identity and demonstrates his effectiveness. Now am I indeed ready for action.
'That there SWIFT machine'll punch through to Sector quicker'n Ned Sprat got religion, right, Mr. Davis?' the marshal said excitedly. 'Pulling all our pile's got to give, too.'
'The Shaped-Wave Interference Front Transmitter is capable of transfer of intelligence at hyper-L velocities,' Davis confirmed. 'Excuse me.' His voice changed, became urgent and level.
'Davis, Acting PR Station 316-C,' he rapped out. 'Unconfirmed report Deng activity at grid 161-220. Special to CINCSEC: In absence of follow-up capability, urge dispatch probe squad soonest.' The SWIFT unit buzzed as it transmitted the signal in a.02-picosecond burst, at full gain. The lights dimmed again, almost went out, then sprang up.
Again I receive a massive burst of Y radiation. The revived flow of energies in my main ego-gestalt circuitry bestows on me a sense of vast euphoria as I become aware again of long-forgotten functions-at an intensity still far below my usual operating level, but remarkably satisfying for all that. Once more I know the pride of being Unit JNA of the Line, and I thirst for action. Surely my commander will not disappoint me…?
'That ought to fetch 'em,' Marlowe said in a satisfied tone.
'Either that, or we've committed a capital offense,' Davis said soberly. 'But don't be alarmed, Marshal. As I said, I assume full responsibility.' He was interrupted by a brief clatter from the communication machine. Davis bent to read the message.
'Maybe I oughta jest head for the hills, jest in case,' Marlowe said. 'But I'd prolly run into them spodders, luck I have. What's Sector say, anyways?'
'Don't panic, Marshal,' Davis said sternly. ' 'Deng activity confirmed,' ' he summarized. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have further work to do before the meeting. Only ten minutes now.'
'Jest leavin',' Marlowe muttered. 'I got my own work to tend to.' The boys heard two sets of footsteps, then the door open and close.
After a moment, Dub moved close to Mick. 'I heard him say about them spodders,' he said in a small voice. 'Did Mr. Davis mean they come back?' He paused and looked around fearfully.
'Naw, said old Henry was drunk,' Mick assured shortly. 'We beat 'em good in the Big Battle. Come on.' He entered the sacrosanct office and looked around hesitantly.
'But what'd that mean?' Dub persisted. 'Bout 'Deng activity confirmed' and all?'
'Nothin. Jest the answer come in on the SWIFT. Let's take us a look at it.'
Dub followed reluctantly: he halted and gazed with awe at the glittering console when Mick removed the cover.
' 'Penalty for unauthorized use IAW CC 273-B1,' ' Mick read. 'Well, we ain't using it, jest looking. Come on. Let's go.'
'Where to?' Dub objected, hanging back.
'You heard what Davis said, about some big meeting,' Mick reminded his friend. 'Let's go hear what's happening.'
Dub objected, but weakly. He was still staring at the imposingly complex SWIFT console. An impressively thick, black-insulated cable led from the apparatus to disappear into a complicated wall fixture.
'See them lights dim when he fired her up, Mick?' Dub inquired rhetorically. 'Must be just about the powerfulest machine in the world.'
'Except for old Jonah,' Mick countered, pointing toward the partition with a tilt of his head. 'If he was on full charge, I mean.'
Dub picked up a strip of printout paper and showed it to Mick. 'Must be the answer that Davis got,' he commented.
' 'Deng incursion confirmed, grid 161/219,' ' Mick read. ' 'Estimate plus-ten hours offload and deploy, contingency plan 1-A, recommend evacuation scheme B instanter.. Mick's voice trailed off. 'Boy,' he said, 'the war's on again. Says to get out, leave Spivey's to the spodders. Must be gonna send in transport. No wonder they got a big meeting. Come on. They always have the big town meetings and that over to Kibbe's. We can get inside fore they get there and hide in the loft.'
'Naw.' Dub shook his head solemnly. 'Jest outside the winders, that's close enough.'
The boys exited by the back door after a quick look which showed the coast to be clear. They chose a route behind the warehouse next door to come up under a high, double-hung window set in the brick wall of Cy Kibbe's Feed and Grain Depot. Cautiously, they stole a quick look inside. They knew all the men sitting at the long table. Breathless, they listened:
'New Orchard ain't much, maybe,' the plump, fussy, but hard-eyed little mayor, an ex-softrock miner, said dully to his colleagues sitting slumped in the mismatched chairs along the former banquet table salvaged from the Jake's Palace Hotel and only slightly charred on one leg by the fire which years ago had completed the destruction of the old frame resort to which few, alas, had ever resorted.
'Like I said, the Orchard ain't much,' Kibbe continued, 'but it's ours, and it's up to us to defend it.'
'Defend it how, Cy?' someone called, a query seconded by a chorus of 'yeah's,' followed by muttering.
'Ain't got no army troops here, nor such as that,' Cy conceded. 'Got to do what we can our ownselfs.'
A tall, rangy man with a bad complexion rose and said, 'I say we put in a call to Sector, get a battle-wagon in here.' He looked challengingly at Davis. 'We got a right; we pay taxes same's anybody else.'
'They'd never send it, Jason,' a round-faced fellow named Cabot said, and thumped his pipe on a glass ashtray as if nailing the lid on the coffin of the idea.
'What we got to do,' interjected Fred Frink, a small unshaven chap who tended to gobble rather than speak, 'what we got to do, we got to put on a defense here'll get picked up on the SWIFT Network, get us some publicity; then we'll get them peace enforcers in here for sure.'
'Put on a defense, Freddy?' the fat man echoed sarcastically. 'What with?' He looked around for approval, rapped the ashtray again, and settled back like one who had done his duty.
'Got no weapons, nor such as that, nothing bigger'n a varmint gun,' the mayor repeated aggrievedly, and looked at Frink.
'Got old Jonah,' the whiskery man said and showed crooked teeth in a self-appreciative grin. 'Might skeer 'em off,' he added, netting snickers from along the table.
'Heard old Jonah can still kill anybody gets too close,' Cabot muttered, and looked around defiantly, relieved to see that his comment had been ignored.
'Gentlemen,' said Davis, who had been rapidly jotting notes, in a severe tone. He rose. 'I must remind you that this is a serious matter, nothing to joke about. In less than ten hours from now, the Deng will have completed their off-loading and will be ready to advance in battle array from Deep Cut. Sector advises us to evacuate the town. We can expect no help from that quarter. Unless something effective is done at once, the Deng will have rolled over the settlement well before this time tomorrow.' After a moment he added, 'With reference to Mr. Frink's japes, I remind you that Unit JNA is the property of the War Monuments Commission, which I have the honor to represent.' He sat, looking grim.
'Sure, sure, Mr. Davis, we know all that,' the mayor hastened to affirm with an ingratiating smile. 'But what we gonna do?'
'Now, no offense, Mr. Davis, sir, and don't laugh, boys, but I got a idear,' Frink put in quickly, in a furtive voice, as if he hoped he wasn't hearing himself.
'Treat it gentle, Freddy,' the plump fellow said lazily, and mimed puffing at his empty pipe.
'Way I see it,' Frink hurried on, stepping to the sketch map on the blackboard set up by the table. 'They're in Deep Cut, like Mr. Davis said, and they got only the one way out. If we's to block the Cut-say about here-' he sketched quickly '-by Dry Run, they'd be bottled up.'
'Just make 'em mad,' the fat man commented. 'Anyways, how are you going to block a canyon better'n a hundred yard wide, so's their big Yavacs can't climb out?'
'Easy part, Bub,' Frink put in glibly. 'We blast-got plenty smashite right here at Kibbe's. Plant it under the Rim, and the whole thing comes down. Time it right, we bury 'em.'
'You got a battalion of Rangers volunteered to plant the charges?' Bub Peterson queried, looking around for
