[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The general was bucking for his
other star--and this miserable
contraption bucked right back!
Steadying his elbow on the kitchen table serving as desk, Brigadier
General Straut leveled his binoculars and stared out through the
second-floor window of the farmhouse at the bulky object lying canted
at the edge of the wood lot. He watched the figures moving over and
around the gray mass, then flipped the lever on the field telephone at
his elbow.
"How are your boys doing, Major?"
"General, since that box this morning--"
"I know all about the box, Bill. So does Washington by now. What have
you got that's new?"
"Sir, I haven't got anything to report yet. I have four crews on it,
and she still looks impervious as hell."
"Still getting the sounds from inside?"
"Intermittently, General."
"I'm giving you one more hour, Major. I want that thing cracked."
The general dropped the phone back on its cradle and peeled the
cellophane from a cigar absently. He had moved fast, he reflected,
after the State Police notified him at nine forty-one last night.
He had his men on the spot, the area evacuated of civilians, and
a preliminary report on its way to Washington by midnight. At two
thirty-six, they had discovered the four-inch cube lying on the ground
fifteen feet from the huge object--missile, capsule, bomb--whatever it
was. But now--several hours later--nothing new.
The field phone jangled. Straut grabbed it up.
"General, we've discovered a thin spot up on the top side. All we can
tell so far is that the wall thickness falls off there...."
"All right. Keep after it, Bill."
This was more like it. If Brigadier General Straut could have this
thing wrapped up by the time Washington awoke to the fact that it was
something big--well, he'd been waiting a long time for that second
star. This was his chance, and he would damn well make the most of it.
* * * * *
He looked across the field at the thing. It was half in and half out
of the woods, flat-sided, round-ended, featureless. Maybe he should go
over and give it a closer look personally. He might spot something the
others were missing. It might blow them all to kingdom come any second;
but what the hell, he had earned his star on sheer guts in Normandy. He
still had 'em.
He keyed the phone. "I'm coming down, Bill," he told the Major.
On impulse, he strapped a pistol belt on. Not much use against a
house-sized bomb, but the heft of it felt good.
The thing looked bigger than ever as the jeep approached it, bumping
across the muck of the freshly plowed field. From here he could see a
faint line running around, just below the juncture of side and top.
Major Greer hadn't mentioned that. The line was quite obvious; in
fact, it was more of a crack.
With a sound like a baseball smacking the catcher's glove, the crack
opened, the upper half tilted, men sliding--then impossibly it stood
open, vibrating, like the roof of a house suddenly lifted. The driver
gunned the jeep. There were cries, and a ragged shrilling that set
Straut's teeth on edge. The men were running back now, two of them
dragging a third.
Major Greer emerged from behind the object, looked about, ran toward
General Straut shouting. "... a man dead. It snapped; we weren't
expecting it...."
Straut jumped out beside the men, who had stopped now and were looking
back. The underside of the gaping lid was an iridescent black. The
shrill noise sounded thinly across the field. Greer arrived, panting.
"What happened?" Straut snapped.
"I was ... checking over that thin spot, General. The first thing I
knew it was ... coming up under me. I fell; Tate was at the other side.
He held on and it snapped him loose, against a tree. His skull--"
"What the devil's that racket?"
"That's the sound we were getting from inside before, General. There's
something in there, alive--"
"All right, pull yourself together, Major. We're not unprepared. Bring
your half-tracks into position. The tanks will be here soon."
Straut glanced at the men standing about. He would show them what
leadership meant.
"You men keep back," he said. He puffed his cigar calmly as he walked
toward the looming object. The noise stopped suddenly; that was a
relief. There was a faint and curious odor in the air, something like
chlorine ... or seaweed ... or iodine.
There were no marks in the ground surrounding the thing. It had
apparently dropped straight in to its present position. It was heavy,
too--the soft soil was displaced in a mound a foot high all along the
side.
Behind him, Straut heard a yell. He whirled. The men were pointing;
the jeep started up, churned toward him, wheels spinning. He looked
up. Over the edge of the gray wall, six feet above his head, a great
reddish limb, like the claw of a crab, moved, groping.
Straut yanked the .45 from its holster, jacked the action and fired.
Soft matter spattered, and the claw jerked back. The screeching started
up again angrily, then was drowned in the engine roar as the jeep slid
to a stop.
Straut stooped, grabbed up a leaf to which a quivering lump adhered,
jumped into the vehicle as it leaped forward; then a shock and they
were going into a spin and....
* * * * *
"Lucky it was soft ground," somebody said. And somebody else asked,
"What about the driver?"