“Now, let’s get in there, before they get some other damn-fool scheme going,” Sanders said.

The rock car crossed the rough ground, swung wide to come up on the Bolo from the left side. Behind the hastily rigged radiation cover, Reynolds watched the immense silhouette grow before him.

“I knew they were big,” he said. “But to see one up close like this—” He pulled to a stop a hundred feet from the Bolo.

“Look at the side ports,” Sanders said, his voice crisper now. “He’s firing antipersonnel charges—only his plates are flat. If they weren’t, we wouldn’t have gotten within half a mile.” He unclipped the microphone and spoke into it:

“Unit LNE, break off action and retire to ten-mile line!”

Reynolds’ head jerked around to stare at the old man. His voice had rung with vigor and authority as he spoke the command.

The Bolo ground slowly ahead. Sanders shook his head, tried again.

“No answer, like that fella said. He must be running on nothing but memories now.…” He reattached the microphone, and before Reynolds could put out a hand, had lifted the anti-R cover and stepped off on the ground.

“Sanders—get back in here!” Reynolds yelled.

“Never mind, son. I’ve got to get in close. Contact induction.” He started toward the giant machine. Frantically, Reynolds started the car, slammed it into gear, pulled forward.

“Better stay back.” Sanders’ voice came from his field radio. “This close, that screening won’t do you much good.”

“Get in the car!” Reynolds roared. “That’s hard radiation!”

“Sure; feels funny, like a sunburn, about an hour after you come in from the beach and start to think maybe you got a little too much.” He laughed. “But I’ll get to him.…”

Reynolds braked to a stop, watched the shrunken figure in the baggy uniform as it slogged forward, leaning as against a sleet storm.

12

“I’m up beside him.” Sanders’ voice came through faintly on the field radio. “I’m going to try to swing up on his side. Don’t feel like trying to chase him any farther.”

Through the glasses, Reynolds watched the small figure, dwarfed by the immense bulk of the fighting machine, as he tried, stumbled, tried again, swung up on the flange running across the rear quarter inside the churning bogie wheel.

“He’s up,” he reported. “Damned wonder the track didn’t get him.…”

Clinging to the side of the machine, Sanders lay for a moment, bent forward across the flange. Then he pulled himself up, wormed his way forward to the base of the rear quarter turret, wedged himself against it. He unslung the communicator, removed a small black unit, clipped it to the armor; it clung, held by a magnet. He brought the microphone up to his face.