'Nothing,' the smaller boy replied, and ducked to slip through between the rusty wire strands. He walked around the derelict baler, noticing a patch of red paint still adhering to the metal in an angle protected from the weather by an overhanging flange. At once, he envisioned the old machine as it was when it was new, pristine gleaming red.
'Come on,' Mick called, and the smaller boy hurried back to his side. Mick had halted before an inconspicuous narrow door set in the plain plastron paneling which sheathed the sides and rear of the museum. no admittance was lettered on the door.
'This here door,' the older boy said. 'All we got to do-' He broke off at the sound of a distant yell from the direction of the street. Both boys stiffened against the wall as if to merge into invisibility.
'Just old Smothers,' Mick said. 'Come on.' He turned to the door, grasped the latch lever with both hands, and lifted, straining.
'Hurry up, dummy,' he gasped. 'All you got to do is push. Buck told me.' The smaller boy hung back.
'What if we get caught?' he said in a barely audible voice, approaching hesitantly. Then he stepped in and put his weight against the door.
'You got to push hard,' Mick gasped. Dub put his back to the door, braced his feet, and pushed. With a creak, the panel swung inward. They slipped through into cavernous gloom, dimly lit by dying glare strips on the ceiling far above.
Near at hand, a transparent case displayed a uniform of antique cut, its vivid colors still bright through the dusty perspex.
' 'Uniform of a major of the Imperial Defense Force,' Mick read aloud. 'Boy,' he added, 'look at all the fancy braid, and see them gold eagles on the collar? That's what shows he's a major.'
'Where's his gun?' Dub asked, his eyes searching the case in vain for a weapon suitable to a warrior of such exalted rank.
'Got none,' Mick grunted. 'Prolly one of them what they call headquarters guys. My great-great-great-and-that grandpa was a sergeant. That's higher than a major. He had a gun.'
Dub had moved on to a display of colorful collar tabs, dull-metal rank and unit insignia, specimens of cuff braid, and a few elaborate decorations with bright-colored ribbons. 'Old Grandpa's medal's bigger'n them,' Mick commented.
Beyond the end of the long bank of cases, a stretch of only slightly dusty open floor extended to a high partition lined with maps that enclosed perhaps half the floor area. Bold legends identified the charts as those of the terrain which had been the site of the Big Battle. New Orchard was shown as a cluster of U-3 shelters just south of the scene of action.
' 'Big Battle,' ' Mick read aloud. 'Old Crawford says that's when we kicked the spodders out.' He glanced casually at the central map, went past it to the corner of the high partition.
'Yeah, everybody knows that,' Dub replied. 'But-' he looked around as if perplexed. 'You said-'
'Sure-it's in here,' Mick said, thumping the partition beside him. 'Buck seen it,' he added.
Dub came over, craning his neck to look up toward the top of the tall partition. 'I bet it's a hundred foot high,' he said reverently.
' 'Bout forty is all,' Mick said disparagingly. 'But that's high enough. Come on.' He went to the left, toward the dark corner where the tall partition met the exterior wall. Dub followed. A narrow door was set in the partition, inconspicuous in the gloom.
' 'Absolutely No Entry,' ' Mick read aloud, ignoring the smaller print below.
He tried the door; it opened easily, swinging in on deep gloom in which a presence loomed gigantic. Dub followed him in. Both boys stood silent, gazing up in awe at the cliff-like armored prow of iodine-colored flint steel, its still-bright polish marred by pockmarks, evidence of the hellish bombardment to which the old fighting machine had so often been subjected. The battered armor curved up to a black aperture from which projected the grimly businesslike snouts of twin infinite repeaters. Above the battery, a row of chrome-and-bright-enameled battle honors was welded in place, barely visible by the glints of reflected light. Mick advanced cautiously to a framed placard on a stand, and as usual read aloud to his preliterate friend.
' 'Bolo Horrendous, Combat Unit JNA of the Line, Mark XV, Model Y,' ' he read, pronouncing the numeral 'ex- vee.' ' This great engine of war, built anno 2615 at Detroit, Terra, was last deployed at Action 76392-a (near the village of New Orchard, on GPR 7203-C) in 2675 Old Style, against the aggressive Deng's attempt to occupy the planet. During this action, Unit JNA was awarded the Nova Citation, First Class. Its stand before the village having been decisive in preserving the town from destruction by enemy Yavac units, it was decided that the unit should be retired, deactivated, and fully preserved, still resting at the precise spot at which it had turned back the enemy offensive, as a monument to the sacrifices and achievements of all those, both human and Bolo, who held the frontier worlds for humanity.
'Gosh,' Dub commented fervently, his eyes seeking to penetrate the darkness which shrouded most of the impressive bulk of the ancient machine. 'Mick, do you think they could ever make old Jonah work again? Fix him up, so he could go again?'
'Don't see how,' Mick replied indifferently. 'Got no way to charge up its plates again. Don't worry. It ain't going no place.'
'Wisht he would,' Dub said yearningly, laying his small hand against the cold metal. 'Bet he was something!'
'Ain't nothing now,' Mick dismissed the idea. 'Jest a old museum piece nobody even gets to look at.'
I come to awareness after a long void in my conscious existence, realizing that I have felt a human touch! I recall at once that I am now operating on the last trickle of energy from my depleted storage cells. Even at final emergency-reserve low alert, I compute that soon even the last glimmer of light in my survival center will fade into nothingness. I lack energy even to assess my immediate situation. Has my commander returned at last? After the last frontal assault by the Yavac units of the enemy, in the fending off of which I expended my action emergency reserves, I recall that my commander ordered me to low alert status. The rest is lost. Sluggishly, I compute that over two centuries standard have elapsed, requiring.004 picoseconds for this simple computation. But now, abruptly, I am not alone. I cannot compute the nature of this unexpected intrusion on my solitude. Only my commander is authorized to approach me so closely. Jet somehow I doubt that it is he. In any case, I must expect a different individual to act in that honorable capacity today, considering humanity's limited longevity.
But this is guesswork. I am immobilized, near death, beset by strangers.
My ignorance is maddening. Have I fallen into the hands of the enemy…? Baffled, I turn to introspection…
I live again the moment of my initial activation and the manifold satisfaction of full self-realization. I am strong, I am brave, I am beautiful; I have a proud function and I perform it well.
Scanning on, I experience momentary flashes of vivid recollection: the exultation of the charge into the enemy guns; the clash of close combat, the pride of victory, the satisfaction of passing in review with my comrades of the Brigade after battle honors have been awarded… and many another moment up to the final briefing with my beloved commander. Then, the darkness and the silence- until now. Feebly, yet shockingly, again my proximity sensors signal movement within my kill zone.
There are faint sounds, at the edge of audibility. Abruptly, my chemically-powered self-defense system is activated and at once anti-personnel charges are triggered -but there is no response. My mechanical automatics have performed their programmed function, but to no avail; luckily, perhaps, since it may well be my new commanders presence to which they responded. I compute that deterioration of the complex molecules of the explosive charges has occurred over the centuries. Thus I am defenseless. It is a situation not to be borne. What affirmative action can I take?
By withdrawing awareness from all but my most elementary sensory circuitry, I am able to monitor further stealthy activity well within my inner security perimeter. I analyze certain atmospheric vibratory phenomena as human voices. Not that of my commander, alas, since after two hundred standard years he cannot have survived, but has doubtless long ago expired after the curious manner of humans; but surely his replacement has been appointed. I must not overlook the possibility-nay, the likelihood-that my new commandant has indeed come at last. Certainly, someone has come to me-
And since he has approached to that proximity reserved for my commander only, I compute a likelihood of.99964 that my new commander is now at hand. I make a mighty effort to acknowledge my recognition, but I
