cocked at extreme elevation. Presently, Freiburg reported: “Our shells are falling short. We can’t reach him. He’s stopped just out of range. He’s going to shoot us up from there.”
Another boom, another wail rising to a scream. Another cracking explosion. It was still plus, but nearer this time.
Sparks looked sideways at George. His eyes were round and scared above the red-blotched handkerchief he pressed to his face. They confirmed silently what George was thinking: the range was being corrected and it was only a matter of time…
A new sound tore at their nerves. The rockets of the armored HQ were blasting. They felt the vibration of the ground as it began to move off. They all—even Sparks—scrambled up to see whether it was abandoning them, moving out of range.
But, vents roaring, wheels racing, it was shooting straight as an arrow towards the dim bulk of the giant tank.
Far from abandoning them, it was championing them.
Emotionally wrought up as he was, George felt an odd lump arise in his throat. It was David against Goliath, but mad, useless courage in this case. The monster tank was far too big and heavy to be overthrown, as the midget tank had been, by the sheer impetus of the HQ. If it tried that, the HQ would only smash itself to pieces like a boat splintering on a rock. George thought, no, it won’t do a fool thing like that. It’s just aiming to be of nuisance value. It’ll worry the monster, like a dog worrying a bear. It’ll keep throwing it off its aim, using its own far superior speed to keep itself out of danger.
Using unsuspected small quick-firing guns, the huge tank opened up on the thing rocketing towards it. The HQ drove through this crackling gunfire unchecked. It veered out to the right, as though it were going to bypass the big tank. Then it swung around sharply and made a flanking attack. Its sharp nose caught the tank squarely in the side. There was a flash of white light which seemed to rive both heaven and earth. While the watchers were temporarily blinded, the blast wave hit them and bowled them over like so many ten-pins.
They picked themselves up, dazed. Thunderous echoes of explosion were repeating themselves endlessly around the horizon.
Sparks needed immediate medical attention. His lower lip was just raw flesh now, like a burst tomato. He was moaning with the pain of it. Off came Freiburg’s shirt again. This time he ripped it into rough bandages. Between them they made a good job of binding the radio-operator’s jaw, though it meant gagging him.
When they took a look at the wreck of the giant tank, it was blazing like a great bonfire. Both its tracks had been blown clean off, and its turret lay in two pieces maybe half a kilo away. Its gun was broken off short as though it were a stick of chalk. There was a jagged crack down the thick frontal armor-plate. It was just a mass of scrap metal.
By some freak, one wheel of the HQ had been blown back in their direction. It lay out there in the middle distance isolated from other general debris. It appeared to be the only remaining trace of the HQ, and to George at least there was a poignant touch obout this.
The small tanks which had sheltered behind their champion had been scattered like rubbish in a gale. Those which had survived intact had fled out of sight.
Their own guard of white circle tanks had lapsed into silence and disinterestedness.
The skipper turned from surveying the battlefield, and was obviously moved. He said to George; “They were really great guys. They were riding a cargo of dynamite. They knew it and didn’t care so long as they knocked out the big fellow. Their fuel tanks burst, I guess.”
George said: “And we’ll never even know who they were… if they existed.”
“What’s that?” said Freiburg, sharply.
“Well, we’re only surmising that the thing had a crew, aren’t we?”
“I’ll stake my life there were people in there who knew just what they were doing,” said the skipper, stubbornly.
George didn’t argue. For one thing, you can’t argue without knowing the facts. For another, it was obvious that Freiburg had an emotional need to believe that there were Venusians on his side, faithful unto death, that the whole planet wasn’t hostile towards the men from Earth. That belief had lifted him from despair, had given him some faith back. What did it matter if the belief was right or wrong, so long as it sustained him? He could be right, anyhow. They inspected their space-ship inside and out. Things had been pretty badly shaken up, but the only thing beyond ultimate repair was the radio apparatus. The fins were grotesquely crumpled, but could be straightened out on the portable workbenches, given time.
After that, the great problem would be to get the ship back to standing vertically on its tail in the blastoff position.
“If only we had some winches,” said Freiburg.
