“It must have been a heavy action,” Crewe said. “One of the ones toward the end that didn’t get much notice at the time. There’s stuff here I’ve never seen before, experimental types, I imagine, rushed in by the enemy for a last-ditch stand.”

Blauvelt grunted.

“Contact in another minute or so,” Crewe said.

As Blauvelt opened his mouth to reply, there was a blinding flash, a violent impact, and the jungle erupted in their faces.

The seat webbing was cutting into Crewe’s ribs. His ears were filled with a high, steady ringing; there was a taste of brass in his mouth. His head throbbed in time with the thudding of his heart.

The car was on its side, the interior a jumble of loose objects, torn wiring, broken plastic. Blauvelt was half under him, groaning. He slid off him, saw that he was groggy but conscious.

“Changed your mind yet about your harmless pet?” he asked, wiping a trickle of blood from his right eye. “Let’s get clear before he fires those empty guns again. Can you walk?”

Blauvelt mumbled, crawled out through the broken canopy. Crewe groped through debris for the command transmitter—

“Good God,” Blauvelt croaked. Crewe twisted, saw the high, narrow, iodine-dark shape of the alien machine perched on jointed crawler-legs fifty feet away, framed by blast-scorched foliage. Its multiple-barreled micro-gun battery was aimed dead at the overturned car.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Crewe whispered. Sweat trickled down his face. An insect, like a stub-winged four-inch dragonfly, came and buzzed about them, moved on. Hot metal pinged, contracting. Instantly, the alien hunter-killer moved forward another six feet, depressing its gun muzzles.

“Run for it!” Blauvelt cried. He came to his feet in a scrabbling lunge; the enemy machine swung to track him…

A giant tree leaned, snapped, was tossed aside. The great green-streaked prow of the Bolo forged into view, interposing itself between the smaller machine and the men. It turned to face the enemy; fire flashed, reflecting against the surrounding trees; the ground jumped once, twice, to hard, racking shocks. Sound boomed dully in Crewe’s blast-numbed ears. Bright sparks fountained above the Bolo as it advanced. Crewe felt the massive impact as the two fighting machines came together; he saw the Bolo hesitate, then forge ahead, rearing up, pushing the lighter machine aside, grinding over it, passing on, to leave a crumpled mass of wreckage in its wake.

“Did you see that, Crewe?” Blauvelt shouted in his ear. “Did you see what Bobby did? He walked right into its guns and smashed it flatter’n crock-brewed beer!”

The Bolo halted, turned ponderously, sat facing the men. Bright streaks of molten metal ran down its armored flanks, fell spattering and smoking into crushed greenery.

“He saved our necks,” Blauvelt said. He staggered to his feet, picked his way past the Bolo to stare at the smoking ruins of the smashed adversary.