Authors: Keith Laumer
“Freya,”
Retief said, “how many people live on Jorgensen’s Worlds?”
“About fifteen million, most of us here on Svea. There are
mining camps and ice-fisheries on Göta. No one lives on Vasa or Skone, but
there are always a few ice-wolf hunters there.”
“Have you ever fought a war?”
Freya turned to look at Retief. “Don’t be afraid for us,
Retief. The Soetti will attack our worlds, and we will fight them. We have
fought before. These planets were not friendly ones . . .”
“I thought the Soetti attack would be a surprise to you,”
Retief said. “Have you made any preparation for it?”
“We have ten thousand merchant ships. When the enemy comes,
we will meet them.”
Retief frowned. “Are there any guns on this planet? Any
missiles?”
Freya shook her head. “We have a plan of deployment—”
“Deployment hell! Against a modern assault force you need
modern armament.”
“Look!” Freya touched Retief’s arm. “They’re coming now.”
Two tall grizzled men came up the slope, skis over their
shoulders. Freya went forward to meet them, Retief at her side.
The two came up, embraced the girl, shook hands with Retief.
“He has come to help us,” Freya said.
“Welcome to Svea,” Thor said. “Let’s find a warm corner where
we can talk.”
Retief shook his head, smiling as a tall girl with coppery
hair offered a vast slab of venison. “I’ve caught up,” he said, “for every
hungry day I ever lived.”
Bo
Bergman poured Retief’s beer mug full. “Our captains are the best in space,” he
said. “Our population is concentrated in half a hundred small cities all across
the planet. We know where the Soetti must strike us. We will ram their major
vessels with unmanned ships; on the ground, we will hunt them down with
small-arms.”
“An assembly line turning out penetration missiles would have
been more to the point.”
“Yes,” Bo Bergman said. “If we had known sooner.”
“We’ve seen very few of the Soetti,” Thor said. “Their ships
have landed and taken on stores. They say little to us, but we’ve felt their
contempt. They envy us our worlds. They come from a cold land.”
“Freya says you have a plan of defense,” Retief said. “A sort
of suicide squadron idea, followed by guerilla warfare.”
“It’s the best we can devise, Retief. If there aren’t too
many of them, it might work.”
Retief shook his head. “It might delay matters—but not much.”
“Perhaps; but our remote control equipment is excellent; we
have plenty of ships, albeit unarmed. And our people know how to live on the
slopes—and how to shoot.”
“There are too many of them,” Retief said. “They breed like
flies and, according to some sources, they mature in a matter of months.
They’ve been feeling their way into the sector for years now; set up outposts
on a thousand or so minor planets—cold ones, the kind they like. They want your
worlds because they need living space.”
“Retief must not be trapped here,” said Freya to her
compatriots. “His small boat is useless now; he must have a ship.”
“Of course,” Thor said. “And—”
“Retief,” a voice called. “A message for you; the operator
has phoned it up. A ’gram . . .”
Retief took the slip of paper, unfolded it. It was short, in
verbal code, and signed by Magnan.
“You are recalled herewith,” he read. “Assignment canceled.
Agreement concluded with Soetti relinquishing all claims so-called Jorgensen
system. Utmost importance that under no repeat no circumstances classified
intelligence regarding Soetti be divulged to locals. Advise you depart
instanter; Soetti occupation imminent.”
Retief looked thoughtfully at the scrap of paper, then
crumpled it, dropped it on the floor.
“Any answer?” the messenger asked.
“No,” Retief said. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t even get
the message.” He turned to Bo Bergman, took a tiny reel of tape from his
pocket.
“This contains information,” he said. “The Soetti attack
plan, a defensive plan worked out at Corps HQ, and instructions for the
conversion of a standard anti-acceleration unit into a potent weapon. If you
have a screen handy, we’d better get started; we have about seventy-two hours.”
In the Briefing Room at Svea Tower, Thor snapped off the
projector.
“Our
plan would 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,” said Retief. “I hope you’ve got plenty of heavy
power cable available.”
“We export copper,” Thor 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,” Retief said.
A red light flashed on the communications panel. Thor went to
it, flipped a key.
“Tower, Thor here,” he said.
“I’ve got a ship on the scope, Thor,” 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.
Thor talked to the tower, got a reply.
“That’s it,” he said.
“How long before he touches down?”
Thor glanced at a lighted chart. “Perhaps eight minutes.”
“Any guns here?”
Thor 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 skunk’s 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 goodbye. 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. 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,” Thor 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 the others in. “This is the tower talking to the ship,” he
said.
“—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.”
Thor flipped a key. “Tower, switch me direct to the ship.”
“Right.”
“You on ACI 228,” he said. “Who are you?”
“What’s that to you?” the speaker crackled.
“You weren’t cleared to berth here. Do you have an emergency
aboard?”
“Never mind that, you,” the speaker rumbled. “I tracked this
bird in; I got the lifeboat on the screen now. They haven’t gone far in six
hours. Let’s have ’em.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
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 pop-gun won’t bear on us.”
“Take a look out the window,” said Retief.
In the white glare of the moonlight a loading cover swung
open at the stern of the ship, dropped down, 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?” Thor 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 hundred 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. I got the glimmerins of a idear.”
“I’ll stall them,” Thor 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 . . .”
The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief’s
face. Chip carried a short length of iron bar thrust into his belt. He 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. Dern good thing too.” Chip sighed. “I like
these folks. 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.”
“It’ll be a hairy deal. 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. “Here we
go . . .”
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 for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an angry
whuff! anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the
vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull.
“Okay, mister,” Chip called. “I’m goin’ under.” He slipped
down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered
up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar
eyes searching for the tank’s tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed,
stopped, moved forward, pivoted.
Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.
“It’s stuck,” he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as
the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.
“Take over here,” Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as
the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds
between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitching
himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds,
probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.
The
tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a sine curve. Retief
clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads. He found the lever, braced his
back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both
feet against the frozen bar, and heaved. With a dry rasp it slid back.
Immediately, two rods extended themselves, slid down to grate against the
pavement, drove on irresistibly. The left track raced as the weight went off
it. Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaving the fifty-ton
machine forward, jacks screeching as they scored the tarmac. The tank pivoted,
chips of pavement flying. The jacks lifted the clattering left track clear of
the surface and the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.
The
tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from
under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as
another
charge rocked the tank. He
clambered to the turret, crouched
beside Chip. They waited, watching the
entry hatch.
Five minutes passed.
“I’ll bet old Tony’s givin’ the chauffeur hell,” Chip said.