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36: Treason

Treason doth never prosper: what's the reason? For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

—Sir John Harington

A light drizzling rain kept them zippered and sweating in their waterproofs. Today wasn't bad. They had huddled through days of rain-laden gales that would have blown Harry's motorcycle off the road.

The sign read BELLINGHAM CITY LIMITS. The freeway off-ramp led to what had once been a main road. Now it hardly looked used. They drove past closed service stations, closed motels, a closed Black Angus restaurant. One gas station was open, but there was a sign: NO GAS. NO SERVICES. I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M OPEN EITHER. WANT TEA?

Most of the houses were boarded up.

"Bellingham has an unfriendly look," Roger shouted in his ear. It seemed to make him happy.

Where the hell was that turnoff? The map showed the main road forked, with one fork going off west around Western Washington University and down to the harbor—there it was. Harry took the other branch. It curved east and went under the freeway, past a shopping center that didn't look completely closed. After that there were only houses.

 

The Enclave wasn't easy to find. It lay at the end of a winding road, and it didn't look much like the place that had once been described to Harry. It seemed too small, and the tennis court had become a greenhouse. There was a heavy fence, and a gate, with a big J. Arthur Rank kind of gong set up so he'd have to get off the bike and go past a concrete barrier to ring it. "They sure don't encourage casual visitors. Which figures . . ." Harry drove slowly past, unsure. There was a small woods at the end of the lane. From there they had a view of the area in front of the garage.

"John Fox! He's there!" Roger shouted.

"Fox? Oh, yeah, I remember him. Never met him," Harry said "How do you know?"

"How many pickup trucks have a California personalized license plate that reads ECOFREAK?"

"Oh. That one." Harry turned the motorcycle around. "So now what?"

"We go in. Before, I just wanted a shower. Now I know I want to meet your friends."

"Okay." Harry stopped at the gate. The gong wasn't as lot as he'd thought it would be.

Jack McCauley's round face had picked up angles and a closely clipped black beard. Men wore beards these days, all across the country. His shoulders and arms had gained muscle mass; they strained his old shirt. "I'm telling you up front, we've got no room," he said, "but drive on in. George'll be glad to see you Harry. But what in hell is a newsman doing here?"

Roger smiled lightly. "We're planning a feature lifestyle. There's a lot of interest in Colorado Springs on how the rest the country is doing."

McCauley eyed Roger closely. "Yeah. Sure. Well, come on in, but there's no story here."

The house and grounds looked like a construction site, Hart thought. They put the bike next to Fox's truck. Roger looked it and nodded in satisfaction.

They found George Tate-Evans working on the greenhouse. Harry wasn't surprised to see that George was clean-shaven. He would be. George drove in a nail, straightened, stared at Harry and whistled. "It's really Hairy Red." He smiled warmly. "Damn all, Harry, you're not as clean as you used to be, but somehow you look a lot better. How's the back?"

"Wonderful. I haven't had to see a lawyer in months. Meet Roger Brooks, with the Washington Post. We've both come out of Kansas."

"Kansas. Harry, I expect everybody would like to hear some stories about Kansas. You've come all the way from Washington?"

"Naw, from Colorado Springs," Harry said.

"Colorado Springs," George said carefully. "Yes, Harry, I guess you better come to dinner, as long as you understand the situation. There's no room here, Harry. No spare beds."

"We have tents—"

"Look around you. The only place you could put a tent would be in the driveway."

"We'll think of something," Harry said. He grinned. "Look, George, I'm used to telling tales for my supper. Tonight, though—think you could throw in a shower?"

* * *

It didn't surprise Roger Brooks that there was plenty of water, because there was water everywhere, too damned much water.

This was different. He showered in warm water; not as much as Roger wanted, because the pipes in the rooftop heat collector didn't hold that much, but more than Roger had enjoyed for a long time.

I better enjoy it. I'll pay for it. It had been a long trip. I chose the right guide. We got here. But now Harry will tell his war stories again . . .

 

The dining room was large, with a long table in the center. At one end was a lectern. The whole place reminded Roger of the refectory in the Christian Brothers monastery they'd stopped in on the way up from Colorado Springs. The Brothers had taken in travelers the way monasteries did in medieval times. They'd also put all the local indolents to work in gardens and vineyards.

The room grew crowded. John Fox seemed genuinely glad to see Roger. Roger's memory held the names as they came: a useful skill for a newsman. Fox's friend Marty Carnell. George and Vicki Tate-Evans. Harry had called George "super survivor"; his wife was quiet, and it became clear that visitors made her uncomfortable. Isadore and Clara: Roger didn't get their last names. Clara wanted to know what was happening in the capital. Others: the man at the gate, Jack McCauley. His wife was Harriet, and she was listening a lot while making up her mind about something.

Bill and Gwen Shakes occupied the head of the table. There were a lot of Shakes kids—a lot of kids, for that matter, and Roger let their names slip through his head unclaimed.

Shakes was concerned about Roger's story. "We don't need any publicity. Don't need any, don't want any. I'd tell you how tough things are if I thought you'd believe me."

"I won't be writing much about Bellingham," Roger said. "Or any other specific place. Anyway, if you're worried about getting lots of new company, forget it. Harry and I could have stopped cold half a dozen times, and that's on a motorcycle, press credentials and a gas ration card! Nobody's coming to Bellingham." And nobody's printing anything about Bellingham. But before we left the Springs we went through all the files I could. Nothing, nothing at all, since long before the snouts dropped the Dinosaur Killer. I can taste it, a secret a year old, hidden from snouts and citizens alike—

"A lot of people have come to Bellingham," Harriet McCauley said.

"Yes. It's getting crowded," Clara added. "The markets crowded. Lines, long lines for almost anything except staples and dairy products."

"Hah. Most places there are lines for those, too," Harry said. "Maybe you have it better than you think."

Dinner was spaghetti. There wasn't any meat in the sauce, there was cheese, and fresh stewed tomatoes from the greenhouse. Conversation became local while they ate.

"It's wet everywhere, isn't it?" Fox asked.

"Pretty much so," Roger told him. "We were never able to dry out except for a couple of days in Utah. You must get more here than I'd have thought."

Fox snorted. "Heck, Bellingham wasn't noted for its sunshine before that snout asteroid hit. Not like Death Valley," and sudden fury surged into his face before he could hide it. "What made you think we get sunlight now?"

"Hot water," Roger said. "That was heated in those roof collectors, wasn't it?"

"Sure, but it was warm, not hot," Fox said.

"It collects diffuse sunlight," Miranda Shakes said. "We get hot water when there's real sunshine. Three days so far this year. I'd kill for a hot bath."

 

When dinner ended, almost everyone left.

"Chores," Fox said. "Nice to have seen you again, Roger."

Bill Shakes and George Tate-Evans helped carry dinner dishes out, then came back. "We'll offer you brandy, but it's getting dark out," Bill Shakes said. "Maybe you'd rather go make camp where there's light?"

"It's no problem for us," Roger said.

"We've made camp in the dark before," Harry added.

"Okay. The best place will be up the lane. It runs into the woods. Go up about half a mile, cross the creek, and there's a clearing. Be careful how much wood you burn, and don't cut any."

"Okay."

Isadore brought in two bottles of California brandy. "Two more cases," he said to nobody in particular. He took thin glass snifters from a cabinet and brought them around. George Tate-Evans went to help, but poured his own glass half full first. The doses that Isadore poured for guests were considerably smaller.

Bill Shakes waited until they were all seated with their glasses. "Harry, you said you have a gasoline ration card."

"Yep." Harry grinned. "Hero's reward, you know. I captured a snout."

George Tate-Evans started to say something, but Shakes' quiet voice was insistent. "We've located some fertilizer. A dairy farmer about thirty miles from here will sell us some, but we have to go get it. We've got trucks but no gas. What are the chances of buying some gasoline from you?"

"Zero," Harry said. "The card's personal." He took a plastic encased card from an inner pocket. "See, my driving license on one side, gas card on the other, picture on both. Nobody can use it. Unless you want to grow a beard and dye it to look like me."

"Most amusing," Shakes said without a smile. His head might have come level to Harry's shoulder.

"Maybe we can exchange favors," Roger said. "We go get your fertilizer. You let us use a truck for a couple of days."

Harry frowned at him. "Why do we need a truck? Especially need one that bad?"

"I'd like to look around, and my tail-bone is tired," Roger said.

"I'll buy that one. Okay, Bill. We'll haul your cow shit."

"Thank you."

Harry lifted his glass. "You've done pretty well."

"Not too bad." It was hard to read Shakes' smile. "Do you know anything about Los Angeles?"

"They're coping," Harry said.

"You didn't go through there?" George asked. He brought over a bottle of California brandy and poured a generous second drink.

"No," Harry said. "But they're coping."

"Eh?"

"Just about everywhere," Harry said. "Things are tough. Tougher than here, mostly. But people are managing, one way or another. Greenhouses. Vegetable gardens. Chicken coops on rooftops."

"Surprising," Bill Shakes said.

"Yes, considering there's not much the government can do," Roger said. "Colorado Springs can't even find out what people are doing, much less help them."

"That's why things are working," George said. He knocking back his brandy and poured more. "Get the goddamn government out of the way and people can cope. You watch, if things get a little better, good enough for the government to get active, ever thing will get worse again. Look at us! We've got government. Boy, do we have government! Government people out the arse."

George was wrong, of course. Roger had seen it: what made it all work was just enough government. Government wasn't powerful enough to meddle any more, but it could tell those who would listen how to help themselves: how to build greenhouses, keep the plumbing working, deal with untrustworthy water supplies, eat all of a steer carcass: the things once printed in its survival manuals. George Tate-Evans must have expected his survivalists to be the government by now. Instead of decently dying away, the government had taken over his territory!

If Roger could say that just right, he'd get himself and Harry kicked back into the Street. Instead he said, "Clara said there are lots of new people here. Why?"

Bill Shakes booked edgily at George, but George didn't notice. "Big government project in the harbor," George said. "New people coming in. Navy people. Computer programmers. Ship fitters. Plumbers—we have to do all our own plumbing now. Every plumber for a hundred miles seems to work down there at at the harbor."

"They don't moonlight?" Harry asked.

"They don't even come out for a visit."

"Hoo-hah." Harry was on his second brandy. "And you guy came up here to get away from the crowds!" Harry chortled and poured himself another drink without asking.

"There is an amusing aspect to it." Bill Shakes still wore his enigmatic smile. "I remember a story. There was a guy who knew the Second World War was coming. The news said it all. So he looked around for a quiet spot to sit it out, and he moved his whole life there. He picked an island out in the middle of the Pacific, way the hell away from everything. Called Iwo Jima."

"We haven't done that bad," George said.

"No, but it isn't the quiet little backwater with the silted-up harbor any more," Isadore said. "The roads are crowded, the prices have gone up, there are MPs minding everybody's business—"

"Screw them," George muttered.

"But what are they doing down there?" Roger asked.

"Who knows?" Isadore said. "They say they've built greenhouses and they're growing wheat. You can believe as much of that as you want to."

"And if I believe none of it?"

"Miranda's Deputy Sheriff heard rumors that it's a prison," Isadore said. "Political prisoners from Kansas. Collaborators. They've built greenhouses, all right, but they're working them with prisoners. Slave camp."

"Serve the snoutlovers right," Harry said.

"They may not have had much choice," Roger said.

"They could fight—"

"You captured one, Harry," Roger said carefully. "But he was alone. I saw what happened to people who tried to fight them all. It wasn't pretty."

Bill Shakes leaned forward. "You were in alien occupied country? Tell us about it."

 

Roger's digital watch said 3:00 A.M. Both brandy bottles were empty, and they were better than halfway through a third.

Somewhere during the evening Miranda had brought down Kevin's guitar for Harry to play, and nearly everybody came to listen while Harry sang his songs, but then the others had gone away, leaving George and Isadore and Bill.

Kevin Shakes was working on the government project—and hadn't come home since he went down to the harbor. They got letters from him, and word through Miranda's boyfriend.

Roger felt the tightness in his guts. I shouldn't have had so much brandy. It's hard to stay in control.

Something big in the harbor. Big.

George knows something he hasn't said. What?

"About time to turn in," Bill Shakes said.

He's not drunk. I wonder just how much he really drank?

"Let me finish this drink," Roger said unsteadily. He knew he was rapidly wearing out his welcome. But I may not get a better shot. He went over to George and lifted his glass. "Death to tyrants! Down with the state!"

"Right on!" George grinned and clinked glasses.

"Secrets," Roger said. "They always have secrets. Like in Vietnam, when they kept it a secret they were bombing in Cambodia. Who was it secret from? The Cambodians knew. The Viet Cong had to know. I bet they even told the Russians. So who didn't know?"

"Right," George said. "Right."

"So now they've got more secrets."

"George," Bill Shakes said quietly.

George didn't listen.

"What the hell could they be hiding?" Roger shook his head "Probably something silly—"

George dropped his voice to a conspiratorial mumble. "Snouts. They've got snouts down there."

 

Roger woke on the living room floor. His head pounded. Snouts. No big secret. Nothing but a hideout for captured snouts—

That's ridiculous! Bellingham vanished from the news before anyone captured a snout! And they wouldn't put General Gillespie in charge of a snout prison camp.

But Bill Shakes believes it. He didn't want me to find out. If Shakes doesn't know what's really going on in the harbor, nobody out here does. We'll have to go inside.

He heard Harry's voice from the other room. "Like Sheena Queen of the Jungle. Miz D. hopped on, and out we came. Hey, real coffee! Great!" There were other voices, children, and giggles.

Coffee! But to get any, he'd have to listen to Harry's story yet again . . .

* * *

So. We achieve escape velocity, Pastempeh-keph thought. From here we coast. We'll hold the African continent forever, and if new resistance rises, we'll trample it from space. Ultimately the dissidents may rule Message Bearer while my descendants trade them metals for food.

The door to the mudroom opened. Pastempeh-keph waved happily from the mud. His fithp's mating season had come round at last—

"I have a guest," said K'turfookeph.

You what? Pastempeh-keph didn't say that. He said, "Enter. Soak your tired selves." This had better be urgent!

K'turfookeph entered with Chowpeentulk. The females eased into the mud, carefully, under the low spin gravity. A few moments of quiet were allowed to pass, during which none of the tension left Chowpeentulk. Then she said, "My mate was murdered, Herdmaster. What have you done to find the rogue?"

He had thought he could postpone this. There was a war on, and a sufficiency of dead fithp. Some fi' had removed a problem. The Herdmaster had taken steps to learn who, for he might act again, but there had been yet more urgent problems.

He said, "Tell me first, what would you have done?"

Chowpeentulk considered. "A rogue shows. He does not speak to his fithp, he abandons his mate, he does not trouble to hide who he is."

"We have rogues enough," the Herdmaster conceded. "Warriors on Winterhome face strange and terrible pressures. But here? So you must have noticed him. Is there a herdless one aboard? A member of the Traveler Herd whom none will associate with? No? Then who could have come and gone so unnoticed?"

Chowpeentulk shook her head. She was terribly tense. Why not? She had invaded the Herdmaster's private mudroom!

He said, "Not a rogue. Then he did not act alone, and if he did, he must have shared the secret with someone. What would you do now?"

"I would ask! No fi' can lie to the Herdmaster."

"That statement is too sweeping, but it has some truth. I have interviewed the heads of every fithp aboard Message Bearer. The sleepers do not ask that I seek a killer; they demanded only that I choose an Advisor from among them at once. This seemed promising. I set my attention on them. When that failed me, I questioned randomly chosen fithp: Fistarteh-thuktun's apprentices, Tashayamp, weapons officers aboard, warriors newly come from Winterhome, mothers, newly mated females, unmated females, humans.

"Some spoke of roguish behavior in others. I challenged the alleged rogues; every accusation was unwarranted. None know how Fathisteh-tulk died. Few even know what his interests were, where he might have overturned a secret worth concealing—"

"Few? What have you learned?"

"I learned what you must have known, Chowpeentulk. Your mate was interested in the human prisoners. He questioned one Dawson, while Dawson was isolated."

"So." She said, "In the communal mudbath, days before he disappeared . . . he wouldn't tell me what he intended, but he thought to learn something. It had to do with whether Winterhome was worth the taking."

"It would. And where does that leave me? Did he question the Soviet prisoners? Did he learn anything? Humans may lie even to the Herdmaster, for I cannot read their body language. The Breakers were no help. It doesn't matter. Even if we consider that a surrendered human might murder a ranking fi', another fi' must be involved. No frail human could have pushed him into a vertical wall of mud under minuscule thrust. A fi' must have chilled the mudroom again after Fathisteh-tulk was dead.

"Meanwhile a fithp-less killer walks Message Bearer. He killed among the highest rank, yet nothing shows in his stance. He knows that he has played the Herdmaster for a fool."

"We feared you had forgotten," K'turfookeph said, with a trace of apology in her tone.

"Losing my fithp to thermonuclear bombs and wooden stick and madness, why should I ignore yet another death? But I have no more footholds here! What should I seek? Some fi' appeared and killed and went, unnoticed, speaking to none."

Chowpeentulk sprayed him. The Herdmaster didn't react at all "A rogue who came and went. So simple. Chowpeentulk, I will produce your mate's killer within eight days. Leave us."

Chowpeentulk knew enough to keep silent. She surged from the mud and left, dripping. Pastempeh-keph said, "Was there no another place where you and that other female could confront me?"

"Keph, she persuaded me. There are others who wondered too—"

"Don't do that again. Now forget it, mother of my immortality The mating season flows always too fast."

* * *

The column made slow progress across the veldt. Movement was impossible at night. The snouts had excellent IR detection equipment. On a good day the commando could travel thirty kilometers on foot.

They had learned that, and more.

Julius Carter wanted time to understand what he had learned: of the strange relationships between the Afrikaner tribe—they could only be thought of as a tribe—and the various black tribes.

Van der Stel, the thin Afrikaner who spoke of "Kaffirs" and expected blacks to call him "Baas"—but who also had genuine respect for the Zulu scouts, and always listened to their advice.

Mvubi, who seemed servile to van der Stel and treated Carter as an equal—but took his orders from Carter.

And the Russians, who understood none of this. Of the dozen who'd joined forces with Carter, only two spoke English, and none spoke any other language relevant to South Africa.

A strange country. It had been strange before the invaders came. Now—

Now the whole Earth is strange.

Despite the chill wind, Carter sweated under his heavy pack load. They moved in small groups, slowly and carefully, taking advantage of every patch of cover, every depression in the ground. Up ahead Mvubi and his Zulu scouts were nearly invisible. A steady hiss sounded in Carter's left ear, showing that his radio receiver was on. Mvubi wouldn't activate the transmitter except in an emergency. A short, low-power transmission probably couldn't be heard by the snouts, but why take chances?

"It is not far now," van der Stel said. "When we reach those trees, you will see their spaceport. The missile can be fired from there."

"Thank God," Sergeant Harrison muttered.

Lieutenant Ivan Semeyusov looked disapproval at Harrison. Russian noncoms did not speak to their officers until invited, and good communists would hardly invoke deity. Colonel Carter hid his grin. "Give 'em a ten-minute break, Sarge."

"Yes sir." Harrison whistled long and low, knowing that Mvubi's people would hear. Then he crawled back down the column to pass the word to the Americans and Russians.

Carter hunched in the lee of the best shelter he could find a wished he could smoke his pipe. How good is their sense of smell? The wind blew continuously. He looked cautiously around the weird landscape. After all these months, there was still the odor of death in the air. What is a black boy from Pruett-Igoe doing way down here? "At least the rain has stopped," he said.

"It is cold for November," van der Stel said. "Summer will be late."

If there's a summer at all, Carter thought. November in South Africa should have roughly the same weather as May in Southern California, warm and dry, not this blustery cold. The Russian officer produced a package of cigarettes. "No," Carter said.

The Russian officer put the pack away.

"This is a mad scheme," van der Stel said.

"So? And why are you here?" Lt. Semeyusov asked. His mouth twisted into a deliberate grin.

Learning some manners, anyway, Carter thought.

"It is known that I am mad now," van der Stel said. "The English found that all Afrikaners have the capability. Now we must show the olifants. Tell me, Lieutenant, what brings you far from home to aid me in my madness?"

Semeyusov wasn't going to touch that one. "You are certain they will launch a large craft today?" the Russian demanded.

"Certain? How can I be certain of anything? Our friends at the spaceport, those who load the craft, say they believe it will be launched today or tonight or tomorrow. I have told you this. You think I deceive you?"

"Naw," Lieutenant Carruthers said. "None of us think that, mynheer. Ivan's nervous. We all are."

With good reason. Carter glanced at the sun. "Since we don't know when they'll launch, the sooner we're in position, the better. Let's get moving."

 

"Looks like they're about to button her up," Carruthers reported. He handed the binoculars back to Carter. "Last-minute loading—"

Julius Carter lay in the grass and turned his binoculars on where had been an airport, eight kilometers away.

The Sunday comics had taught him to call them "rocket ships." This was the first rocket ship he had ever seen. Shuttles didn't look like this. Its belly was flat. It was the size of a building; made the nearby C-47 cargo transport look like a toy. Take the massive cone off the back and it would look more like an airplane, but not very. Too short, too wide, too little in the way of fins. The only windows were on a canopy the size of a 727 fuselage, and that was underneath the nose. The point of the nose glittered like a lens, but it wouldn't provide a view. A laser cannon?

Van der Stel had been right, as usual; this was an excellent place to observe the spaceport, high enough to give them a good view, but not conspicuously high.

Carruthers might have been reading too much into what he could see. On the other hand, he might not. In the past hour the snouts had certainly closed two cargo hatches on the big ship. They'd removed the two loading cranes that went with those ports. Most of the other baggage carts had been removed to the other side of the field. "It sure looks like they're doing something. How're the Russkis coming?"

"We are coming quite well, Colonel," a voice said from behind him.

Ooops! "Thank you, Lieutenant. You've got your missile set up?"

"Presently."

"Good. Looks like we have about half an hour."

"I will encourage the crew to hurry."

Carter sat in the tall grass and took out his pipe.

"Nice thing about a pipe," Carruthers said. "Don't need to light it. Colonel—"

"Spit it out."

"Will it work? Sir? I mean, they had to carry it a long way, and—"

"Got a better plan?"

"No, sir."

"It's worth a try, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

And no, I didn't answer your question, son. How could I? He grinned, but to himself, as he remembered a story from one of the innumerable Arab-Israeli wars. An Arab president had cabled to Moscow: "Stop sending surface to air missiles. Send surface to aircraft missiles."

So far it hasn't cost us anything but some sweat. So far. When they launched that Russian missile that would all change. They'd have to run for it, scatter, and hope they all made it to the rendezvous points. Carter glanced at his watch, then back to the low railed structure the Soviet troops had bolted together. "Okay, Sergeant. Spread 'em out."

"Sir."

 

There was definite activity at the spaceport. All the auxiliary vehicles had been withdrawn. Now the great hulk of the alien spacecraft sat alone.

An enormous concrete structure opened nearby.

"The laser," Carter said. "Hit that, and we splatter that ship all over the landscape." He handed his binoculars to Lieutenant Carruthers and turned to the Soviet officer. "All set?"

"Da." Semeyusov's eyes glittered expectantly. "It is a good missile. A good missile."

"I sure hope so."

"Colonel!"

"Yeah, Carruthers?"

"They've opened a hangar. Something coming out—coming this way. Shit!"

Carter grabbed the binoculars.

More than a dozen of the fast-moving light ground effect vehicles Carter had come to call "skimmers" moved across the spaceport. When they reached the fence they rose over it, then spread out across the veldt. One was coming directly toward their hill.

Behind the skimmers came eight tanks.

Lieutenant Semeyusov's voice was emotionless. "Your orders, Comrade Colonel?"

"Wait. Maybe they won't see us."

The skimmer came on, past the area where Mvubi's scouts were hidden.

"Still coming," Carruthers said. "Colonel, if they didn't see his people, they won't see us."

"And if they go straight past us, they'll see the damn missile," Carter said. They'll be here in a second. Once past us, they're sure to see the missile. He thumbed the channel control on his helmet radio. "Sergeant Harrison. If that skimmer comes within fifty meters, take it out."

"Sir." Harrison was invisible somewhere off to the left.

Lieutenant Carruthers unlimbered a light antitank tube. "Custer's last stand."

"Something like that," Carter said. "Maybe they won't come."

"Yeah, sure."

Semeyusov spoke quickly into his phone. "They are ready—"

The first skimmer reached the bottom of the hill. Another converged toward it.

Carter lifted the transmitter. "Mvubi. uSuthu!"

 "Tchaka!" A moment later automatic weapons chattered from the veldt between Carter and the spaceport. The trailing skimmer wobbled, then fell.

"Launch your bloody missile," Carter ordered. "It's too late to get the spaceship. Try for the laser anyway."

"With respect, Colonel, perhaps they will launch their ship anyway. It is a better target."

"Why in hell would they launch during an ambush?"

For answer, Semeyusov pointed. Thick white smoke rose from the base platform around the alien spacecraft.

"Son of a bitch! Okay!"

"Only now we got to stop those tanks," Carruthers said carefully. "I don't think Mvubi's people will hold them long."

"We'll do the best we can—"

The alien ship rose suddenly. The rocket platform that boosted it fell back, as a brilliant blue-green beam stabbed up from the concrete structure at the center of the spaceport.

"Any time now!" Carter shouted. Lieutenant Semeyusov spoke rapidly.

The leading skimmer was climbing the hill toward them. There was a sharp flash from the bush to their right. A dark shadow moved toward the alien hovercraft, rushed at it, touched it—

The skimmer exploded in fire.

"Two down! Hoo hah!" Carruthers shouted. "Bring on the motherfucking tanks!"

Tanks hell, where's that damn missile—

Thunder rolled toward them. The spacecraft rose on its beam of green fire. Three smaller beams stabbed downward. They moved in an odd pattern. There was a flash of fire, and the Russian missile tumbled in smoke. It fell into the veldt.

The smaller beams moved up the hill toward Carter, moved past him, curved back toward him.

He was encased in a wide spiral of green. The spiral tightened.

The alien spacecraft vanished in the clouds.

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