them dumped its load and rattled off at top speed. A second followed, still weighed down with tungsten. A Detroit search-bug caught up with it, spun directly in its path and neatly overturned it. Bug and cart rolled down a shallow trench, into a stagnant pool of water. Dripping and glistening, the two of them struggled, half submerged.
'Well,' O'Neill said unsteadily, 'we did it. We can start back home.' His legs felt weak. 'Where's our vehicle?'
As he gunned the truck motor, something flashed a long way off, something large and metallic, moving over the dead slag and ash. It was a dense clot of carts, a solid expanse of heavy-duty ore carriers racing to the scene. Which factory were they from?
It didn't matter, for out of the thick tangle of black dripping vines, a web of counter-extensions was creeping to meet them. Both factories were assembling their mobile units. From all directions, bugs slithered and crept, closing in around the remaining heap of tungsten. Neither factory was going to let needed raw material get away; neither was going to give up its find. Blindly, mechanically, in the grip of inflexible directives, the two opponents labored to assemble superior forces.
'Come on,' Morrison said urgently. 'Let's get out of here. All hell is bursting loose.'
O'Neill hastily turned the truck in the direction of the settlement. They began rumbling through the darkness on their way back. Every now and then, a metallic shape shot by them, going in the opposite direction.
'Did you see the load in that last cart?' Ferine asked, worried. 'It wasn't empty.'
Neither were the carts that followed it, a whole procession of bulging supply carriers directed by an elaborate high-level surveying unit.
'Guns,' Morrison said, eyes wide with apprehension. 'They're taking in weapons. But who's going to use them?'
'They are,' O'Neill answered. He indicated a movement to their right. 'Look over there. This is something we hadn't expected.'
They were seeing the first factory representative move into action.
As the truck pulled into the Kansas City settlement, Judith hurried breathlessly toward them. Fluttering in her hand was a strip of metal-foil paper.
'What is it?' O'Neill demanded, grabbing it from her.
'Just come.' His wife struggled to catch her breath. 'A mobile car raced up, dropped it off and left. Big excitement. Golly, the factory's a blaze of lights. You can see it for miles.'
O'Neill scanned the paper. It was a factory certification for the last group of settlement-placed orders, a total tabulation of requested and factory-analyzed needs. Stamped across the list in heavy black type were six foreboding words:
ALL SHIPMENTS SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
Letting out his breath harshly, O'Neill handed the paper over to Ferine. 'No more consumer goods,' he said ironically, a nervous grin twitching across his face. 'The network's going on a wartime footing.'
'Then we did it?' Morrison asked haltingly.
'That's right,' O'Neill said. Now that the conflict had been sparked, he felt a growing, frigid terror. 'Pittsburgh and Detroit are in it to the finish. It's too late for us to change our minds, now — they're lining up allies.'
IV
Cool morning sunlight lay across the ruined plain of black metallic ash. The ash smoldered a dull, unhealthy red; it was still warm.
'Watch your step,' O'Neill cautioned. Grabbing hold of his wife's arm, he led her from the rusty, sagging truck, up onto the top of a pile of strewn concrete blocks, the scattered remains of a pillbox installation. Earl Ferine followed, making his way carefully, hesitantly.
Behind them, the dilapidated settlement lay spread out, a disorderly checkerboard of houses, buildings and streets. Since the autofac network had closed down its supply and maintenance, the human settlements had fallen into semibarbarism. The commodities that remained were broken and only partly usable. It had been over a year since the last mobile factory truck had appeared, loaded with food, tools, clothing and repair parts. From the flat expanse of dark concrete and metal at the foot of the mountains, nothing had emerged in their direction.
Their wish had been granted — they were cut off, detached from the network.
On their own.
Around the settlement grew ragged fields of wheat and tattered stalks of sun-baked vegetables. Crude handmade tools had been distributed, primitive artifacts hammered out with great labor by the various settlements. The settlements were linked only by horsedrawn carts and by the slow stutter of the telegraph key.
They had managed to keep their organization, though. Goods and services were exchanged on a slow, steady basis. Basic commodities were produced and distributed. The clothing that O'Neill and his wife and Earl Ferine wore was coarse and unbleached, but sturdy. And they had managed to convert a few of the trucks from gasoline to wood.
'Here we are,' O'Neill said. 'We can see from here.'
'Is it worth it?' Judith asked, exhausted. Bending down, she plucked aimlessly at her shoe, trying to dig a pebble from the soft hide sole. 'It's a long way to come, to see something we've seen every day for thirteen months.'
'True,' O'Neill admitted, his hand briefly resting on his wife's limp shoulder. 'But this may be the last. And that's what we want to see.'
In the gray sky above them, a swift circling dot of opaque black moved. High, remote, the dot spun and darted, following an intricate and wary course. Gradually, its gyrations moved it toward the mountains and the bleak expanse of bomb-rubbled structure sunk in their base.
'San Francisco,' O'Neill explained. 'One of those long-range hawk projectiles, all the way from the West Coast.'
'And you think it's the last?' Ferine asked.
'It's the only one we've seen this month.' O'Neill seated himself and began sprinkling dried bits of tobacco into a trench of brown paper. 'And we used to see hundreds.'
'Maybe they have something better,' Judith suggested. She found a smooth rock and tiredly seated herself. 'Could it be?'
Her husband smiled ironically. 'No. They don't have anything better.'
The three of them were tensely silent. Above them, the circling dot of black drew closer. There was no sign of activity from the flat surface of metal and concrete; the Kansas City factory remained inert, totally unresponsive. A few billows of warm ash drifted across it and one end was partly submerged in rubble. The factory had taken numerous direct hits. Across the plain, the furrows of its subsurface tunnels lay exposed, clogged with debris and the dark, water-seeking tendrils of tough vines.
'Those damn vines,' Ferine grumbled, picking at an old sore on his unshaven chin. 'They're taking over the world.'
Here and there around the factory, the demolished ruin of a mobile extension rusted in the morning dew. Carts, trucks, search-bugs, factory representatives, weapons carriers, guns, supply trains, subsurface projectiles, indiscriminate parts of machinery mixed and fused together in shapeless piles. Some had been destroyed returning to the factory; others had been contacted as they emerged, fully loaded, heavy with equipment. The factory itself — what remained of it — seemed to have settled more deeply into the earth. Its upper surface was barely visible, almost lost in drifting ash.
In four days, there had been no known activity, no visible movement of any sort.
'It's dead,' Ferine said. 'You can see it's dead.'
O'Neill didn't answer. Squatting down, he made himself comfortable and prepared to wait. In his own mind, he was sure that some fragment of automation remained in the eroded factory. Time would tell. He examined his
