should we do?" Hendricks said.
"Send a man out."
"You don't think it's a trap?"
"It might be. But the location they give for their forward command iscorrect. It's worth a try, at any rate."
"I'll send an officer out. And report the results to you as soon as hereturns."
"All right, Major." Thompson broke the connection. The screen died. Upabove, the antenna came slowly down.
Hendricks rolled up the paper, deep in thought.
"I'll go," Leone said.
"They want somebody at policy level." Hendricks rubbed his jaw."Policy level. I haven't been outside in months. Maybe I could use alittle air."
"Don't you think it's risky?"
Hendricks lifted the view sight and gazed into it. The remains of theRussian were gone. Only a single claw was in sight. It was foldingitself back, disappearing into the ash, like a crab. Like some hideousmetal crab....
"That's the only thing that bothers me." Hendricks rubbed his wrist."I know I'm safe as long as I have this on me. But there's somethingabout them. I hate the damn things. I wish we'd never invented them.There's something wrong with them. Relentless little--"
"If we hadn't invented them, the Ivans would have."
Hendricks pushed the sight back. "Anyhow, it seems to be winning thewar. I guess that's good."
"Sounds like you're getting the same jitters as the Ivans." Hendricksexamined his wrist watch. "I guess I had better get started, if I wantto be there before dark."
* * * * *
He took a deep breath and then stepped out onto the gray, rubbledground. After a minute he lit a cigarette and stood gazing around him.The landscape was dead. Nothing stirred. He could see for miles,endless ash and slag, ruins of buildings. A few trees without leavesor branches, only the trunks. Above him the eternal rolling clouds ofgray, drifting between Terra and the sun.
Major Hendricks went on. Off to the right something scuttled,something round and metallic. A claw, going lickety-split aftersomething. Probably after a small animal, a rat. They got rats, too.As a sort of sideline.
He came to the top of the little hill and lifted his fieldglasses. TheRussian lines were a few miles ahead of him. They had a forwardcommand post there. The runner had come from it.
A squat robot with undulating arms passed by him, its arms weavinginquiringly. The robot went on its way, disappearing under somedebris. Hendricks watched it go. He had never seen that type before.There were getting to be more and more types he had never seen, newvarieties and sizes coming up from the underground factories.
Hendricks put out his cigarette and hurried on. It was interesting,the use of artificial forms in warfare. How had they got started?Necessity. The Soviet Union had gained great initial success, usualwith the side that got the war going. Most of North America had beenblasted off the map. Retaliation was quick in coming, of course. Thesky was full of circling disc-bombers long before the war began; theyhad been up there for years. The discs began sailing down all overRussia within hours after Washington got it.
* * * * *
But that hadn't helped Washington.
The American bloc governments moved to the Moon Base the first year.There was not much else to do. Europe was gone; a slag heap with darkweeds growing from the ashes and bones. Most of North America wasuseless; nothing could be planted, no one could live. A few millionpeople kept going up in Canada and down in South America. But duringthe second year Soviet parachutists began to drop, a few at first,then more and more. They wore the first really effectiveanti-radiation equipment; what was left of American production movedto the moon along with the governments.
All but the troops. The remaining troops stayed behind as best theycould, a few thousand here, a platoon there. No one knew exactly wherethey were; they stayed where they could, moving around at night,hiding in ruins, in sewers, cellars, with the rats and snakes. Itlooked as if the Soviet Union had the war almost won. Except for ahandful of projectiles fired off from the moon daily, there was almostno weapon in use against them. They came and went as they pleased. Thewar, for all practical purposes, was over. Nothing effective opposedthem.
* * * * *
And then the first claws appeared. And overnight the complexion of thewar changed.
The claws were awkward, at first. Slow. The Ivans knocked them offalmost as fast as they crawled out of their underground tunnels. Butthen they got better, faster and more cunning. Factories, all onTerra, turned them out. Factories a long way under ground, behind theSoviet lines, factories that had once made atomic projectiles, nowalmost forgotten.
The claws got faster, and they got bigger. New types appeared, somewith feelers, some that flew. There were a few jumping kinds.
The best technicians on the moon were working on designs, making themmore and more intricate, more flexible. They became uncanny; the Ivanswere having a lot of trouble with them. Some of the little claws werelearning to hide themselves, burrowing down into the ash, lying inwait.
And then they started getting into the Russian bunkers, slipping downwhen the lids were raised for air and a look around. One claw inside abunker, a churning sphere of blades and metal--that was enough. Andwhen one got in others followed. With a weapon like that the warcouldn't go on much longer.
Maybe it was already over.
Maybe he was going to hear the news. Maybe the Politburo had decidedto throw in the sponge. Too bad it had taken so long. Six years. Along time for war like that, the way they had waged it. The automaticretaliation discs, spinning down all over Russia, hundreds ofthousands of them. Bacteria crystals. The Soviet guided missiles,whistling through the air. The chain bombs. And now this, the robots,the claws--
The claws weren't like other weapons. They were _alive_, from anypractical standpoint, whether the Governments wanted to admit it ornot. They were not machines. They were living things, spinning,creeping, shaking themselves up suddenly from the gray ash and dartingtoward a man, climbing up him, rushing for his throat. And that waswhat they had been designed to do. Their job.
They did their job well. Especially lately, with the new designscoming up. Now they repaired themselves. They were on their own.Radiation tabs protected the UN troops, but if a man lost his tab hewas fair game for the claws, no matter what his uniform. Down belowthe surface automatic machinery stamped them out. Human beings stayeda long way off. It was too risky; nobody wanted to be around them.They were left to themselves. And they seemed to be doing all right.The new designs were faster, more complex. More efficient.
Apparently they had won the war.
* * * * *
Major Hendricks lit a second cigarette. The landscape depressed him.Nothing but ash and ruins. He seemed to be alone, the only livingthing in the whole world. To the right the ruins of a town rose up, afew walls and heaps of debris. He tossed the dead match away,increasing his pace. Suddenly he stopped, jerking up his gun, his bodytense. For a minute it looked like--
From behind the shell of a ruined building a figure came, walkingslowly toward him, walking hesitantly.
Hendricks blinked. "Stop!"
The boy stopped. Hendricks lowered his gun. The boy stood silently,looking at him. He was small, not very old. Perhaps eight. But it washard to tell. Most of the kids who remained were stunted. He wore afaded blue sweater, ragged with dirt, and short pants. His hair waslong and matted. Brown hair. It hung over his face and around hisears. He held something in his arms.
"What's that you have?" Hendricks said sharply.
The boy held it out. It was a toy, a bear. A teddy bear. The boy'seyes were large, but without expression.
Hendricks relaxed. "I don't want it. Keep it."
The boy hugged the bear again.
"Where do you live?" Hendricks said.
"In there."
"The ruins?"
"Yes."
"Underground?"
"Yes
."
"How many are there?"
"How--how many?"
"How many of you. How big's your settlement?"
The boy did not answer.
Hendricks frowned. "You're not all by yourself, are you?"
The boy nodded.
"How do you stay alive?"
"There's food."
"What kind of food?"
"Different."
Hendricks studied him. "How old are you?"
"Thirteen."
* * * * *
It wasn't possible. Or was it? The boy was thin, stunted. And probablysterile. Radiation exposure, years straight. No wonder he was sosmall. His arms and legs were like pipecleaners, knobby, and thin.Hendricks touched the boy's arm. His skin was dry and rough; radiationskin. He