He pressed the switch of the communicator but it was dead. They had, of course, transferred to some other wave length so he could not hear the commands. It was something he had already anticipated.
Fenrir and Sigyn were still obediently inside the doorway, almost frantic with desire to rejoin him. He spoke to them and they bounded out, snarling at three Gerns in passing and causing them to blanch to a dead-white color.
He set Tip on Sigyn’s shoulders and said, “Sigyn, there’s a job for you and Tip to do. A dangerous job. Listen—both of you … ”
The yellow eyes of Sigyn and the dark eyes of the little mocker looked into his as he spoke to them and accompanied his words with the strongest, clearest mental images he could project:
“Sigyn, take Tip to the not-men thing. Leave him hidden in the grass to one side of the big hole in it. Tip, you wait there. When the not-men come out you listen, and tell what they say.
“Now, do you both understand?”
Sigyn made a sound that meant she did but Tip clutched at his wrist with little paws suddenly gone cold and wailed, “
“You have to go, Tip,” he said, gently disengaging his wrist. “And Sigyn will hide near to you and watch over you.” He spoke to Sigyn. “When the horn calls you run back with him.”
Again she made the sound signifying understanding and he touched them both in what he hoped would not be the last farewell.
“All right, Sigyn—go now.”
She vanished into the gloom of coming night, Tip hanging tightly to her. Fenrir stood with the fur lifted on his shoulders and a half snarl on his face as he watched her go and watched the place where the not-men would appear.
“Where’s Freckles?” he asked Jimmy.
“Here,” someone said, and came forward with Tip’s mate.
He set Freckles on his shoulder and the first searchlight came on, shining down from high up on the cruiser. It lighted up the area around them in harsh white brilliance, its reflection revealing the black shadow that was Sigyn just vanishing behind the ship. Two more searchlights came on, to illuminate the town. Then the Gerns came. They poured out through the airlock and down the ramp, there to form in columns that marched forward as still more Gerns hurried down the ramp behind them. The searchlights gleamed on their battle helmets and on the blades of the bayonets affixed to their rifle-like long-range blasters. Hand blasters and grenades hung from their belts, together with stubby flame guns.
They were a solid mass reaching halfway to the stockade before the last of them, the commanding officers, appeared. One of them stopped at the foot of the ramp to watch the advance of the punitive force and give the frightened but faithful Tip the first words to transmit to Freckles:
“The full force is on its way, Commander.”
A reply came, in Freckles’ simulation of the metallic tones of the communicator:
“The key numbers of the confiscated blasters have been checked and the disturbance rays of the master integrator set. You’ll probably have few natives left alive to take as prisoners after those thirteen charges explode but continue with a mopping up job that the survivors will never forget.”
So the Gerns could, by remote control, set the total charges of stolen blasters to explode upon touching the firing stud? It was something new since the days of the Old Ones …
He called Chiara and the other groups, quickly, to tell them what he had learned. “We’ll get more blasters—ones they can’t know the numbers of—when we attack,” he finished. He took the blaster from his belt and laid it on the ground. The front ranks of the Gerns were almost to the wall by then, a column wider than the gap that had been blasted through it, coming with silent purposefulness.
Two blaster beams lanced down from the turrets, to smash at the wall. Dust billowed and thunder rumbled as they swept along. A full three hundred feet of the wall had been destroyed when they stopped and the dust hid the ship and made dim glows of the searchlights. It had no doubt been intended to impress them with the might of the Gerns but in doing so it hid the Ragnarok forces from the advancing Gerns for a few second.
“Jim—black out their lights before the dust clears,” he called. “Joe—the horn! We attack now!”
The first longbow arrow struck a searchlight and its glow grew dimmer as the arrow’s burden—a thin tube of thick lance tree ink—splattered against it. Another followed—
