On the TV-screen, the Residency area was ablaze with light, and so were the ship-docks, the airport and spaceport, the shops, and the maintenance-yard. On the terrain-board, the latter was now marked as completely in Company hands. The ruins of the native-troops barracks were still burning, and there was a twinkle of orange-red here and there among the ruins of the labor-camp. Much of the equipment for the polar mines had already been shifted into defensible ground. The rest of the circle was dark, except for the distant lights of Skilk, where the nuclear power plant was apparently still functioning in native hands.
Then, without warning, a spot of white light blazed into being southeast of the Company area and southwest of Skilk, followed by another and another. Instantly, von Schlichten glanced up at the row of smaller screens, and on one of them saw the view as picked up by a patrolling airjeep.
The army of King Firkked of Skilk had finally put in its appearance, coming in two columns, one southward from Skilk and the other northward along the west bank of the dry river. The former had crossed over and joined the latter, about three miles south of the Reservation. The scene in the screen was similar to the one he had, himself, witnessed through his armament-sight. The Skilkan regulars had been marching in formation, some on the road and some along parallel lanes and paths. They had the look of trained and disciplined troops, but they had made the same mistake as the rabble that had been shot up on the north side of the Reservation. Unused to attack from the air, they had all halted in place and were gaping open-mouthed, their opal teeth gleaming in the white flare-light. However, before the aircar had passed over them, the lead company of one regiment, armed with Terran rifles, had begun firing.
In the big screen, it could be seen that Colonel Jarman had thrown most of his available contragravity at them, including the combat-cars, that had already started to form the second wave of the attack on the mob to the north. Other flares bloomed in the darkness, and the fiery trails of rockets curved downward to end in yellow flashes on the ground.
The airjeep with the pickup circled back; the troops on the road and in the adjoining fields had broken. The former were caught between the fences which made Ulleran roads such deathtraps when under air-attack. The latter had dispersed, and were running away, individually and by squads; at first, it looked like a panic, but he could see officers signaling to the larger groups of fugitives to open out, apparently directing the flight. By this time, there were ten or twelve combat-cars and about twenty airjeeps at work. In the moving view from the pickup-jeep, he saw what looked like a 90 mm rocket land in the middle of a company that was still trying to defend itself with small-arms fire on the road, wiping out about half of them.
“Make the most of it, boys,” Barney Mordkovitz, his mouth full of sandwich, was saying. “Heave it to them; you won’t get another chance like that at those buggers.”
“Why not?” Colonel Paula Quinton wanted to know. Her military education was progressing, but it still had a few gaps to fill in.
“The next time they’re air-struck, they won’t stay bunched,” Mordkovitz replied. “A lot of them didn’t stay bunched this time, if you noticed. And they’ll keep out from between the fences.”
In the large screen, a quick succession of gun-flashes leaped up from the direction of the Hoork River and shells began bursting over the scene of the attack. The screen tuned to the pickup on the airjeep went dead; in the big screen, there was a twinkling of falling fire. Almost at once, thirty or forty rocket-trails converged on the gun-position, and, for a moment, explosions burned like a bonfire.
“They had a 75 mm at the rear of the column,” somebody called from the big switchboard. “Lieutenant Kalanang’s jeep was hit; Lieutenant Vermaas is cutting in his pickup on the same wavelength.”
The small screen lighted again. In the big screen, a cluster of magnesium-lights appeared above where the Skilkan gun had been; in the small screen, there was a stubbled grainfield, pocked with craters, and the bodies of fifteen or twenty natives, all rather badly mangled. An overturned and apparently destroyed 75 mm gun lay on its side.
Five or six fairly large fires had broken out, by this time, around the point of attack. Von Schlichten nodded approvingly.
“I was wondering how long it’d take somebody to think of that,” he said. “Granaries and forage-stacks on some of these farms. They’ll burn for half an hour, at least.” He looked at his watch. “And by that time, it’ll be daylight.”
“As far as we know, that was the only 75 mm gun Firkked had,” Colonel Cheng-Li said. “He has at least six, possibly ten, 40 mm’s. It’s a wonder we haven’t seen anything of them.”
“Well, there’s no way of being sure,” Jules Keaveney said, “but I have an idea they’re all at or around the Palace. Firkked knows about how much contragravity we have. He’s probably wondering why we aren’t bombing him, now.”
“He doesn’t know we’ve sold the Palace to King Jonkvank for an army,” von Schlichten said. “And that reminds me—how much contragravity could Firkked
