and studied the
ground ahead of him. Were they there, someplace, waiting for him?
Watching him, the way his men had watched the Russian runner? A chill
went up his back. Maybe they were getting their guns ready, preparing
to fire, the way his men had prepared, made ready to kill.
Hendricks stopped, wiping perspiration from his face. "Damn." It made
him uneasy. But he should be expected. The situation was different.
He strode over the ash, holding his gun tightly with both hands.
Behind him came David. Hendricks peered around, tight-lipped. Any
second it might happen. A burst of white light, a blast, carefully
aimed from inside a deep concrete bunker.
He raised his arm and waved it around in a circle.
Nothing moved. To the right a long ridge ran, topped with dead tree
trunks. A few wild vines had grown up around the trees, remains of
arbors. And the eternal dark weeds. Hendricks studied the ridge. Was
anything up there? Perfect place for a lookout. He approached the
ridge warily, David coming silently behind. If it were his command
he'd have a sentry up there, watching for troops trying to infiltrate
into the command area. Of course, if it were his command there would
be the claws around the area for full protection.
He stopped, feet apart, hands on his hips.
"Are we there?" David said.
"Almost."
"Why have we stopped?"
"I don't want to take any chances." Hendricks advanced slowly. Now the
ridge lay directly beside him, along his right. Overlooking him. His
uneasy feeling increased. If an Ivan were up there he wouldn't have a
chance. He waved his arm again. They should be expecting someone in
the UN uniform, in response to the note capsule. Unless the whole
thing was a trap.
"Keep up with me." He turned toward David. "Don't drop behind."
"With you?"
"Up beside me! We're close. We can't take any chances. Come on."
"I'll be all right." David remained behind him, in the rear, a few
paces away, still clutching his teddy bear.
"Have it your way." Hendricks raised his glasses again, suddenly
tense. For a moment--had something moved? He scanned the ridge
carefully. Everything was silent. Dead. No life up there, only tree
trunks and ash. Maybe a few rats. The big black rats that had survived
the claws. Mutants--built their own shelters out of saliva and ash.
Some kind of plaster. Adaptation. He started forward again.
* * * * *
A tall figure came out on the ridge above him, cloak flapping.
Gray-green. A Russian. Behind him a second soldier appeared, another
Russian. Both lifted their guns, aiming.
Hendricks froze. He opened his mouth. The soldiers were kneeling,
sighting down the side of the slope. A third figure had joined them on
the ridge top, a smaller figure in gray-green. A woman. She stood
behind the other two.
Hendricks found his voice. "Stop!" He waved up at them frantically.
"I'm--"
The two Russians fired. Behind Hendricks there was a faint _pop_.
Waves of heat lapped against him, throwing him to the ground. Ash tore
at his face, grinding into his eyes and nose. Choking, he pulled
himself to his knees. It was all a trap. He was finished. He had come
to be killed, like a steer. The soldiers and the woman were coming
down the side of the ridge toward him, sliding down through the soft
ash. Hendricks was numb. His head throbbed. Awkwardly, he got his
rifle up and took aim. It weighed a thousand tons; he could hardly
hold it. His nose and cheeks stung. The air was full of the blast
smell, a bitter acrid stench.
"Don't fire," the first Russian said, in heavily accented English.
The three of them came up to him, surrounding him. "Put down your
rifle, Yank," the other said.
Hendricks was dazed. Everything had happened so fast. He had been
caught. And they had blasted the boy. He turned his head. David was
gone. What remained of him was strewn across the ground.
The three Russians studied him curiously. Hendricks sat, wiping blood
from his nose, picking out bits of ash. He shook his head, trying to
clear it. "Why did you do it?" he murmured thickly. "The boy."
"Why?" One of the soldiers helped him roughly to his feet. He turned
Hendricks around. "Look."
Hendricks closed his eyes.
"Look!" The two Russians pulled him forward. "See. Hurry up. There
isn't much time to spare, Yank!"
Hendricks looked. And gasped.
"See now? Now do you understand?"
* * * * *
From the remains of David a metal wheel rolled. Relays, glinting
metal. Parts, wiring. One of the Russians kicked at the heap of
remains. Parts popped out, rolling away, wheels and springs and rods.
A plastic section fell in, half charred. Hendricks bent shakily down.
The front of the head had come off. He could make out the intricate
brain, wires and relays, tiny tubes and switches, thousands of minute
studs--
"A robot," the soldier holding his arm said. "We watched it tagging
you."
"Tagging me?"
"That's their way. They tag along with you. Into the bunker. That's
how they get in."