I encounter no resistance other than the flimsy barrier, but my progress is slow. Grievous damage has been done to my main drive sector due to overload during my escape from the trap; and the failure of my sensing circuitry has deprived me of a major portion of my external receptivity. Now my pain circuits project a continuous signal to my awareness center, but it is my duty to my Commander and to my fallen comrades of the Brigade to press forward at my best speed; but my performance is a poor shadow of my former ability.

And now at last the Enemy comes into action! I sense aerial units closing at supersonic velocities; I lock my lateral batteries to them and direct salvo fire, but I sense that the arming mechanisms clatter harmlessly. The craft sweep over me, and my impotent guns elevate, track them as they release detonants that spread out in an envelopmental pattern which I, with my reduced capabilities, am powerless to avoid. The missiles strike; I sense their detonations all about me; but I suffer only trivial damage. The Enemy has blundered if he thought to neutralize a Mark XXVIII Combat Unit with mere chemical explosives! But I weaken with each meter gained.

Now there is no doubt as to my course. I must press the charge and carry the walls before my reserve cells are exhausted.

10

From a vantage point atop a bucket rig four hundred yards from the position the great fighting machine had now reached, Pete Reynolds studied it through night glasses. A battery of beamed polyarcs pinned the giant hulk, scarred and rust-scaled, in a pool of blue-white light. A mile and a half beyond it, the walls of the Mall rose sheer from the garden setting.

“The bombers slowed it some,” he reported to Eaton via scope. “But it’s still making better than two miles per hour. I’d say another twenty-five minutes before it hits the main ringwall. How’s the evacuation going?”

“Badly! I get no cooperation! You’ll be my witness, Reynolds, I did all I could—”

“How about the mobile batteries; how long before they’ll be in position?” Reynolds cut him off.

“I’ve heard nothing from Federation Central—typical militaristic arrogance, not keeping me informed—but I have them on my screens. They’re two miles out—say three minutes.”

“I hope you made your point about N-heads.”

“That’s outside my province!” Eaton said sharply. “It’s up to Brand to carry out this portion of the operation!”

“The HE Missiles didn’t do much more than clear away the junk it was dragging.” Reynolds’ voice was sharp.

“I wash my hands of responsibility for civilian lives,” Eaton was saying when Reynolds shut him off, changed channels.