“This should be a rich conquest,” Ransisc said.
Something swift, metallic, and predator-lean flashed past the observation window. “By the gods, they do have fliers, don’t they?” Togram said. In spite of the pilots’ claims, deep down he hadn’t believed it until he saw it for himself.
He noticed Ransisc’s ears twitching impatiently, and realized he really had spent too much time in the observation room. He picked up his glowmite lantern and went back to his troopers.
A couple of them gave him a resentful look for being away so long, but he cheered them up by passing on as much as he could about their landing site. Common soldiers loved nothing better than inside information. They second-guessed their superiors without it, but the game was even more fun when they had some idea of what they were talking about.
A runner appeared in the doorway. “Captain Togram, your company will planet from airlock three.”
“Three,” Togram acknowledged, and the runner trotted off to pass orders to other ground troop leaders. The captain put his plumed hat on his head (the plume was scarlet, so his company could recognize him in combat), checked his pistols one last time, and ordered his troopers to follow him.
The reeking darkness was as oppressive in front of the inner airlock door as anywhere else aboard the
He felt the slightest of jolts as the
Another jolt came, different from the one before. They were down.
A shadow spread across the UCLA campus. Craning his neck, Junior said. “Will you look at the size of the mother!” He had been saying that to the last five minutes, as the starship slowly descended.
Each time, Billy Cox could only nod. his mouth dry, his hands clutching the plastic grip and cool metal barrel of his rifle. The Neo-Armalite seemed totally impotent against the huge bulk floating so arrogantly downward. The alien flying machines around it were as minnows beside a whale, while they in turn dwarfed the USAF planes circling at a greater distance. The roar of their jets assailed the ears of the nervous troops and civilians on the ground. The aliens’ engines were eerily silent.
The starship landed in the open quad between New Royce, New Haines, New Kinsey, and New Powell Halls. It towered higher than any of the two-story red brick buildings, each a reconstruction of one overthrown in the earthquake of 2034. Cox heard saplings splinter under the weight of the alien craft. He wondered what it would have done to the big trees that had fallen five years ago along with the famous old halls.
“All right, they’ve landed. Let’s move on up,” Lieutenant Shotton ordered. He could not quite keep the wobble out of his voice, but he trotted south toward the starship. His platoon followed him past Dickson Art Center, past New Bunche Hall. Not so long ago, Billy Cox had walked this campus barefoot. Now his boots thudded on concrete.
The platoon deployed in front of Dodd Hall, looking west toward the spacecraft. A little breeze toyed with the leaves of the young, hopeful trees planted to replace the stalwarts lost to the quake.
“Take as much cover as you can,” Lieutenant Shotton ordered quietly. The platoon scrambled into flowerbeds, snuggled down behind thin treetrunks. Out on Hilgard Avenue, diesels roared as armored fighting vehicles took positions with good lines of fire.
It was all such a waste, Cox thought bitterly. The thing to do was to make friends with the aliens, not to assume automatically they were dangerous.
Something, at least, was being done along those lines. A delegation came out of Murphy Hall and slowly walked behind a white flag from the administration building toward the starship. At the head of the delegation was the mayor of Los Angeles: the President and governor were busy elsewhere. Billy Cox would have given anything to be part of the delegation instead of sprawled here on his belly in the grass. If only the aliens had waited until he was fifty or so, had given him a chance to get established—
Sergeant Amoros nudged him with an elbow. “Look there, man. Something’s happening—”
Amoros was right. Several hatchways which had been shut were swinging open, allowing Earth’s air to mingle with the ship’s.
The westerly breeze picked up. Cox’s nose twitched. He could not name all the exotic odors wafting his way, but he recognized sewage and garbage when he smelled them. “God, what a stink!” he said.
“By the gods, what a stink!” Togram exclaimed. When the outer airlock doors went down, he had expected real fresh air to replace the stale, overused gases inside the Indomitable. This stuff smelled like smoky peat fires, or lamps whose wicks hadn’t quite been extinguished. And it stung! He felt the nictitating membranes flick across his eyes to protect them.
“Deploy!” he ordered, leading his company forward. This was the tricky part. If the locals had nerve enough, they could hit the Roxolani just as the latter were corning out of their ship, and cause all sorts of trouble. Most races without hyperdrive, though, were too overawed by the arrival of travelers from the stars to try anything like that. And if they didn’t do it fast, it would be too late.
They weren’t doing it here. Togram saw a few locals, but they were keeping a respectful distance. He wasn’t sure how many there were. Their mottled skins—or was that clothing’?—made them hard to notice and count. But they were plainly warriors, both by the way they acted and by the weapons they bore.
His own company went into its familiar two-line formation, the first crouching, the second standing and aiming their muskets over the heads of the troops in front.
“Ah, there we go,” Togram said happily. The bunch approaching behind the white banner had to be the local nobles. The mottling, the captain saw, was clothing, for these beings wore entirely different garments, somber except for strange, narrow neckcloths. They were taller and skinnier than Roxolani, with muzzleless faces.
“Ilingua!” Togram called. The veteran trooper led the right flank squad of the company.
“Sir!”
“Your troops, quarter-right face. At the command, pick off the leaders there. That will demoralize the rest,” Togram said, quoting standard doctrine.
“Slowmatches ready!” Togram said. The Roxolani lowered the smoldering cords to the toucholes of their muskets. “Take your aim!” The guns moved, very slightly. “Fire!”
“Teddy bears!” Sandy Amoros exclaimed. The same thought had leaped into Cox’s mind. The beings emerging from the spaceship were round, brown, and furry, with long noses and big ears. Teddy bears, however, did not normally carry weapons. They also, Cox thought, did not commonly live in a place that smelled like sewage. Of course it might have been perfume to them. But if it was, they and Earthpeople were going to have trouble getting along.
He watched the Teddy bears as they took their positions. Somehow their positioning did not suggest that they were forming an honor guard for the mayor and his party. Yet it did look familiar to Cox, although he could not quite figure out why.
Then he had it. If he had been anywhere but at UCLA, he would not have made the connection. But he remembered a course he had taken on the rise of the European nation-states in the sixteenth century. and on the importance of the professional, disciplined armies the kings had created. Those early armies had performed evolutions like this one.
It was a funny coincidence. He was about to mention it to his sergeant when the world blew up.
Flames spurted from the aliens’ guns. Great gouts of smoke puffed into the sky. Something that sounded like an angry wasp buzzed past Cox’s ear. He heard shouts and shrieks from either side. Most of the mayor’s delegation was down, some motionless, others thrashing.
There was a crash from the starship, and another one an instant later as a roundshout smashed into the brickwork of Dodd Hall. A chip stung Cox in the back of the neck. The breeze brought him the smell of fireworks, one he had not smelled for years.
“Reload!” Togram yelled. “Another volley, then at ’em with the bayonet!” His troopers worked frantically,
