Chapter 5

“ ... The only weak spot in the Wabbly’s design,
apparently, was the necessity of using its entire
engine-power in the power-beam with which it protected
itself and its attendant bombers from aerial attack.
For a time, before New Brunswick, it was forced to
remain still, under fire, while it fought off and
destroyed an attacking fleet eight miles above it. With
sufficiently powerful artillery, it might have been
destroyed at that moment. But it was invulnerable to
the artillery available ... Deliberately false
statements were broadcast to reassure the public, but
the public was already skeptical, as it later became
incredulous, of official reports of victories. The
destruction of New Brunswick became known despite
official denials, and colossal riots broke out among
the inhabitants of the larger cities, intent upon
escape from defenseless towns ... Orders were actually
issued withdrawing a quarter of a million men from the
front-line reserve, with artillery in proportion to
their force.” (Strategic Lessons of the War of
1941-43.--U. S. War College. P. 92.)

The major-general left them at the town, now quite still and silent. Sergeant Walpole said detachedly:

“We’ll prob’ly find a portable sender, sir, an’ trail the Wabbly. That’s about all we can do, sir.”

“It looks,” said the major-general rather desperately, “as if that is all anybody can do. I’m going on to take command ahead.”

The ‘copter pilot said politely:

“Sir, if you’re going to sow mines for the Wabbly--”

“Of course!”

“That power-beam can explode them, sir, before the Wabbly gets to them. May I suggest, sir, that mine-cases with no metal in them at all would be worth trying?”

“Thank you,” said the major-general grimly. “I’ll have concrete ones made.”

Sergeant Walpole grunted suddenly.

“Look here, sir! The Wabbly stops when it uses that dinkus on top. This guy here says it uses a lotta power--four or five thousan’ horsepower.”

“More likely ten or twenty,” said the ‘copter pilot.

“Maybe,” said Sergeant Walpole profoundly, “it takes all the power they got to work that dinkus. They were workin’ it just now when the artillery was slammin’ ‘em. So next time you want to tackle it, stick a flock o’ bombs around an’ attack the bombers too. If they’re kept busy down below, maybe the planes can get the bombers, or otherwise they’ll get a chance to use a big gun on the Wabbly.”

The major-general nodded.

“We four,” he observed, “are the only living men who’ve actually seen the Wabbly and gotten away. I shall use both your suggestions. And I shall not send those orders by radio--not even tight beam radio. I’ll carry them myself. Good luck!”

A non-commissioned officer of the Eastern Coast Observation Force and a yet uncommissioned flying cadet waved a cheerful good-by to the major-general in charge of home defense in three states. Then they went on into the town.

“Monocycles first,” said Sergeant Walpole. “An’ a sender.”

The ‘copter man nodded. The street-lights of the town dimmed and brightened. The Wabbly had paused only to create havoc, not to produce utter chaos. It had gone back and forth over the town two or three times, spewing out gas as it went. But most of the town was still standing, and the power-house had not been touched. Only its untended Diesels had checked before a fuel-pump cleared.

They found a cycle-shop, its back wall bulged in by wreckage against it. Sergeant Walpole inspected its wares expertly. A voice began to speak suddenly. A television set had somehow been turned on by the crash that bulged the back wall.

“The monster tank has been held in check,” said a smug voice encouragingly. “Encountered by home-defense troops and artillery, it proved unable to face shell-fire...”

“Liars!” said the ‘copter man calmly. He picked up the nearest loose object and flung it into the bland face of the official news-announcer. The television set went dead, but there were hissings and sputterings in its interior. He had flung a Bissel battery at it, one of a display-group, and its high-tension terminals hissed and sparked among the stray wires in the cabinet.

“That makes me mad,” said the ‘copter man grimly. “Lying for morale! The other side murders our civilians to break down morale, and our side lies about it to build morale back up again. To hell with morale!”

Sergeant Walpole reached in and pulled out the battery. Bissel batteries turn out six hundred volts these days, and they make a fat spark when short-circuited.

“For Gawd’s sake!” said Sergeant Walpole. “If they can pick up sparks from a motor, can’t they pick ‘em up from this? What the hell y’doin’? Y’want ‘em droppin’ eggs on us? Say!”

He stopped short, his eyes burning. He began to talk, suddenly groping for words while he waved the high-powered small battery in his hand. The helicopter man listened, at first skeptically and then with an equally hungry enthusiasm.

“Sergeant,” he said evenly, “that’s an idea! A whale of an idea! A hell of a fine idea! Let’s get some rockets!”