by neetha Napew
"No, wait until they launch their rockets at us," Embry said. Bagnall wondered if the pilot had lost his mind, and. even wondered if there really was a groundcrew pool and if Embry was trying to win it. But Embry proved to have method in his madness: We've already seen we can evade the rockets that track us by our own radar. If we shut down before they fire those, they may get closer and shoot rockets of a different sort at us, ones we can't evade."
"Their tactics do tend to be stereotyped, don't they?" Bagnall agreed after a little thought. "Given a choice, they'll do the same thing over and over, regardless of whether it's the right thing. And if it's wrong, why give them the
excuse to change?"
"Just what was in my—" Embry began.
Goldfarb interrupted him: "Rockets away! Shutting down— now."
Again the Lancaster spun through the air; again Bagnall wondered if the fish and chips would stay down. And again, the Lizards' rockets failed to bring down the British aircraft. "Maybe this isn't a suicide mission after all," Bagnall said happily. He'd had his doubts as the Lanc rolled down the runway.
Ted Lanc listened to the surviving Mosquitoes as they made their runs at the attackers. "Another hit!" he said. This time, though, no one in the Lancaster shouted for joy. The aircrew had realized the price the fighter pilots were paying for every kill.
Then the radioman told Embry, "We are
ordered to break off operations and return to base. The air vice marshal remarks that, having been lucky twice, he's not inclined to tempt fate by pushing for a third bit of good fortune."
"The air vice marshal is a little old woman," the pilot retorted. He added hastily, "You need not inform him of my opinion, however. We shall of course obey his instructions like the good little children we are. Navigator, if you would be so kind as to suggest a course—"
"Suggest is the proper word, all right," Alf Whyte said from his little curtained-off space behind the pilot's and flight engineer's seats. "What with some of the twists you put the aircraft through, I thought the compass was jitterbugging to a hot swing band. If we are where I think we are, a course of 078 will bring us to the general neighborhood of Dover in ten or twelve minutes."
"Oh-seven-eight it is," Embry said. "Turning to that course now." He swung the bomber through the sky as if it were an extension of himself.
George Bagnall watched the neatly ordered phalanx of gauges in front of him as intently as if they monitored his own heartbeat and breathing. In a very real way, they did: if the Lancaster's engines or hydraulic system failed, his heart would not go on beating for very long.
"I have contact with the airfield," the radioman announced. "They read us five by five and report no damage from the Lizards this evening."
"That's good to hear," Embry said. Bagnall nodded. The landing would be rough enough as it was, what with the hasty repairs to earlier repairs from the sky. The Lanc wouldn't be coming in with combat damage or
unexpended bombs, as it might have from a mission over Germany or France, but its fuel tanks were much fuller than they would have been on the return flight from such a mission. The petrol the plane burned made a more-than-satisfactory explosive when things went wrong.
Bagnall stared out through the Perspex. He tapped Embry on the arm. "Isn't that the ocean approaching?"
Embry looked, too. "Sod me if it's not. Alf, we're coming up on the bloody North Sea. Are we north or south of where we want to be? I feel like a blind man tapping down the path with his stick, all the more so with that radar set back in the bomb bay. It ought to be able to find our way home for us all by its lonesome."
"I dare say it will do precisely that one of these days," the navigator answered. "I suggest you
bear in mind, though, that the Lizards doubtless monitor every sort of signal we produce. Do you really care to guide them to the runway as you set down?"
"Now that you mention it, no. Ha!" Embry pointed down into the darkness. Bagnall's eyes followed his finger. He too spied the red torch winking on and off. He flicked on the Lancaster's wing lights, just for a moment, to acknowledge the signal.
Other torches, these white along one side of the runway and green along the other, sprang to life. Embry pointed. "Looks like a bloody aircraft carrier flight deck down there. I thought this was the RAF, not the Fleet Air Arm."
"Could be worse," Bagnall remarked. "At least the runway's not pitching in a heavy sea."
"There's a cheerful thought." Embry lined up
the Lancaster on the two rows of torches, went into the final landing descent The hasty touchdown was less than smooth, but also less than disastrous: about par for a landing under war conditions, Bagnall thought. Along with the rest of the aircrew, he got out of the Lanc in a hurry and sprinted across the tarmac — now blacked out again— for the Nissen hut whose corrugated metal walls were surrounded by sandbags to protect against blast.
A tent of blackout curtains in front of the hut's doorway let people go in and out without leaking light for all the world— and for unfriendly visitors from another world— to see. The glare of the bare bulbs strung from the Nissen hut's ceiling smote Bagnall's dark-accustomed eyes like a photographer's flash.
The aircrew hurled themselves onto chairs and couches. Some, drained by the mission, fell asleep at once in spite of the glare.
Others, Bagnall among them, dug out pipes and cigarettes.
"May I have one of those?" David Goldfarb asked, pointing to the flight engineer's packet of Players. "I'm afraid I'm all out."
Bagnall passed him a cigarette, leaned close to give him a light off the one he already had going. As the radarman inhaled, Bagnall said, "I expect you'll be off to the White Horse Inn after the boffins get done grilling you over how things went tonight"
"What's the point?" Goldfarb said, more in resignation than bitterness. "Oh, I expect I'll drink there, but the girls— as I say, what's the point?"
Bagnall also knew about the barmaids' preferences. Now he stuck his tongue far into his cheek. "I think staring into the radar screen must have a deleterious effect on the
brain. Did it never occur to you that you've just returned from flying a combat mission?"
The end of Goldfarb's cigarette suddenly glowed a fierce red.
His eyes glowed, too. "I knew it only too bleeding well when those Lizard rockets homed on us. I confess I hadn't thought of it in other terms, though. Thank you, sir."
Bagnall waved a hand in a parody of aristocratic elegance. "Delighted to be of service." Service it had been, too— in an instant, he'd made the radarman forget all about the fear he'd just endured. He wished he could perform the same service for himself.
12
Ussmak cursed the day the Race had first discovered Tosev 3. He cursed the day the probe the Race had sent to this miserable world returned safely. He cursed the day he'd been hatched, the day he'd gone into cold sleep, the day he'd awakened. He cursed Krentel, something he'd been doing every day since the blundering idiot replaced Votal. He cursed the Big Uglies for killing Votal and then Telerep and leaving Krentel alive.
Most of all, he cursed the mud.
The landcruiser he drove was built to handle difficult terrain. On the whole, it did well. But Tosev 3, being a wetter place than any of the three worlds already in the Empire, had mixtures of water and dirt more thorough and more spectacularly gloppy than any of the Race's engineers had imagined.
Ussmak was in the middle of one of those mixtures. As far as he could tell, it was most of a continent wide and most of a continent long. The Russkis only made matters worse by not paving any of their stinking roads. Once the rain soaked into what was allegedly a roadbed, the mud there was most of a continent deep, too.
He pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The landcruiser lurched forward. So long as he moved every little while, he was all right. If he stayed too long in one place, the machine started to sink. Its tracks were more than wide enough to support it on any reasonable surface. This gluey, slimy stuff was a
long way from reasonable.
Ussmak accelerated again. The landcruiser plowed through the bog. Its tracks flung muck in all directions. Some of the muck— dead Emperors only knew how— splashed down onto Ussmak's vision slit. He pressed a
button. Detergent solution sprayed the armorglass clean. That was a relief. At least he wouldn't have to unbutton and stick his head into the refrigerator outside.
Krentel had his cupola in the turret dogged down tight, too. A landcruiser commander was supposed to look out over the top of that cupola as much as he could, but Ussrnak, though he blamed Krentel for a lot of things, couldn't blame him for not wanting to freeze his snout off.
At that, the driver thought, gunning the landcruiser forward once more, things could have been worse. He could have been driving a truck instead. The wheeled vehicles the landcruiser was supposed to be protecting had a much rougher time in this accursed bog than he did. He'd already used his towing chain to pull two or three of them out of places where they'd sunk worse than axle-deep. That the trucks had to be shielded just made them
heavier and the sticking problem worse.
For that matter, Ussmak could have been one of the poor wretches in radiation suits who guddled around in the freezing Tosevite slime for the bits of radioactive material their detectors found. The radiation suits weren't heated— no one had foreseen the need (no one had foreseen that the Big Uglies would be able to blow the 67th Emperor Sohrheb all over the landscape, either). The males in those suits had to labor in shifts, one group going back to a warming station while the other emerged to work.
Krentel's voice rang in the intercom button taped to Ussmak's hearing diaphragm. "Maintain heightened alertness, driver. I have just received a report that Tosevite bandit groups may be operating in the area. Primary defense responsibilities fall on our glorious landcruiser forces."
"As you say, Commander," Ussmak answered. "It shall be done." How he was supposed to be especially alert for bandits when he could see only straight ahead with the landcruiser buttoned was beyond him. Maybe Krentel ought to open up the cupola and look around after all.
He thought about saying as much to the landcruiser commander, but decided not to bother. The Race did not encourage lower ranks to reprove their superiors; that way lay anarchy. In any case, Ussmak doubted that Krentel would have listened; he seemed to think the Emperor had personally granted him all the answers. And finally, Ussmak's own sense of isolation from everything going on around him had only grown worse since his two original landcruiser crewmales died. A good replacement for Votal would have taken pains to reforge the team. Krentel just treated him like a piece of machinery. Machines don't care.
Machinelike, Ussmak kept the landcruiser out of as much trouble as he could. He'd found some better ground, where the grass, now yellow and dying rather than green and shiny with life, was still thick enough under his tracks to keep the landcruiser from sinking as fast as it had on barer terrain.
Ahead lay a stand of low, scrubby trees. Their bare branches groped for the sky like thin, beseeching arms. They'd dropped their leaves when the rains started. Ussmak wondered why; it seemed wasteful to him. Certainly none of the trees back on Home behaved in such profligate fashion.
He missed Home. Although the idea of turning Tosev 3 into another version of his own world had seemed good and noble when he got into the cold-sleep capsule, everything he'd seen since he came out of it screamed that it wasn't going to be as easy as everybody had thought. Given the Big Uglies' intractability, he
wondered how the Race had succeeded so well on Rabotev 2 and Halless 1.
He also wondered why no one else seemed to have any doubts about what the Race was doing here. The males had just formed their own rather compressed version of society back Home and gone on about their business, changing original plans only because the Tosevites had more technology than anyone expected. No one worried about the Tightness of what they were doing.
Even Ussmak had no real idea of what the Race's forces ought to be doing now that they'd come to Tosev 3. He supposed the doubts he did have sprang from his own feeling of apartness from everyone around him, from having been wrenched out of his comfortable niche in the original landcruiser crew and thrust into the unwanted company not merely of strangers, but of pompous, inept strangers.
Behind him, the turret traversed with a whir of smooth machinery. The coaxial machine gun began to chatter. "We shall rout out any Big Uglies lurking among the trees," Krentel declared with his usual grandiloquence.
For once, though, the commander's tone failed to grate on Ussmak. Krentel was actually doing something sensible. Ussmak cherished that when it happened. Had it happened more often, he might have been content even on this miserable, cold, wet ball of mud.
Machine-gun bullets whined less than a meter above Heinrich Jager's head. Had any leaves remained on the birch trees, the bullets would have shaken the last of them dow. As it was, he used the fallen leaves to help conceal himself from the Lizard-panzer firing from the open country ahead.
The wet ground and wet leaves soaked Jager's shabby clothes. Rain beat on his back and trickled down his neck. He suppressed a sneeze by main force. A round ricocheting from a tree trunk kicked mud up into his face.
Beside him, Georg Schultz let out a ghostly chuckle. "Well, Major, aren't you glad we never had to mess with this infantry shit before?"
"Now that you mention it, yes." It wasn't just the manifold discomforts of crawling around bare to the elements, either. Ja'ger felt naked and vulnerable without armor plate all around him. In his Panzer III, machine-gun bullets had been something to laugh at. Now they could pierce his precious, tender flesh as easily as anything else they happened to strike.
He raised his head a couple of centimeters, just enough to let him peer out at the Lizard panzer. It seemed sublimely indifferent to
anything a mere foot soldier could hope to do to it. All at once, Jager understood the despair his own tank must have induced in French and Russian infantry who'd tried and failed to stop it. The shoe was on the other foot now, sure enough.
One of the partisans who huddled with Jager might have been reading his mind. The fellow said, "Well, there it is, Comrade Major. What the fuck do we do about it?"
"For the time being, we wait," Jager answered. "Unless you're really keen on dying right now, that is."
"After what I've been through the last year and a half from your fucking Nazi bastards, dying is the least of my worries," the partisan answered.
Jager twisted his head to glare at the ally who would have been anything but a few months
before. The partisan, a skinny man with a gray-streaked beard and a big nose, glared back. Ja'ger said, "I find this as ironic as you do, believe me."
"Ironic?" The partisan raised bushy eyebrows. Ja'ger had trouble understanding him. He wasn't really speaking German at all, but Yiddish, and about every fourth word made the major stop and think. The Jew went on, "Fuck ironic. I asked God how things could be worse than they were with you Germans around, and He had to go and show me. Let it be a lesson to you, Comrade Nazi Major: never pray for something you don't really want, because you may get it anyhow."
"Right, Max," Ja'ger said, smiling a little in spite of himself. He hadn't fought side by side with any Jews since the First World War; he had no great use for them. But the Russian partisan band sprawled in the dripping woods with him was more than half Jewish. He
wondered whether the Ivans back in Moscow had set it up that way on purpose, to make sure the partisans didn't think about betraying Stalin. That made a certain amount of sense, but it was also likely to make a fighting unit less efficient than it would have been without mutual suspicion and, on the Jews' side, outright hatred.
The Lizard panzer's machine gun stopped spitting flame. It swung away from the woods; Ja'ger envied the turret's quick power traverse. If he'd had himself a machine like that, now, he could have accomplished something worthwhile. It was wasted on the Lizards, who, had h
ardly a clue about how to exploit it.
The tank wallowed forward through the mud. J a'ger had made the acquaintance of Russian mud the previous fall and spring. It had done its best to glue his Panzer III in one place for good; he was not altogether disappointed to watch it give the Lizards trouble, too.
His attention shifted from the tank to the trucks and soldiers it was guarding. The trucks, like any wheeled vehicles, were having a lot of trouble in the mud. The NKVD man back in Moscow had been right; they were unusually heavy. Every so often a Lizard soldier, looking even more alien than usual in a shiny gray suit that covered him from toe claws to crown, would go over and put something— at this distance, Ja'ger couldn't tell what— into the back of a truck.
/ hope we don't have to hijack a vehicle, he thought. Given the state of what the Russians, for lack of a suitably malodorous word, called roads, he wasn't sure the band could hijack a Lizard truck.