There was a weather suit in the last locker. I put it on, set the
temperature control, palmed the door open and stepped out into the
corridor. There were no lights, except for the dim glow of the
emergency route indicators. There was a faint, foul odor in the air.
I heard a dry scuttling, saw a flick of movement. A rat the size of
a red squirrel sat up on his haunches and looked at me as if I were
something to eat. I made a kicking motion and he ran off, but not very
far.
My heart was starting to thump a little harder now. The way it does
when you begin to realize that something's wrong--bad wrong.
* * * * *
Upstairs in the Admin Section, I called again. The echo was a little
better here. I went along the corridor strewn with papers, past the
open doors of silent rooms. In the Director's office, a blackened
wastebasket stood in the center of the rug. The air-conditioner intake
above the desk was felted over with matted dust nearly an inch thick.
There was no use shouting again.
The place was as empty as a robbed grave--except for the rats.
At the end of the corridor, the inner security door stood open. I went
through it and stumbled over something. In the faint light, it took me
a moment to realize what it was.
He had been an M. P., in steel helmet and boots. There was nothing left
but crumbled bone and a few scraps of leather and metal. A .38 revolver
lay nearby. I picked it up, checked the cylinder and tucked it in the
thigh pocket of the weather suit. For some reason, it made me feel a
little better.
I went on along B corridor and found the lift door sealed. The
emergency stairs were nearby. I went to them and started the two
hundred foot climb to the surface.
The heavy steel doors at the tunnel had been blown clear.
I stepped past the charred opening, looked out at a low gray sky
burning red in the west. Fifty yards away, the 5000-gallon water tank
lay in a tangle of rusty steel. What had it been? Sabotage, war,
revolution--an accident? And where was everybody?
I rested for a while, then went across the innocent-looking fields to
the west, dotted with the dummy buildings that were supposed to make
the site look from the air like another stretch of farm land complete
with barns, sheds and fences. Beyond the site, the town seemed intact:
there were lights twinkling here and there, a few smudges of smoke
rising.
Whatever had happened at the site, at least Ginny would be all
right--Ginny and Tim. Ginny would be worried sick, after--how long? A
month?
Maybe more. There hadn't been much left of that soldier....
* * * * *
I twisted to get a view to the south, and felt a hollow sensation in
my chest. Four silo doors stood open; the Colossus missiles had hit
back--at something. I pulled myself up a foot or two higher for a
look at the Primary Site. In the twilight, the ground rolled smooth
and unbroken across the spot where _Prometheus_ lay ready in her
underground berth. Down below, she'd be safe and sound maybe. She had
been built to stand up to the stresses of a direct extra-solar orbital
launch; with any luck, a few near-misses wouldn't have damaged her.
My arms were aching from the strain of holding on. I climbed down and
sat on the ground to get my breath, watching the cold wind worry the
dry stalks of dead brush around the fallen tank.
At home, Ginny would be alone, scared, maybe even in serious
difficulty. There was no telling how far municipal services had broken
down. But before I headed that way, I had to make a quick check on the
ship. _Prometheus_ was a dream that I--and a lot of others--had lived
with for three years. I had to be sure.
I headed toward the pillbox that housed the tunnel head on the
off-chance that the car might be there.
It was almost dark and the going was tough; the concrete slabs under
the sod were tilted and dislocated. Something had sent a ripple across
the ground like a stone tossed into a pond.
I heard a sound and stopped dead. There was a clank and rumble from
beyond the discolored walls of the blockhouse a hundred yards away.
Rusted metal howled; then something as big as a beached freighter moved
into view.
Two dull red beams glowing near the top of the high silhouette swung,
flashed crimson and held on me. A siren went off--an ear-splitting
whoop! _whoop!_ WHOOP!
It was an unmanned Bolo Mark II Combat Unit on automated sentry
duty--and its intruder-sensing circuits were tracking me.
* * * * *
The Bolo pivoted heavily; the whoop! whoop! sounded again; the robot
watchdog was bellowing the alarm.
I felt sweat pop out on my forehead. Standing up to a Mark II Bolo
without an electropass was the rough equivalent of being penned in with
an ill-tempered dinosaur. I looked toward the Primary blockhouse: too
far. The same went for the perimeter fence. My best bet was back to the
tunnel mouth. I turned to sprint for it, hooked a foot on a slab and
went down hard....
I got up, my head ringing, tasting blood in my mouth. The chipped
pavement seemed to rock under me. The Bolo was coming up fast. Running
was no good, I had to have a better idea.