The hard-riding nomad cavalry bore down on the defense line. They did
not break into a circling column as before, but began forming an
advancing line. When they were 75 yards away, Sykes ordered his men to
begin firing.
The nomads were already shooting, and what their emissary had said was
true: these men were expert shots, even from horseback. Sykes heard the
bullets careening off the sloping face of the barricade. Two of his men
were down already.
He leveled his police pistol and fired steadily into the oncoming ranks.
He thought they were going to try to jump the fence this time, and he
braced for the shock. To his dismay, he now saw that a perfectly clear
space for their landing had been left between his own position and the
adjacent barricade.
Suddenly the line of attackers swerved to the left just a few feet from
the wire. The defending fire was furious, and for a moment Sykes thought
they were going to turn the line back. Then several of the nomads raised
their arms and hurled dark, small objects toward the barrier. Sykes
recognized them even while they were in the air. Grenades.
He shouted to his men and they flattened behind the barricade. Six
explosions thundered almost simultaneously. Mud and rocks sprayed into
the air and fell back in a furious rain upon the defenders.
Cautiously, Sykes lifted himself from the ground and got a glimpse of
the scene once more. A hundred feet of barbed-wire fence had disappeared
in a tangle of shattered posts and hanging coils. Through the opening,
the nomads poured over the barricades in the midst of Sykes' men.
Smashing hoofs landed almost upon him but for his frantic rolling and
twisting out of their path. Gunfire was a continuous blasting wave.
Sykes thought he heard above it the sound of Johnson's voice roaring
commands to the retreating men.
It sounded like he was saying, "Close up! Close up!" but Sykes never
knew for sure. An enormous explosion seemed to come from nowhere and
thunder directly in front of him. The day darkened suddenly and he felt
himself losing all control of his own being. He wondered if a cloud had
crossed the sun, but almost at the same time he ceased to be concerned
about the question at all.
* * * * *
The first of the wounded came in slowly, borne by stretcher bearers on
foot who had literally dragged their charges through the lines of
invading horsemen. Ken directed their assignment to the hospital-houses.
He had always believed he could take a scene like this in his stride,
but now he felt he must keep moving constantly to keep from becoming
violently sick.
Overhead, a pall of smoke surged again, blotting out, partly, the
comet's light. More houses had been fired by the invaders. The sound of
crackling flames mingled with the thunder of hoofs and the roll of rifle
fire.
Surely it wouldn't be possible, Ken thought, for such a charge to
succeed unless it were backed by strong infantry. He moved into one of
the houses and directed the placement of the severely wounded man
brought up now by the bearers. As they left, he looked down at the
stained and bloody face. A nurse was already at work cutting away the
matted clothing from the wound.
Ken exclaimed loudly before he realized what he was saying. "Mr. Harris!
Mr. Harris--you shouldn't have been out there!"
The man opened his eyes slowly against the terrible pain. He smiled in
recognition. It was Mr. Harris, the principal of Mayfield High School;
the one Ken had attended. He was an old man--at least fifty--much too
old to have been at the barricade with a rifle.
"You shouldn't have been out there," Ken repeated. Mr. Harris seemed to
have difficulty in seeing him.
"Ken," he said slowly. "It's Ken Maddox, isn't it? Everybody has to do
something. It seemed like this was the best thing I could do. No school
to teach. No school for a long time."
His voice wavered as he began to ramble. "I guess that makes all the
students happy. No school all winter long. I always dreamed of Mayfield
being a school where they would be glad to come, whose opening in the
fall would be welcomed and closing in the spring would be regretted. I
never got that far, I guess.
"I didn't do a really bad job, did I, Ken? Mayfield is a pretty good
school, isn't it?"
"Mayfield is a swell school, Mr. Harris," said Ken. "It'll be the best
day ever when Mayfield opens up again."
"Yes ... when school opens again," Mr. Harris said, and then he was
still.
The nurse felt his pulse and regretfully drew the sheet up to cover his
face. "I'm sorry," she said to Ken.
Blindly, he turned and went out to the porch. Mr. Harris, he thought,
the little bald-headed man they'd laughed at so often with schoolboy
cruelty. He had wanted to make Mayfield a good school, so students would
be glad to attend.
He'd done that--almost. Mayfield _was_ a good school.
Ken looked at the rolling clouds of black smoke in the sky. The gunfire
seemed less steady now. Suddenly he was running furiously and with all
his strength. He turned down Main Street and headed south. He ran until
he caught sight of the first nomad he had seen since the events in the
Mayor's Council chamber.
The enemy had stopped his horse, rearing high, while he hurled some kind
of incendiary through the window of a house. It exploded inside and
billows of flame and smoke poured out. A heart-tight pain gripped Ken.
He looked wildly about and saw a fragment of brick lying beside a
demolished house nearby.
He snatched up the missile and wound up as if pitching one straight over
the corner of the plate. The horseman saw the motion of his arm and
tried to whirl, but he was too late. The brickbat caught him at the side
of the head and he dropped to the snow without a sound. Ken ran forward
and caught up the nomad's rifle and ammunition belt. The horse had fled
in panic.
Without a backward glance Ken raced on down the street toward the
dwindling sound of battle. The invaders were retreating, streaming from
all directions toward the break in the barrier, firing steadily as they
came. The defenders were trying to block the escape.
Ken dropped behind a barricade next to an older man he didn't know. He
searched for an opening and waited for a rider to cross his sights; then
he squeezed the trigger and the man fell. When he looked up again the
last of the invaders were gone. Only half of those who had come up to
the attack were leaving it.
The men around Ken slowly relaxed their terrible tension. From some
lying prone there were cries of pain. Those who could stand did so and
revealed their drawn faces to one another.
Teams of the medical group began moving again. A horse-drawn wagon was
brought up that had been fitted with boards across the sides so that two
layers of wounded men could be carried at once.
Ken heard sudden hoofbeats behind and turned. Sheriff Johnson rode up
and surveyed the scene. His eye caught Ken's figure standing in the
midst of it, rifle in hand, the captured ammunition belt draped over his
shoulder.
"You!" White anger was on Johnson's face. "You were ordered to stay out
of the frontline!" he thundered. "Any other man would be court-martialed
for such disobedience. Get back where you belong and don't show your
face in this area again. I'll jail you for the rest of the fighting if
you disobey again!"
Half-ashamed, but half only, for his impulsive action, Ken turned and
moved down the street.
"Leave that gun here!" the Sheriff commanded harshly.
Ken gave it to the nearest soldier. He took off the ammunition belt and
handed it over too, then resumed his course. He should not have done it,
he told himself, but he felt better for it. He felt he had paid a little
of his debt to Mr. Harris.
When he reached the hospital center he told his father.
"It wasn't a good thing," said Professor Maddox gently, "but maybe it
was something that had to be done."
Throughout the day they continued to bring in the wounded and the dead.
There seemed to be an incredible number, but the invaders had suffered
heavily, too. Half their force had been lost. A dozen fine horses had
been captured, which were a considerable prize.
There was speculation as to why the nomads chose to attack in this
manner. They had done great damage, it was true, yet the attack had not
had a chance of being decisive in spite of their insane persistence.
Hilliard and Johnson held a staff meeting that afternoon while a sharp
watch was kept for further attack. They considered that they had done
very well so far. The chief worries were the grenades and incendiaries,
which the nomads seemed to have in large quantity.
Toward evening, Johnson asked for two volunteers to go out as scouts to
try to reach the top of Lincoln's Peak, west of town, to spot the camp
of the nomads and scout their activities. A pair of volunteers was
chosen from the many who offered. On two of the best of the nomads'
horses, they made their way across the frozen plain and up the small
ravine leading to the ridge. Observers watched until they were out of
sight in the ravine.
It was agreed the two would return by 6 o'clock. At 5 there was the
faint sound of gunfire from somewhere in the hills. The scouts did not
return at the appointed time. They did not return at all.
Night came, and word spread among the townspeople of the disappearance
of the two scouts. Anxiety increased as it became apparent they were
under close surveillance by the enemy. Perhaps it was the intention of
the nomads to wear them down with a winter-long siege of attack after
attack, until they no longer had the ability or strength to fight.
Hilliard and Johnson doubted this. The nomads were far less equipped for
such a siege than Mayfield was.
Maria continued to return to the radio shack in the evening to maintain
the schedule with the network. She reported the plight of Mayfield to
the other stations. From across the country came the fervent best wishes
of those who heard her. Wishes were all they could offer.
The scientists were particularly anguished because they considered the
Maddox-Larsen group among the most likely to crack the barrier that kept
them from conquest of the comet dust. "Our prayers are with you," the
Pasadena group said.
They sent a new report and Maria typed it and showed it to Professor
Maddox that evening. He scanned it and put the pages in his coat pocket
as he glanced out the window toward College Hill.
"It seems like ages," he said. "I wonder if we'll ever get back up
there."
The next attack came well before dawn. Sheriff Johnson was among the
first to be aware of it. The thunder of seemingly countless horses'
hoofs was heard faintly out of the south and he put his glasses to his
eyes. The nomads were a black patch against the snow.
"How many horses have they got?" he exclaimed to the patrolman beside
him. This was Ernest Parkin, one of his best officers.
"I'd say there must be at least a hundred of them," said Parkin in awe.
"They must have been gathering horses for weeks."
"Feed," said Johnson, "for themselves and the animals--they may be
rabble and savages, but they've had genius of leadership."
Behind shelter, they waited for the blow. All orders had already been
given. Only the general alarm was sounded now. It had been expected that
the previous pattern of attack would be repeated. The defenders had been
moved back from the barbed wire. They fired slowly and methodically with
a splendidly efficient barrage as the nomads swung out of the night to
blast with their grenades at the reconstructed fence.
The way opened and they plunged in, the defenders closing behind and
retreating to the other side of their barricades.
Ken paced restlessly as he heard the shooting. "I'm going up on the
roof," he told his father. "There can't be any objection to that."
"I guess not. I'll call you when we need you."
Ken climbed the stairs of the 6-story building, which was the highest in
Mayfield. He came out on the frozen surface of the roof and looked into
the distance. The mounted invaders were circling like Indians about
several blocks of houses, firing steadily at the defenders and hurling
incendiaries at the houses.
Then, as Ken turned his eyes to the northern end of the valley, he felt
as if the whole world had suddenly fallen to pieces in the dim, morning
light.
On foot, a vast host of the invaders moved toward the northern defenses
of the town. Instantly, he understood their strategy. While their small
parties of mounted attackers had pressed the southern defenses, giving
the impression they intended to make their major approach there, the
bulk of their forces had marched entirely around Lincoln's Peak and come
upon the northern boundary at night. That was why the peak had been so
heavily guarded against the scouts.
It had been a march of over 40 miles to by-pass the valley. Now,
however, the nomads were in a position to achieve their goal. The bulk
of the town's defense was concentrated in the south. Little stood in the
way of the horde advancing from the north.
His heart sickened as he saw them rip through the barbed-wire enclosure.
The poorly manned defense posts seemed almost non-existent. Only a
scattering of shots was thrown at the invaders.
From somewhere, a warning siren sounded, the agreed-upon signal to
indicate invasion in that sector. It was far too late for that, Ken
thought. The horde was already in the streets, fanning out, dispersing
in the deserted streets.
Ken started for the doorway leading from the roof. His responsibility to
College Hill was gone now. Every man in the valley was fighting for his
own life. If that battle were lost, College Hill would be only an empty
symbol, where ghosts were housed, as in Berkeley, as in Chicago, as in
a thousand centers of learning the world around.
With his hand on the latch of the door he paused at a new sound that
broke upon the air. An incredible barrage of firing was occurring along
northern Main Street near 12th Avenue. He put the fieldglasses to his
eyes again and watched the scattering nomads seeking cover. Dozens of
them lay where they fell headlong in the streets.
Ken strained his eyes to see where the defense had come from. It was
centered in the houses and buildings that lined the streets, and on
their rooftops. He could see the ant-sized outlines of figures on those
roofs. For a moment he failed to understand. Then he felt a choking
sensation in his throat.
In a desperate gamble, Johnson and Hilliard had anticipated this move
and prepared for it as best they could. They had allowed the main body
of the attackers to enter the town itself and had deployed the majority
of their guns to ring them about, while offering only token defense on
the south.
This was it. The battle would be fought here and now, in the streets of
Mayfield, and before the day was over it would be known whether the city
would continue its struggle to live or whether it would become another
Berkeley.