To Prime the Pump - A. Bertram Chandler [55]
It was like something from one of the History of Warfare films that the cadets had been shown at the Academy. It reminded him of an aerial dogfight-over the battlefields of Flanders in the Kaiser's War. There was the rogue, larger than its assailants, brilliantly enameled in orange and scarlet. There were Marlene's two watchbirds, metallically glittering in the sunlight. They were diving and feinting, soaring up and away, diving again. All that was missing was the rattle of machine-gun fire. Contemptuously, the experimental model bore on, ignoring its smaller adversaries. And then one of them, coming up from below while its companion drove in from above, struck the rogue at the juncture of starboard wing with body, oversetting it. It fell out of control, almost to the ground, and then with a frantic fluttering of gaudy pinions somehow made a recovery. There was a burst of bright flame at its tail, a puff of smoke. It went up, almost vertically, like a rocket.
It was a rocket, a rocket with a brain and with the instincts of a bird of prey . . . and with the armament, miniaturized but still deadly, of a minor warship.
The two watchbirds, which had gained altitude, plunged to meet it. From the nose of the rogue came an almost invisible flicker, and the nearer of the airborne guardians burst at once into flames, exploded in blinding blue fire. The other one was hit, too, but only part of its tail was shorn away. It dived racing its burning companion to the surface, recovered and came up again. The rogue spread its wings and turned in the air to meet the attack.
The watchbird climbed slowly, slowly, unsteadily. It must have been damaged more than superficially by the slashing blade of radiation that had almost missed it. But still it climbed, and the rogue just hung there, waiting, swinging about its short axes, deliberately sighting.
There was another flicker from the vicinity of its beak, and its crippled antagonist was no more (and no less) than a bundle of coruscating, smoking wreckage drifting groundwards.
"Laser . . ." whispered Grimes. "The bloody thing's got laser!"
"We must run!" For the first time there was fear in Marlene's voice, the fear of one who has seen her impregnable defenses fall before superior, overwhelming fire power. Grimes knew how she must feel. He had felt the same way himself, as everybody has felt when faced with the failure of foolproof, everything proof mechanisms. "We must run!"
"Where to? That thing'll pick us off faster than you picked off the fire pheasants." He grabbed her arm before she could stumble away in panic flight. "Cover!" he shouted. "That's the answer."
"The miniwagon!" So she was thinking again.
"No." He could visualize the thing's machinery exploding as the mechanism of the watchbirds had exploded. He pulled her to one of the outcroppings of rock, about five feet high. It wasn't very good but it was better than nothing. He and the girl dropped behind it as the rogue screamed over, using its rocket drive, firing its laser gun. There was an explosion of smoke and dust and splinters from the top of the boulder.
"Quick!" cried Grimes. "Before it can turn!" He got to his feet, yanked the girl to hers, dragged her around to the other side of the outcropping. He unslung his gun. His pistol would not have been a better weapon, it didn't have the range or the spread. There was always the chance that the shotgun pellets would find some vital spot. It was a slim one, he knew, but . . .
The rogue seemed to be having trouble in turning. It came round at last, lined up for the natural fortification (such as it was). It drove in, its laser beam scoring a smoldering furrow in the turf. Unless it lifted its sights, Grimes knew that he was safe until the last moment, or he hoped that he was safe. He stood his ground.
Now!
A left and a right, the noise of the explosions deafening