Blauvelt was smiling lopsidedly. “Uh-uh. We’ve got salvage rights. No title, but we can make one up in a hurry. Official. I’m the Mayor here, and District Governor.”

“This thing is a menace to every man, woman, and child in the settlement,” Crewe snapped. “My job is to prevent tragedy—”

“Forget Bobby,” Blauvelt cut in. He waved a hand at the jungle wall beyond the tilled fields. “There’s a hundred million square miles of virgin territory out there,” he said. “You can do what you like out there. I’ll even sell you provisions. But just leave our mascot be, understand?”

Crewe looked at him, looked around at the other men.

“You’re a fool,” he said. “You’re all fools.” He turned and walked away, stiff-backed.

In the room he had rented in the town’s lone boardinghouse, Crewe opened his baggage and took out a small, gray-plastic-cased instrument. The three children of the landlord who were watching from the latchless door edged closer.

“Gee, is that a real star radio?” the eldest, a skinny, long-necked lad of twelve asked.

“No,” Crewe said shortly. The boy blushed and hung his head.

“It’s a command transmitter,” Crewe said, relenting. “It’s designed for talking to fighting machines, giving them orders. They’ll only respond to the special shaped-wave signal this puts out.” He flicked a switch, and an indicator light glowed on the side of the case.

“You mean like Bobby?” the boy asked.

“Like Bobby used to be.” Crewe switched off the transmitter.

“Bobby’s swell,” another child said. “He tells us stories about when he was in the war.”

“He’s got medals,” the first boy said. “Were you in the war, mister?”

“I’m not quite that old,” Crewe said.

“Bobby’s older’n grandad.”

“You boys had better run along,” Crewe said. “I have to…” He broke off, cocked his head, listening. There were shouts outside; someone was calling his name.

Crewe pushed through the boys and went quickly along the hall, stepped through the door onto the boardwalk. He felt rather than heard a slow, heavy thudding, a chorus of shrill squeaks, a metallic groaning. A red-faced man was running toward him from the square.

“It’s Bobby!” he shouted. “He’s moving! What’d you do to him, Crewe?”

Crewe brushed past the man, ran toward the plaza. The Bolo appeared at the end of the street, moving ponderously forward, trailing uprooted weeds and vines.

“He’s headed straight for Spivac’s warehouse!” someone yelled.

“Bobby! Stop there!” Blauvelt came into view, running in the machine’s wake. The big machine rumbled onward, executed a half-left as Crewe reached the plaza, clearing the corner of a building by inches. It crushed a section of boardwalk to splinters, advanced across a storage yard. A stack of rough-cut lumber toppled, spilled across the dusty ground. The Bolo trampled a board fence, headed out across a tilled field. Blauvelt whirled on Crewe.