Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

“Are you paying attention, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir! Attention, yes, sir.” O’Shaughnessy started to lift his bulky three hundred pounds up off the ground. Terrence heaved with all his might against those thick khaki clad legs to knock him down again.

“Man, what are you doing?” he yelled.

“Attention, sir. Sir said….”

“No, no, O’Shaughnessy. I meant, listen to me. O’Shaughnessy, how could you? Haven’t I been like a brother to you? Didn’t I share my whiskey and candy ration with you?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why….”

“Then for the sake of your two headed frog-faced gods, shut up and listen to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look. In a minute our Banning will be in action,” his voice was drowned out by the scream of tortured air as the Banning cut loose. “Now there is a sweet sound. What do we do next, O’Shaughnessy?”

One of the row of buildings across the square glowed red briefly as the beam from the Blaster caught it; glowed red and then burst into a ball of fire. O’Shaughnessy’s mouth was open wide, his chinless face resting on the edge of the sandbox and his little black bead eyes were as large as they could get.

“What do we do now, O’Shaughnessy… come on….”

The Narakan made a thrusting gesture with his carbine, “Bayonet… we go in with bayonet now,” he said.

O’Mara slapped him on the seat of his khaki pants. “No, no. You got to get this stuff straight.”

The whine of the Banning interrupted him again and it was joined by the chatter of machine guns and rifle fire and answered by the rapid clacking of spring guns. Bolts dug into the wall of the schoolhouse and showered them with plaster. Others shattered the front window. Terrence wiped plaster off his visor and tried again. “You’ve got to get this straight, O’Shaughnessy, because… well, because you may be getting an independent command pretty soon and there won’t be anyone around to tell you what to do.”

The Narakan was listening to him but wide-mouthed and uncomprehending. “We’re going to burn them out of those huts; burn them out or burn the houses down over their heads. About the time Polasky gets to the third one, those guys are going to break and then they’ll either rush us or….”

Norton was yelling something from the Residency. There was a noise of clanking armor behind him and he could hear Fielding’s voice cracking out orders as he came up with twenty hastily armed and armored clerks, cooks and radiomen from the HQ unit.

“O’Mara! O’Mara, they’re breaking! They’re running! Let’s go!” Norton was on the porch of the Residency pouring Tommy gun slugs at the rear of the burning row of houses.

“Okay, let’s go,” Terrence said, lurching to his feet. The Narakan sergeant blew his whistle and the riflemen swarmed out from their shelters and started at a run across the square with Norton, Terrence and O’Shaughnessy at their head. The rest of the Terrans in full battle armor lumbered along after them.

One or two bolts whistled overhead and Corporal O’Brien dropped his rifle and fell forward clutching his leg. The smoke from the burning buildings obscured their vision but Terrence had a momentary sight of Rumi radiation clothing and emptied his clip at it.

Someone from behind threw a grenade which fell short of its target and rolled in front of them. Norton took two quick strides and kicked it into one of the flaming buildings.

III

There were about twenty Rumi, less than they had thought, fleeing across the open fields behind the burning huts. They were firing as they ran and giving out those queer yelping cries of theirs. Three or four of them fell and then Norton was shouting, calling back his men to organize fire fighting parties.

“Captain! Captain, let’s go after those guys. We can cut them off before they get to the grasslands,” Terrence yelled.

“Get your men after these fires, O’Mara. We can’t let them spread.”

There was nothing to do but obey but he delayed long enough to empty his automatic in the general direction of the fleeing Rumi. Then he turned and yelled, “Harrigan! Sergeant Harrigan! Where in the devil is that….” There was a crashing sound behind him and Harrigan stumbled through the smoke and came down on his foot, all three hundred pounds of him.

Later, as the last smoking embers of the fire were being smothered by industrious squads of Narakans with buckets and shovels, Terrence limped back across the square with Bill Fielding.

“We should have gone after those lousy scum,” Bill said, “They may cut back around the town again and give the battalion some trouble on the river road.”

“Don’t you think I know it! As fast as the Greenbacks can move when they want to, we could have caught the lot of them before they got into the grasslands. But Norton was worried about the fires! Of course, we’re going to burn all these buildings tomorrow or the next day but Norton was afraid the Residency would catch fire.”

“Probably didn’t want his sweetie’s fancy clothes to burn.”

“They got Wilson, you know.”

“Good Lord! Dead?”

“Right between the eyes. They almost got all four of us.”

Fielding took his heavy battle helmet off and pushed back the glass visor of his radiation helmet to wipe the perspiration and dirt off his face. “Well, maybe Norton didn’t want us to catch those damn cats. Maybe he figured he owed them that much.”

O’Mara shielded his eyes as he said, “Beta’s setting. It’ll be night in a couple of hours and we can walk around without this blasted radiation armor for a while.”

“Yeah, and we can start looking for a full scale night attack as soon as good old Alpha hides his hoary head.”

“If you see O’Shaughnessy, tell him I want to see him, will you? I’m going to stop at the schoolhouse for a few minutes.”

Surprise spread across Bill’s freckled face, “Not the school teacher? Not you! Buddy, you’ve been in Dust Bin too long. You’ve been on Naraka too long. You’ll be attending services at the Chapel next.”

Terrence muttered a few old Anglo-Saxon words under his breath and limped off in the direction of the school building.

The Reverend Ames Goodman was the smallest Narakan that Terrence had ever seen. The Johnathian missionary from Little Texas was somewhat under two hundred and fifty pounds which was slight for a Greenback. He also spoke the best English except for some of the big shots in New Chicago. Ordinarily he was a composite of superstitious reverence and natural dignity which Terrence had always found admirable. Today, however, he couldn’t have appeared more ludicrous if he had tried. He was dressed for a visit to the Residency in a white duck suit which was too small and out of which he bulged in a number of surprising places.

He and Joan Allen were talking half in English and half in Narakan as the lieutenant entered. The minister had a painfully surprised look on his round green face.

“I hope we didn’t bust up your school too much, Miss Allen.”

“If you are quite finished with your shooting and cursing, Lieutenant O’Mara, perhaps you have time to explain to Rev. Goodman and me what this talk about evacuation means.”

As she spoke, she brushed stray strands of black hair up under her radiation helmet. For the first time in the six months that she had been in charge of the orphan school in Dust Bin, Terrence decided that maybe she was pretty after all. He wasn’t sure whether it was the high color which excitement lent to her usually pale face or if Bill Fielding was right in saying he had been on Naraka too long, but Joan Allen was beginning to look good to him. At the moment the feeling wasn’t at all mutual.