“Hell, that’s just Bobby,” a man said.

“He’s town mascot,” someone else said.

“This machine could blow your town off the map,” Crewe said. “And a good-sized piece of jungle along with it.”

Blauvelt grinned; the squint lines around his eyes gave him a quizzical look.

“Don’t go getting upset, Mr. Crewe,” he said. “Bobby’s harmless—”

“A Bolo’s never harmless, Mr. Blauvelt. They’re fighting machines, nothing else.”

Blauvelt sauntered over and kicked at a corroded treadplate. “Eighty-five years out in this jungle is kind of tough on machinery, Crewe. The sap and stuff from the trees eats chromalloy like it was sugar candy. The rains are acid, eat up equipment damn near as fast as we can ship it in here. Bobby can still talk a little, but that’s about all.”

“Certainly it’s deteriorated; that’s what makes it dangerous. Anything could trigger its battle reflex circuitry. Now, if you’ll clear everyone out of the area, I’ll take care of it.”

“You move kind of fast for a man that just hit town,” Blauvelt said, frowning. “Just what you got in mind doing?”

“I’m going to fire a pulse at it that will neutralize what’s left of its computing center. Don’t worry; there’s no danger—”

“Hey,” a man in the rear rank blurted. “That mean he can’t talk any more?”

“That’s right,” Crewe said. “Also, he can’t open fire on you.”

“Not so fast, Crewe,” Blauvelt said. “You’re not messing with Bobby. We like him like he is.” The other men were moving forward, forming up in a threatening circle around Crewe.

“Don’t talk like a fool,” Crewe said. “What do you think a salvo from a Continental Siege Unit would do to your town?”

Blauvelt chuckled and took a long cigar from his vest pocket. He sniffed it, called out: “All right, Bobby—fire one!”

There was a muted clatter, a sharp click! from deep inside the vast bulk of the machine. A tongue of pale flame licked from the cannon’s soot-rimmed bore. The big man leaned quickly forward, puffed the cigar alight. The audience whooped with laughter.

“Bobby does what he’s told, that’s all,” Blauvelt said. “And not much of that.” He showed white teeth in a humorless smile.

Crewe flipped over the lapel of his jacket; a small, highly polished badge glinted there. “You know better than to interfere with a Concordiat officer,” he said.

“Not so fast, Crewe,” a dark-haired, narrow-faced fellow spoke up. “You’re out of line. I heard about you Disposal men. Your job is locating old ammo dumps, abandoned equipment, stuff like that. Bobby’s not abandoned. He’s town property. Has been for near thirty years.”

“Nonsense. This is battle equipment, the property of the Space Arm—”