LITMIR.BIZ

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have been worthless against that,” he said. “We assumed they’d make their strike from a standard in-line formation. This scheme of hitting all our settlements simultaneously, in a random order from all points—we’d have been helpless.”

      “It’s perfect for this defensive plan,” Bo Bergman said. “Assuming this antiac trick works.”

      “It works,” Retief said. “I hope you’ve got plenty of heavy power lead available.”

      “We export copper,” Tove said.

      “We’ll assign about two hundred vessels to each settlement. Linked up, they should throw up quite a field.”

      “It ought to be effective up to about fifteen miles, I’d estimate,” Tove said. “If it works as it’s supposed to.”

      A red light flashed on the communications panel. Tove went to it, flipped a key.

      “Tower, Tove here,” he said.

      “I’ve got a ship on the scope, Tove,” a voice said. “There’s nothing scheduled. ACI 228 by-passed at 1600….”

      “Just one?”

      “A lone ship, coming in on a bearing of 291/456/653. On manual, I’d say.”

      “How does this track key in with the idea of ACI 228 making a manual correction for a missed automatic approach?” Retief asked.

      Tove talked to the tower, got a reply.

      “That’s it,” he said.

      “How long before he touches down?”

      Tove glanced at a lighted chart. “Perhaps eight minutes.”

      “Any guns here?”

      Tove shook his head.

      “If that’s old 228, she ain’t got but the one 50mm rifle,” Chip said. “She cain’t figure on jumpin’ the whole planet.”

      “Hard to say what she figures on,” Retief said. “Mr. Tony will be in a mood for drastic measures.”

      “I wonder what kind o’ deal the skunks got with the Sweaties,” Chip said. “Prob’ly he gits to scavenge, after the Sweaties kill off the Jorgensens.”

      “He’s upset about our leaving him without saying good-bye, Chip,” Retief said. “And you left the door hanging open, too.”

      Chip cackled. “Old Mr. Tony don’t look so good to the Sweaties now, hey, Mister?”

      Retief turned to Bo Bergman.

      “Chip’s right,” he said. “A Soetti died on the ship, and a tourist got through the cordon. Tony’s out to redeem himself.”

      “He’s on final now,” the tower operator said. “Still no contact.”

      “We’ll know soon enough what he has in mind,” Tove said.

      “Let’s take a look.”

      Outside, the four men watched the point of fire grow, evolve into a ship ponderously settling to rest. The drive faded and cut; silence fell.

      * * * *

      Inside the Briefing Room, the speaker called out. Bo Bergman went inside, talked to the tower, motioned to the others.

      “—over to you,” the speaker was saying. There was a crackling moment of silence; then another voice.

      “—illegal entry. Send the two of them out. I’ll see to it they’re dealt with.”

      Tove flipped a key. “Switch me direct to the ship,” he said.

      “Right.”

      “You on ACI 228,” Tove said. “Who are you?”

      “What’s that to you?”

      “You weren’t cleared to berth here. Do you have an emergency aboard?”

      “Never mind that, you,” the speaker rumbled. “I tracked the bird in. I got the lifeboat on the screen now. They haven’t gone far in nine hours. Let’s have ’em.”

      “You’re wasting your time,” Tove said.

      There was a momentary silence.

      “You think so, hah?” the speaker blared. “I’ll put it to you straight. I see two guys on their way out in one minute, or I open up.”

      “He’s bluffin’,” Chip said. “The popgun won’t bear on us.”

      “Take a look out the window,” Retief said.

      In the white glare of the moonlight, a loading cover swung open at the stern of the ship, dropped down and formed a sloping ramp. A squat and massive shape appeared in the opening, trundled down onto the snow-swept tarmac.

      Chip whistled. “I told you the Captain was slippery,” he muttered. “Where the devil’d he git that at?”

      “What is it?” Tove asked.

      “A tank,” Retief said. “A museum piece, by the look of it.”

      “I’ll say,” Chip said. “That’s a Bolo Resartus, Model M. Built mebbe two hunderd years ago in Concordiat times. Packs a wallop, too, I’ll tell ye.”

      The tank wheeled, brought a gun muzzle to bear in the base of the tower.

      “Send ’em out,” the speaker growled. “Or I blast ’em out.”

      “One round in here, and I’ve had a wasted trip,” Retief said. “I’d better go out.”

      “Wait a minute, Mister,” Chip said. “I got the glimmerin’s of a idear.”

      “I’ll stall them,” Tove said. He keyed the mike.

      “ACI 228, what’s your authority for this demand?”

      “I know that machine,” Chip said. “My hobby, old-time fightin’ machines. Built a model of a Resartus once, inch to the foot. A beauty. Now, lessee….”

      VII

      The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief’s face.

      “Keep your hands in your pockets, Chip,” he said. “Numb hands won’t hack the program.”

      “Yeah.” Chip looked across at the tank. “Useta think that was a perty thing, that Resartus,” he said. “Looks mean, now.”

      “You’re getting the target’s-eye view,” Retief said. “Sorry you had to get mixed up in this, Old Timer.”

      “Mixed myself in. Durn good thing, too.” Chip sighed. “I like these folks,” he said. “Them boys didn’t like lettin’ us come out here, but I’ll give ’em credit. They seen it had to be this way, and they didn’t set to moanin’ about it.”

      “They’re tough people, Chip.”

      “Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain’t it, Mister? Few minutes ago we was eatin’ high on the hog. Now we’re right close to bein’ dead men.”

      “They want us alive, Chip.”

      “It’ll be a hairy deal, Mister,” Chip said. “But t’hell with it. If it works, it works.”

      “That’s the spirit.”

      “I hope I got them fields o’ fire right—”

      “Don’t worry. I’ll bet a barrel of beer we make it.”

      “We’ll find out in about ten seconds,” Chip said.

      As they reached the tank, the two men broke stride and jumped. Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. The chef sprang

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