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Part V:
The Toughest Opponent

Colonel John Towers, personally commanding Independent Division III of his Special Effects Team, whose modest name gave little indication of its ability to create pain and suffering amongst its enemies, had learned from long experience that danger did not come just from those enemies.

Towers heard Logan's sharp intake of breath, and the snap as Logan's holster-flap whipped open. Towers knew that his second-in-command, right behind him, could have his service automatic in action in a fraction of a second. The scene around them flashed through Towers' mind, his eyes and memory showing him the massive wall of logs and stone, the orderly rows of barracks, and the Centran guards that had been standing on the wall, glancing idly down as Towers' landing-boat settled into place. In that instant Towers realized where the danger must come from.

He abruptly straightened, the cloth of his uniform tightening as he drew his breath in sharply, and pivoted on his heel to face the Centran troops on the wall.

In the same instant, his suddenly keyed-up mind separated from the meaningless gabble around them a string of words in Centran, and gave him the translation:

" . . . Furless, tailless aliens impersonating officers. Shoot the . . ."

As Towers turned, he could see in sharp detail every tiny fold of cloth, and every facial line of the soldiers on the wall, their guns raised and aimed at him.

From Towers' right came the faint click as the safety went off on Logan's automatic, and the fusion charges needed only a slight touch on the trigger to release their bolts of controlled destruction.

Towers had just time to notice, in the faces of the Centran troops, a trace of hesitation.

"You there!" he barked in fluent Centran. "You men on the wall! Who's in charge there?"

Towers saw the hesitation waver into uncertainty. He realized he had unconsciously gripped Logan's arm in warning, and now released the pressure. Glaring at the Centrans, who still looked at him over their guns, he roared, "What the devil is this nonsense?"

Abruptly, he ignored the rest of them, and focused his gaze on the uneasiest face.

"Sergeant!"

"S-Sir?" The Centran noncom glanced uncertainly at Towers' insignia.

Towers demanded, "Are those men off-duty?"

The sergeant hesitated.

"Answer me!" roared Towers. "Are they off-duty?"

The other Centrans glanced at each other, and lowered their guns unhappily.

"No, sir," said the sergeant.

"What are they supposed to be doing?"

"Watch and guard, sir," said the sergeant.

"Watch and guard!" said Towers. He stared at the sergeant as if he couldn't believe it. Then he exploded. "By the Great Hungry Mikeril! Get those men back to their posts, or I'll have those stripes of yours nailed to the latrine door, and you'll spend the next six months inside with a scrub brush!"

The sergeant jumped as if he'd been touched with a live wire. He gave Towers a lightning salute, then all but threw the men off the wall in his haste to straighten things out.

Narrow-eyed, Towers looked around. The Centrans on the wall were now earnestly going about their duties. Directly in front of Towers, in the space cleared for landing-boats, was an unhappy Centran captain, his arm raised in a salute. A pace behind stood a paralyzed lieutenant. Towers looked them over coldly.

Beside him, Logan murmured a low oath, and Towers heard the faint slide-snap as Logan shoved his automatic back in its holster and shut the flap. Towers looked hard at the Centran captain, then returned his salute.

"S-Sir," stammered the captain, "General Klossig, Military Overseer of the planet, requests that you see him immediately. I can take you to him at once, sir, and if you wish to arrange barracks space for your men—"

Towers glanced at Logan, who said promptly, "I'll take care of it, sir."

"Good." Towers went off with the captain. A backward glance showed him Logan following the lieutenant toward a far corner of the camp.

"Sir," said the captain walking beside Towers. "I'm sorry about that business back at the wall. The men are jumpy. They've never seen Earthmen before. And to tell the truth, this planet is driving us all out of our heads."

"What's the trouble?"

"The natives just won't give up. I was in on the invasion of Earth, and I remember what that was like. But at least we could respect our opponents. Here . . . well, it's like fighting humanoid gnats. No matter how many you kill, they never quit. You can't make any treaty with them. They don't catch on. You can't win, and you can't end it. It's—" He shook his head, led the way up a flight of steps, and down the hall to a door marked, "Maj. Gen. Horp Klossig, Military Overseer."

The captain held the door open. "If you'll just step right in, sir. General Klossig wants to see you at once."

Towers passed through a small anteroom, and found himself before a desk stacked with papers. On the other side of the desk sat a powerfully built Centran in major-general's uniform, irritably flipping through a report. On the desk was the nameplate: "H. Klossig, Overseer."

"Ah-h," rumbled Klossig, and loosened his collar with a furry hand. He slammed the report backhanded against the wall, where it hit with a sharp whack and fell to the floor. Without looking up, he reached out and jerked a fresh report from the nearest pile. He flipped through it. "Junk, junk, junk," he muttered.

Towers hesitantly cleared his throat.

The general gave an automatic flip of his hand, and slung the report across the room into the fireplace. He jerked another from the pile, glanced at the title, and stiffened. He pressed the report flat on the desk, read for a few moments, and swore in a low voice. He looked up, furious.

Towers saluted, and reported his presence.

Klossig looked blank for an instant, then sprang to his feet. His face lit up. He reached across the desk and gripped Towers by the hand. "I've heard of your Special Effects Team!"

"Sir, I just have Independent Division III with me."

"But you're the ones with the motto, 'We'll Find a Way'?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good enough. That's just what I need." Klossig waved a hand at the stack of reports. "The motto of these people is, 'There is no way. It's too hard. Let's all jump off the cliff together.' Here"—he snatched up the report he'd just been reading—"take a look at this. Read the heading, then look at that first sentence."

Towers glanced at the heading, which read, "The Invariant Law of Growth and Decline."

Towers frowned, and read the first sentence: "To all societies, as to all creatures, comes at last the realization that the knell of their greatness has sounded, and some outwardly small sign or omen reveals to them the irreversible nature of their imminent decline; just so, to we of the Integral Union, who perhaps with greater percipience than our forbears, and a wiser maturity, may accept as we must with undismayed resignation the portents of the disintegration of our society which are revealed to us by our experiences upon this planet."

Towers had the sensation of being mentally treated with perfumed mustard gas.

"That," said Klossig, "was written by a prominent sociopsychometrodiagnostician on the Planetary Integration staff. Read some more. It will give you a good idea of morale here. Morale is half my problem."

Towers flipped back through the report. Phrases like "inevitable rise and decline," "the dark forces of destiny," "immutable laws of historical development," "the hour of a culture's foreordained passage into the limbo of the past," flew at him like so many bats out of a cave. At the end came the summary: "And so, like all the societies of the past, at last we find ourselves before the fatal door. Not ours the choice to enter or refuse. Ours only to choose whether we shall go quietly, retaining for a time, perhaps, our dignity if not our power; for the implacable laws of historical development have laid down their verdict, and there can be no choice save to comply. We can determine not our fate, but only how we accept our fate. As it comes upon us, then, let us accept it humbly, with such of dignity as we can muster. For this is enough in the face of the immutable laws. It is enough. It is enough."

Towers looked up, and took a breath of air. Leaving the report open to the summary, he handed it back to Klossig. Klossig glanced at the summary, read it, and changed color. He balanced the paper in his hand, as if undecided what he could do to it that would do it justice.

Towers said thoughtfully, "People like that sometimes found schools."

Klossig nodded gloomily, and tossed the paper onto his desk. "He has already. But what can I do with him? To begin with, the fellow has a reputation. And he's not basically bad-intentioned. He's just cracking up under the strain of this planet. The attempt to get a solution to the problem has overloaded his circuits. If I come down on him as I could in the ordinary kind of situation, the whole Planetary Integration staff will resent it. How the devil do I shut him up, and break up his defeatist ideas, without tearing my organization apart in the process?"

Towers considered the question. "Would he still be competent to handle a simpler problem?"

"If it were reasonably straightforward? Yes."

"Why not take him off your problems with the planet, and assign him to the problem of tracing down the causes of bad morale?"

Klossig blinked. For a moment, he stood with his chin in his hand, then suddenly he grinned. "You've got it. He'll hang onto the problem till he traces down every cause of bad morale, and sooner or later he'll discover amongst the causes certain reports written by associates of his. The associates will explain that they were only following his lead. But he will be immersed in the new problem and he will think that they are trying to saddle him with the blame for what they did. Then the sodium shot will really hit the lake. Excuse me just a moment."

Klossig went outside, and Towers could hear him on some kind of personal intercom system, praising the scientist for his good work, and urging him to take on the problem of isolating individual causes of deterioration of morale. In the moments of comparative silence when Klossig was not speaking, Towers could hear a sound he hadn't noticed before—a distant sound of almost continuous rifle fire from somewhere outside.

Then Klossig came back in. "That takes care of that," he said. "But that's just a drop in the bucket. Come on. There's something out here you've got to see."

Klossig led the way out, down the front steps of the headquarters building, and along a well-traveled walk toward a side of the wall that ran at right angles to that where the Centran soldiers had taken aim at Towers and Logan. As they walked, Klossig was saying, "The trouble with life, Towers, is that it presents an endless selection of choices between undesirable alternatives. For instance, if a man wishes to act sensibly, he should first understand the situation thoroughly. But, if he waits till he understands the situation thoroughly, the opportunity for action passes. The result is, we have to make a quick estimate of the most important factors, then act fast while we have the chance. This means we have to take certain elements of the situation for granted. Every now and then, this taking things for granted lands us in a mess. That's what has happened on this planet."

"How so?" said Towers.

Klossig paused at a strip of ground paved with crushed rock, glanced in both directions, and waited while a ground-car bounced past pulling a four-wheeled trailer filled with ammunition cans. Then he started forward, saying, "We assumed all humanoid races would develop the same way—from family to tribe to city to nation. From hunters to farmers to builders. It never dawned on us that we were taking for granted the basis of this process, which is poor adaptation of the race to its environment."

"But that process of development is an adaptation of the race to its environment."

"A roundabout adaptation. It presupposes the failure of more direct methods of adaptation. What do you suppose happens when a humanoid race is, for instance, so well-adapted to its environment that the search for food presents no problem?"

Klossig paused at the foot of the stairs that led to the top of the wall and glanced at Towers. "That's not just a hypothetical question."

"Well," said Towers, after a moment's hesitation, "it would certainly result in a terrific population growth. But the result would still be, sooner or later, that food would present a problem."

Klossig started up the steps. "The trouble is, we've always taken it for granted that that problem would turn up sooner, not later. Assuming there is an abundance of food to begin with, what type of social organization will come about?"

Towers thought it over. "Unless there were some powerful predators to contend with, all that would really be needed would be the family, to care for small children."

Klossig nodded. "But remember, if you have the mental picture of a family huddled in a cave in the middle of the wilderness, with another family squatting around a camp fire somewhere on the horizon, you are forgetting the abundance of food. What is going to happen as these families multiply with no restraint save that of occasional plagues and natural disasters?"

Towers frowned. "If the food were really abundant, there would be a—" He hesitated as the picture dawned on him.

"Yes," said Klossig. "Now you see it. The result would an unprecedented situation—a planetary mob."

"But there couldn't be that much food!" Towers regretted the comment as soon as he'd made it, but Klossig merely nodded in understanding.

"The trouble," said Klossig, "is that we automatically take for granted a maladaptation of humanoid to environment. Of course, there isn't so much food that fruit cascades continuously from the trees, and small animals present themselves eagerly to be eaten. That's the way it would have to be for us, who can eat only certain rare parts of the environment. Here, it's different."

Klossig and Towers were almost at the top of the stairs. Klossig paused to break from the log wall beside the steps a large chunk of thick corky bark. He looked at it with a peculiar exasperated expression, and handed it to Towers.

Towers scowled, and studied it. The bark was heavier that it appeared, dark gray, and apparently homogeneous. He sniffed it, and noticed no scent. He squeezed it, and it yielded slightly to his pressure, than recovered elastically as he loosened his grip. He glanced curiously at Klossig.

Klossig nodded sourly. "That chunk of bark represents nothing but inert matter to you and me. The natives find it highly nutritious, if not tasty." Klossig pointed the length of the wall, and Towers looked at the mass of thick gray bark that covered the big logs. "Think of that," said Klossig, "not as 'bark,' but as so much steak or root crops. There are whole forests of those trees down there. You and I can't eat them. But the natives here can. They have a digestion that can cope with just about every plant and animal they come up against. They are adapted."

Klossig and Towers climbed to the top of the wall, where there was a flat walk about fifteen feet across, with a parapet not quite waist high at the edge.

Klossig walked to the parapet, and pointed down. "And here," he said, "is the result of that adaptation."

Towers looked down, through rows of spike-bar barriers, so that his gaze traveled down the wall to the sheer cliff on which the wall was built, and down the cliff, where thin clouds drifted by, to the dense forest, small and hazy down below.

On the cliff face, something moved. Towers looked closely, and suddenly realized that a small humanlike figure was climbing the cliff. There was another motion, and Towers saw another figure, to one side, and lower down.

The firing he had heard earlier was louder now, and the wind brought a sharp smell of gunpowder. Towers looked up.

Projecting out from the wall on log struts and braces, a covered wooden platform hung far out over the edge of the cliff, connected to the top of the wall by a swaying catwalk across which two Centran soldiers carried a load of ammunition cans. On the platform lay several Centran soldiers, aiming at the wall.

Towers glanced down. One of the little figures he'd seen earlier suddenly jerked, lost its grip, dropped down the face of the cliff, struck it and bounded back, to fall, tumbling over and over, and dwindling in apparent size, till it was lost from view against the hazy forest far below.

Towers glanced at the outthrust platform, where the soldiers had ceased fire. Suddenly one of them pointed. They shifted their position a trifle, and opened fire.

Klossig said, "Population pressure, Towers. On the top of high buttes such as these, there are often forests of old gnarled trees, lichen, moss, and other things useless to most races, but a family or two of these humanoids could live up here."

"And what would they do when the others climbed up?"

"Throw them off. Or get thrown off themselves. What else could they do?"

Towers looked down at the forest far below. "What's it like down there?"

"Alternate paradise and hell. When a plague goes through, it cuts the population to the bone. Then, till the population builds up again, there's overflowing abundance for all. But then, the population does build up. There's food for a thousand people to subsist on, but there are twelve hundred people there. The result is chaos, slaughter, and cannibalism. Whoever doesn't shove his neighbor to the wall gets shoved to the wall himself. Think what it's like down there to make a climb up that cliff seen attractive by comparison."

Towers glanced down at the cliff face. "What happens if one of them does get up here?"

"Hell on wheels," said Klossig. "They're savages—as who wouldn't be in that spot?—but that doesn't help us any. They attack on sight."

"What if you meet them down below?"

"Same thing. They see us. Wham! They attack us."

"Are they dangerous to well-armed troops?"

"Not in a cleared space, no. In the forests, they're dangerous enough. We've had a number of clashes with them under both conditions, and it was no fun, I can tell you that."

"What's it like?"

"Men, women, and children take part in the attack. There's no warning. There's no organization. They may use their bare hands, sticks, or rocks. If they get you—then you're dead. There's no mercy. If you get them, that's just a temporary expedient. It doesn't mean much. There are others to step right into the place of those you've killed. All you accomplish by killing them is to relieve the population pressure a trifle."

Towers said, "From the way they act, how do we know they're humanoids? That presupposes some brains on their part."

"They're humanoids, all right," said Klossig. "We've tested individual captives, and they have brains enough to qualify—as individuals, that is."

"Yes," said Towers slowly. "I see. You aren't up against them as individuals."

"Exactly," said Klossig. "That's the whole thing. We are up against them as a mob. We can't make peace with them. There's no organization to deal with. It's just one huge mob. Now, what do we do?"

Towers looked out at the forested land mass stretching into the distance.

Klossig said, "The purpose of the Integral Union is to unite all human and humanoid races in an interstellar organization for mutual benefit and defense. That's our reason for existence, and the justification for our actions. If we don't do it, somebody else may, and not for mutual benefit, either. Now, here we are, up against it. Either we solve this problem, or at the same time we lose a rich planet, and fail a humanoid race that's caught in a truly vicious trap."

From somewhere in the distance, Towers heard a shot. Dimly, the thought went through his mind that the platform thrust out from the wall here was badly located. The outer edge of the wall itself, like the walls of ancient cities back on Earth, did not run a perfectly straight line, but was set out at intervals to allow a view of adjacent sections of the wall. The outthrust platform should have been built twenty feet or so farther to the left, to allow a view of the corner made by the edge of this set-out part of the wall. This thought passed through Towers' mind as the thought may occur to a man that a picture is a trifle off-center. He would have forgotten it, but at that moment he heard the shout from somewhere along the wall, glanced around, and chanced to look down at the corner of the parapet.

A large hand, covered with coarse reddish-yellow hairs, gripped the edge of the parapet.

What happened next took place almost too fast to follow. A second hand joined the first at the edge of the parapet. Towers reached for his gun, and at the same time shouted a warning to Klossig. The two hands atop the wall tensed, and abruptly a head of wiry tangled hair above two frenzied eyes thrust up into view. Towers had the impression of a mouth full of bared teeth, a shout with an almost physical impact, a fluid blur of motion, and he was knocked back against the parapet.

For an instant, Towers was at the edge of the parapet, a little less than waist-high. Then something hit him and heaved his legs roughly up and over. A shout of triumph followed him into empty space, and then he was falling, too far out to have any chance to catch the wall.

An instant later, something smashed into the back of his left shoulder like a sack of cement. He flung his arms out, felt himself whirl, then wall and sky pivoted to show him nothing but the cliff and the sheer drop through the cloud to the forest below.

His left arm was around something solid.

Towers gripped with convulsive strength, his heart pounded, and a second later, he saw that he had hit one of the log struts that supported the outthrust platform.

The triumphant yell was still echoing from the wall above, and Towers' sudden fear abruptly changed into rage. He twisted around, heaved himself up onto the strut, and went up it as an island native on Earth goes up a palm tree. He went from the strut to the platform, from the platform to the catwalk, and from the catwalk to the wall.

Before him was an open ring of soldiers with guns raised, but afraid to use them, as Klossig and a hairy muscular yellow-red form spun in a grapple that whirled them from the parapet to the unprotected inner edge of the wall.

Towers dove for the pair, shot his right arm around the humanoid's neck, clamped his right hand at the inside of his left elbow, and shoved his left hand against the back of the wiry head. Then he tightened the grip with every ounce of strength he had.

Abruptly, he was whirling through the air again, but this time all he felt was a grim satisfaction that the cause of his trouble was locked fast in his grip, its bones and joints straining under the compound pressure.

There was a sudden terrific impact, then blackness.

Towers slowly opened his eyes, and there was a circle of Centrans around him, the wall rising nearby. The massive furry figure of Horp Klossig was bent over him anxiously.

It dawned on Towers that this time he had landed on the inside of the wall. He took a slow breath and felt carefully for broken bones. He seemed to be all right. Carefully, he rolled to one knee, waited a moment, then stood up.

Klossig steadied him. "Are you all right?"

Towers nodded, then remembered something and looked narrowly around.

Two Centran soldiers were lugging an inert figure up the steps. They reached the top and stepped onto the wall.

As they approached the parapet, they vanished from Towers' view, because of his angle of vision, then reappeared, empty-handed. They glanced at each other with pursed lips, then started back down the steps.

Klossig said, his voice tense with emotion, "Towers, listen—"

Towers noticed the circle of Centran troops standing around.

"Sir," said Towers, "are these men supposed to be on guard duty?"

Klossig looked around. His brows came together. "What the devil is this?" He sent the men scurrying back to the wall, then turned to Towers, and said fervently, "If you need anything, Towers, just ask for it."

"Thank you, sir."

The two men looked at each other a moment, then Towers saluted, Klossig returned the salute, and Towers set off to get hold of Logan and arrange to bring the first of his men down.

Towers met Logan, coming from the corner of the camp where the Centran lieutenant had taken him to arrange for barracks space. Logan's expression was set and angry. He saluted as soon as he saw Towers, then his expression changed to concern.

"What happened, sir?"

Towers was thinking over what had happened back at the wall, and was trying to figure out how the native had managed to climb up and heave him over the edge before he could even get his gun out of its holster. The memory made him angry, and his voice came out in a rasp that made Logan wince.

"Not a damned thing happened," said Towers. "Have we got the barracks space?"

"Sir," said Logan, coloring, "the Centran colonel in charge of the arrangements has allowed us six double bunks in one corner of one barrack."

Towers had felt nothing but a kind of light-headed vagueness when he got up after the fall, but he was now beginning to ache all over, and on top of that, a hammering headache was just getting started.

"Six double bunks in one corner of one barrack," said Towers tonelessly.

"Yes, sir. And to top it off, he says we will have a certain amount of 'good-natured hazing' from the Centran troops in the barracks. He says they aren't accustomed to associating with 'alien entities.' "

Towers' left side and shoulder felt as if a large iron hook was imbedded in it. His head throbbed painfully.

"Where is this Centran colonel?" said Towers.

Logan hesitated.

"Where is he?" said Towers.

"I suppose he's still in his office, sir."

"Lead the way."

Logan paled, and started toward the large headquarters building where Towers had seen Klossig. As Logan turned, the sun shone briefly on the cover of something clamped to his belt. Through the headache, it took Towers an instant to realize that that was the cover of the case that held the little transceiver Logan had brought along to keep in touch with Towers' division of the Special Effects Team.

"Wait a minute," said Towers. "Have you gotten any of the men started down here yet?"

"No, sir. With only a corner of a barrack—"

"All right. Order down a dozen men, all controllers or operators, with squads of close-trained wolves, lions and armored gorillas. Also the biggest superconda we've got in running order. Bring them down as soon as possible in the nearest landing space to that barracks, and move in."

Logan enthusiastically repeated the order into the transceiver, along with detailed instructions for locating the barracks. Then he started toward the headquarters building.

Towers said, "I thought you went right over to the barracks with the lieutenant after we landed?"

"I did, sir. Then after I'd picked out suitable barracks space, he brought me over to fill out forms and took them in to the colonel. The colonel crossed out everything on the forms, wrote in 'six double bunks northeast corner Barracks A12 will be sufficient,' read the riot act, and that was that."

They climbed the stairs of the headquarters building, and Towers' headache developed an effect similar to that of being struck at the base of the head with a sledgehammer at every step. When he could force the words out, Towers said, "What was his reason?"

"He doesn't like our table of organization. I tried to explain to him that a Special Effects Team unit doesn't have as many men as most organizations of similar size, but that we have a lot more equipment, so one of our twelve-men companies takes just as much space as the usual company. But I couldn't get started. Every time I opened my mouth, he'd demand to know whether twelve soldiers weren't twelve soldiers regardless what race they belong to. Next he wanted to know how big our men were that they took up so much room. That's how it went."

Towers said nothing as they walked down the hall, and Logan opened a door and stepped aside. Towers stepped in, and nearly walked into a desk set so close to the door that there was room for just one straight-backed chair between it and the door. A somewhat querulous-looking sergeant glanced up as he came in.

"Yes?" said the sergeant, his voice rising.

Between blinding flashes from the headache, Towers looked the sergeant over. When he had memorized his features so that he would never forget them, Towers glanced down at the desk. A little wooden picket fence, with a closed narrow gate, ran from the outer corner of the desk to the wall, so that it was necessary for Towers and Logan to stand in a space about four-and-a-half feet by three feet. Beside the desk where the sergeant sat was a large filing cabinet. Across the room in the corner was a hat-stand, and against the inside wall was an overstuffed armchair. At the far wall of the room were two doors, with a water cooler near the right-hand door. The rest of the room was bare.

Towers turned his head to glance at Logan, and was rewarded by a white-hot flash of pain over the eyes.

"This is the place?" said Towers.

"Yes, sir," said Logan. "This is the place."

The sergeant shoved his chair back, stood up, made as if to go to the inner office, turned back, and said sharply to Logan, "I think the colonel has already given you your orders, Major."

Towers' headache abruptly died away to a faint throb. He looked at the Centran.

"Say, 'sir.' " he said, in a grating voice.

"I used the correct form of—"

"I said, say 'sir.' "

There was a brief pause.

"Sir." said the sergeant. The word came out with a squeak.

"Now," said Towers, "go in and inform the colonel that the commanding officer of Special Effects Team, Division III, is out here and wishes to speak to him immediately. The matter is urgent."

The Centran turned without a word, and Towers said in a flat voice, "Sergeant—"

The sergeant swallowed, came back, said "Yes, sir," turned and disappeared through the right-hand door.

A loud voice said from behind the door. "Tell them to sit down and wait."

Logan swore.

Towers smiled.

The sergeant came out, closed the door with reverent softness, and said in a tone of triumph, "The colonel is busy now. You may wait, if you wish, sir."

"I see," said Towers. You told him the matter was urgent?"

"Yes, sir."

"I believe I heard him say we should sit and wait?"

The sergeant glanced at the straight-back chair behind the door and smiled briefly, "Certainly, sir. You may sit down if you wish."

"It's not a question of 'wishing' it," said Towers, the rasp returning to his voice. "The colonel invited us to. Is that correct?"

The sergeant frowned. "As a matter of fact, sir, I believe so."

"Did he, or didn't he?"

"Yes, sir. He did."

"Since there's only one chair here, I assume he meant us to use the armchair also?" Towers looked pointedly at the armchair against the wall behind the fence.

"No one but permanent party is allowed back of the gate, sir," said the sergeant positively.

Logan glanced at his watch and said uneasily, "Sir, it's about time for the men to start coming down."

"Yes," said Towers, "but since the colonel may be ready to see us at any moment, and since he invited us to sit down and wait, I think we should do it. Sergeant—"

"Sir?"

"Bring that chair out here." He glanced at the armchair.

The sergeant blinked, and looked at the desk, the little gate in the picket fence, and the narrow space between the desk and the wall.

"But it won't fit," said the sergeant, his voice climbing.

"That," said Towers, "is a matter of perfect indifference to me. I've been invited to sit, and I will sit."

Just then, the sound of a descending landing-boat passed overhead and dwindled away in the direction of the far corner of the camp.

"Sir," said Logan, in a low voice, "that will be about half-a-dozen armored close-trained gorillas and their controller. Right behind them come a pack of close-trained wolves and their controller."

A second landing-boat whined overhead.

"The next one," said Logan, "has about a forty-foot superconda in it, with operator. Sir, when they go in that barracks, all hell will—"

"Exactly why I wish to speak to the colonel urgently. But he tells us to sit and wait." Towers looked at the sergeant, and his voice when he spoke had the crack of a high-voltage discharge. "I said, move that chair!"

A third landing-boat passed overhead, and its sound dwindled off in the direction of Towers' barracks.

The sergeant wrestled the chair over to the narrow gate.

Logan mopped his brow with a sweaty handkerchief.

"It won't go through," said the sergeant.

Despite this obvious fact, he tried ineffectually to fit the bulky chair through the narrow opening in the picket fence.

"Lift it," said Towers irritably, "or move the fence, or do whatever else you have to, but hurry up."

The sergeant tried to lift the chair over the fence. The chair slipped, fell, and with a loud cracking sound split the fence at the base and knocked it outward.

The sergeant dragged the chair back, propped the fence upright, and then tried pulling the desk back out of the way. The desk was screwed to the fence, the lower screw broke loose, the top screw held, and all the pickets in that end of the fence leaned over at a forty-degree angle, with the baseboard pulled free of the floor and a row of nails sticking out.

The sergeant moaned, went around to the other end of the desk, and tried to swing it around instead. To do this, he had first to drag the filing cabinet out of the way. When he had the filing cabinet out in the middle of the floor, he swung the desk around, and found that it and the filing cabinet together now blocked the chair into the far half of the room. When he made this discovery, something seemed to pop within him. Working like a madman, he now succeeded in blocking himself and all the furniture in front of the colonel's door. Then, desperate, he wrestled the bulky armchair onto the desk, where it tipped off and hit the floor with a crash that shook the room, and was followed shortly by the sound of the filing cabinet tilting back against the wall as the sergeant hastily squeezed past it. The feet of the filing cabinet then slid, and the whole works slammed down on the floor like a dropped boulder.

The outer door opened up, and a neatly-dressed Centran brigadier-general stepped in. At the same moment, the door to the colonel's office came open. The general looked around at the overturned furniture. His face perfectly blank, he went out again. From somewhere outside there came the sound of shouting.

Towers shook his head. "Well, it's too late, now. They seem sort of disorganized in here, anyway. Come on."

He and Logan stepped out in the hall, and hurried outside.

As they neared the barracks, Towers saw a large crowd of Centran troops staring at a deserted part of the camp. In the middle of this deserted section was the barracks to which Towers' men had been assigned. There was nothing exceptional about the appearance of this barracks, except for about twenty feet of oversize python gradually disappearing through the nearest doorway, a gorilla in plate armor walking out a doorway at the opposite end of the barracks, and a yawning lion looking out a window.

In the front of the barracks was a stack of crates about twelve feet high and twenty feet long. A couple of Towers' men were outside the barracks, scratching their heads in apparent perplexity, and glancing back and forth from the heap of crates to the barracks. As Towers approached, they saluted, and one of them said in a carrying voice, "Sir, there are exactly six double bunks in that barracks that aren't taken. How do we fit all this stuff in?"

Towers said, "Wait a little."

There was the sound of another landing-boat coming down, and a few minutes later an electric truck delivered another load of crates in front of the barracks. Half-a-dozen armored gorillas marched past under the command of a heavily-armed human. Stepping carefully around the python, they disappeared into the barracks.

Towers glanced around.

The Centran brigadier-general, who had looked in at the chaos in the office a little earlier, was thrusting his way through the crowd. As he approached, twelve huge gray dogs or wolves came out the far door of the barracks and trotted past in single-file, to disappear in the direction of the place where the landing-boats were coming down. From that direction, another half dozen armored gorillas marched past, and into the barracks.

Logan said uneasily, "You don't think we're laying it on too thick do you?"

Towers glanced in the direction of the landing-place. "Something will snap shortly, and then we'll know. Look there."

The Centran brigadier general was staring at the electric truck, as it trundled up carrying a big transparent case full of water, inside of which a large bulbous creature floated amidst a tangle of flexible arms.

"Great," said the general, "hairy master of sin! Who's in charge here?"

Towers saluted. "I am, sir."

"What is this?"

"Advance Unit I of Independent Division III of the Special Effects Team, landing at the request of Major-General Horp Klossig."

The general walked over, frowning. "You're Towers?"

"That's right, sir."

The general looked around. "Let me see your barracks assignment sheet."

Logan handed the papers to Towers, who handed them to the general. The general leafed through them. "How are you going to get all this stuff into one corner of one barrack?"

"I've been trying without success to get an answer to that question, sir," said Towers angrily. "These sheets of paper show our requirements for space. Six double bunks is what we were allotted."

"But this sheet of paper says 'Advance party. Twelve (12) men, and equipment.' "

"That means, sir, twelve human beings. Amongst the equipment, which there is no place on that form to specify, is everything else you see here."

The general pointed to the last ten feet of what looked like an oversized python, now disappearing through the doorway. "You call that 'equipment'?"

"Certainly, sir. Equipment shaped as an animal form is often far less conspicuous than the usual equipment. That is a Mark III Superconda with hydronic drive, twin fusion guns at the nostrils, scraper jaws, and adequate specimen storage compartments just aft the muzzle. It can be controlled remotely, or from a sealed compartment in the forward third. Among other things, it's extremely useful for scouting dense brush, swamp, and rain forest. It looks like an oversize constrictor. It's actually a highly-specialized vehicle."

"What about that?" The general pointed to a lion trotting past. "That's no vehicle."

"No, sir. But we find that in ordinary close combat, certain animals, when properly trained and disciplined, are hard to beat. By the use of surgical implants at selected nerve-centers, we can cause the animal in training to feel an instantaneous sharp pain. We can also initiate slight impulses for the motion we desire the animal to make. To a degree, the trainer can create a pleasurable sense of well-being. With such immediate prompting and guidance, with swift reward for the right responses, and instantaneous punishment for the wrong responses, the animal learns very rapidly. We call this 'close training.'

"For long periods, we put such close-trained animals in a state called 'deep sleep,' in which their bodily functions and food-requirements are depressed to a minimum. When we need them, we awaken them. We need them now. They aren't, strictly speaking, 'men,' but they do require barracks space."

Towers glanced at Logan. "My second-in-command, here, tried to explain this matter to the colonel in charge of allotting barracks space, but he wasn't allowed to explain it. I tried to avert this mess, but the man declined to discuss the matter. Sir, I am here at General Klossig's urgent call. But if colonels are allowed to countermand the orders of generals, we may as well all pack up and go home. This mess here is going to snowball rapidly unless one of two things happens. Either my forces will reverse their direction and leave this planet. Or they will be given adequate barracks space."

The general's face darkened. He glanced at the papers again, then said, "All right. Pull your men out of that barracks long enough for the troops to move in and take out their footlockers and bedding. Anybody with the brains of an oyster ought to be able to see that you're going to need plenty of room. I never saw a division yet that could be squeezed into one barrack, and this is no exception." He turned, and gave a sharp blast on a whistle. Towers sent Logan to clear out the barracks.

Approximately forty-five minutes later, Towers found himself in possession of twelve barracks.

"Now," said the general, "I know this isn't enough, but it's the best I can do."

"For our purposes," said Towers, "this will serve very well, sir. But I wonder what effect the sight of our equipment will have on your troops, particularly at night. A close-trained animal, properly controlled, is no danger to speak of—but this can be hard for regular troops to believe."

"I've been thinking the same thing. What if we put up a wall and gate around your section of the camp?"

"Fine. And I can put up an electric fence on the inside, to reassure the guards on the wall."

"Good. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir, there is. It would be a big help if we could have a few prisoners to examine."

"Nothing easier. But look out for them. They're tough, fast, and violent. If they get loose, you've got galloping hell on your hands till you blow their brains out."

"I'll remember it. And sir, my talk with General Klossig was interrupted, and there were a few questions I neglected to ask."

"I'll tell you whatever I can."

"Sir, is this the only garrison on this planet?"

"Oh, no. We have a fairly sizable force on the planet, but it's just a dust mote in space compared to the planet's population. Our men are all in inaccessible spots, but every garrison except those on some large islands in the middle of the ocean—where we raise our food—is under continuous attack."

"Sir, is there any need for hurry in solving your problems here?"

The general hesitated. "Yes, there is, I'm afraid. There are two reasons. First, morale is cracking up badly. Second, we are largely dependent on locally-raised food and locally-manufactured gunpowder. Our powder works are cut off from time to time by bad weather. So are our shipments of food. The only feasible transport on the planet is by air or sea, and when our reserves of food and powder get low, as they are right now, it takes only a brief interruption to bring on a crisis."

"I see," said Towers. "Thank you very much, sir."

"You're entirely welcome. If I can help, let me know."

"I will, sir."

The two men exchanged salutes.

Logan came over as the general left.

"Sir, the men are settled, and we can bring down the second unit any time."

"Good. And if we can get half-a-dozen scouts down in that forest with supercondas, we can get a clearer idea what's going on down there."

"Yes, sir. I'll get them down right away."

"Meanwhile," said Towers, "we're going to want to examine some humanoid prisoners the Centrans will send over. We'd better get construction started on a concrete blockhouse to house them. For the time being, we can fit out a barracks with heavy mesh, and look them over in there."

Towers walked into a barracks which had been hastily fitted out with partitions to serve as his headquarters. One of the rooms had a couple of desks, chairs, several telephones, and a filing case, and was plainly his office. He had just looked the room over, and sat down at his desk, when the door opened up, and a Special Effects Team man said, "Sir, there's a smug-looking Centran captain out here who wants to see you."

Towers frowned. "Send him in."

A Centran with a self-pleased expression came in, saluted, and said, "Sir, it has occurred to the Chief of our Planetary Integration Section that you will need to be briefed regarding the situation here."

"Thank you," said Towers coolly, "I have already been briefed."

"By whom, if I may ask?"

"By your commanding officer, General Klossig."

"Oh, well, but if I may say so, sir—"

Towers narrowed his eyes and looked the captain over coldly. The captain frowned, blinked, paused, gave a little laugh, and visibly shifted gears. "Well, then, sir, certainly at least you will want to examine the available literature—"

"It's quite extensive, I imagine?"

"Oh, exhaustive studies have been carried out. The correlation of data must, of course, reach a certain critical point before those charged with responsibility for administrative action may be . . . ah . . . educated—" he hesitated and studied Towers' expression—"I mean, sir, enabled, to—"

"Educated to the point of being enabled to make intelligent decisions," said Towers helpfully.

"Well, that wasn't precisely what I had in mind, sir, but"—Towers was watching him with a cold, calculating look—"but, I'm sure, sir, that's close enough."

There was a little silence.

Towers said, "I wouldn't want to keep this valuable literature out of circulation."

"Oh, but we have copies."

"Then, by all means, send them over."

The captain blinked. A look of relief passed across his face. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He saluted. Towers returned the salute. The captain faced about and went out. Towers picked up one of the phones on his desk.

"Get me the labor detail."

"Yes, sir." A moment later a new voice said, "Labor detail."

"How is the blockhouse coming?"

"We're laying out the plans, and we've sent for a load of fastset from the supply ship. It won't take us long, sir."

"Good. Let me know when it's finished. What about the barracks?"

"We're working on it now, sir. We should have it ready before any prisoners get here. Major Logan sent for the electric fence, and we think we can get that set up tonight, too, so that by tomorrow, we should have everything in shape."

"Fine."

The door opened up, and the same Special Effects man who had shown in the Centran captain said, "Sir, did you want some Planetary Integration reports brought in?"

Towers scowled. "Already? Yes, send them in."

The Special Effects man glanced back in the hall, nodded, and opened the door wider.

A squad of Centrans came in, each carrying a tall stack of reports, set the reports down along the opposite wall of the room, and went out. As they went out, Logan came in, squinted at the stack of reports, and said angrily, "Sir, did that bootlicking captain from Planetary Integration wish this junk on us?"

A puzzled voice from the phone said, "Sir?"

Towers looked at the heaped reports, and spoke into the phone, "That about covers what I wanted to know. Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

Towers hung up, and glanced at the stacks of reports. Then he looked up, to see that the Special Effects man was still holding the door open.

The squad of Centrans came back in again, each with his tied stack of papers. They halted, turned, bent, straightened, turned, and went out empty-handed.

The Special Effects man continued to hold the door open.

Logan swore under his breath.

The Centrans came back in again, left another load of reports, and went out.

The Special Effects man waited a moment, then closed the door.

Logan spat out a livid curse, drew a deep breath, and said, "Sir, listen, there's enough stuff there to last us six months easy if we try to absorb it. And we'll end up with a case of mental constipation that will—"

"I didn't realize there was going to be that much."

"Now what do we do with it?"

"We certainly can't fight our way through all that stuff. The devil with it." Towers looked away from it. "What's going on outside? Are the Centrans started on their wall?"

Logan turned his back on the reports. "Sir, the Centrans are working like madmen to get that wall built. They've set up searchlights, and they're going to work all night. I've got our men going in shifts, so we'll be all set by tomorrow morning. But, what are we going to do next?"

"Test the prisoners and find out what they're vulnerable to," said Towers. "The Centrans are short on ammunition. Well, as we know, one Selected-Strain yellow jacket takes up less space than a bullet, but it doesn't miss its target. Evasive action and obstructions don't trouble it at all. The first thing we want to do is to ease the strain on the Centran ammunition supply. A few nests of these hair-trigger yellow jackets, halfway up the cliff, should settle the problem with great economy of force."

"H-m-m," said Logan. "Yes, we can put the feeder units about halfway between nests, and a little higher up, and the bugs will patrol the whole circumference of the cliff for us. Why not do that now, sir?"

"Because first we want to test these natives to be sure of their reactions. It might be, for instance, that a few dozen giant bumblebees will do the job better. There are a number of tests we have to make, then we'll have a better idea where we stand. What we particularly want to avoid is any big crisis before we have a clear idea of what to do."

Logan nodded thoughtfully. "I can take care of the arrangements for the first tests." He looked at Towers and added apologetically, "If you don't mind my making a suggestion, sir—"

"What?" said Towers, scowling.

"Well, you look a little tired, sir."

It dawned on Towers that he was tired. He glanced out the windows, and saw that it was dark. He nodded, thought a moment, and got up. "I guess we can take care of the rest of this tomorrow."

Towers slept long, and, till a little before daybreak, he slept fairly well, considering the number of bruised places it hurt to lie on. Some time before daybreak, however, he had the impression of something unpleasant just beyond the edge of his consciousness. He woke up, went back to sleep, woke up, rolled over, dozed, woke up again, dozed fitfully, woke up, and exasperatedly tried to locate the cause of the trouble. The cause eluded him. He got up in the darkness, and looked out at the gray light just starting to seep over the camp. An edge of the outer wall of the camp, visible from where he stood, was lit by a faint glow, apparently from searchlights shining down onto the cliffs. The room was cold, and in the faint light, the camp outside had a frosty look. In the sky over a nearby barrack glittered an unfamiliar constellation.

The light from the wall shone dimly on the roof of the barracks nearby, and Towers frowned and leaned forward, trying to make out what appeared to a be a short, slanting chimney-pipe thrust out of the roof at an angle.

Not far away, a board creaked.

Towers froze. Behind him, the latch of his door clicked.

Towers turned, felt on the stand by the head of his bed, and pulled his service automatic from its holster.

There was a sudden crash.

The door slammed in, smashed against the wall, and sagged by one hinge.

In the hall, dimly lit by the light at the far end, crouched a hairy primitive figure. Its face, half-obscured by shadow peered into the room. It took a little step forward, bent—

Towers squeezed a little tighter on the trigger—

There was a bellow that seemed to burst his eardrums.

The figure blurred.

The thin dazzling line from Towers' fusion pistol vibrated in space before him.

Something slammed him heavily against the wall. There was the smell of burnt flesh, a tinkle of glass, and a sharp crack. For an instant, Towers saw something against the dim square of the sky, then it was gone. He felt carefully along the wall, holding the gun close to him, and snapped the room light on.

Lodged in the window, its back steaming and ruined from the fusion charge, was a humanoid.

Towers swallowed, studied it for an instant, noted the widening pool of blood on the floor beneath it, then stepped out in the hall, and glanced in both directions. The hall was empty.

From the end of the hall, where Logan's room was, came a heavy crash.

Towers glanced up the hall, in the opposite direction, saw nothing, and sprinted down the hall toward Logan's room.

Logan's door was knocked from its hinges, the room was dark, and from inside came a grunt, a thump, and a straining, choking sound.

Towers felt for the room light, and couldn't find it. He groped his way into room, reached out, felt a tough, hairy hide—

There was a yell that deafened him, and something smashed him across the side of the head. He saw an explosion of sparks, then was knocked back by a heavy numbing blow in the center of the chest. He hit the wall as if he had been thrown out of a second-story window, dropped to the floor instantly, and heard something slam into the wall over his head. He reached out, and his left hand closed around a thick-boned ankle with a coat of wiry hair. He gripped the ankle, levered it up, and with his other hand slammed back the knee of the same leg. The humanoid struggled to recover his balance. Towers lifted harder, and still gripping the ankle with one hand, sprang to his feet as the humanoid went over.

There was a loud crash.

Towers dropped the ankle, jumped for the spot where the humanoid had fallen, and smashed down hard with both heels as he came down.

There was an agonized grunt.

The lights came on.

On the floor lay a humanoid, staring up with an unfocused gaze.

Logan, one eye puffed nearly shut, a set of striped pajamas hanging from him in shreds, with blood running from a set of long gashes across his chest, had his right hand on the light switch, and his left arm dangling unnaturally at his side. His unswollen eye studied the humanoid.

"Look out," said Logan hoarsely, "he's going to—"

A hairy hand shot out to grip Towers' left ankle like a vise. There was a fraction of a second's hesitation. In that instant, Towers bent slightly at the knee, brought up his right foot, and smashed his right heel down on the humanoid's head. The hand gripping his ankle relaxed. Towers spotted his gun across the room, and picked it up.

The humanoid started to sit up.

Towers smashed him across the head, and he fell back.

Towers straightened.

The humanoid's eyes came open. He fixed Towers in a momentary unblinking stare, then his eyes fell shut, his head lolled to one side, his muscles relaxed—then abruptly he rolled over, sprang to his feet . . . 

Towers shot him.

"Good," breathed Logan.

From somewhere upstairs came a heavy crash, and an unearthly scream, followed by a rumbling grunt, then a heavy pummeling sound, as if a human body were being bounced off a wall like a handball. The barracks shook.

Towers saw a battered flashlight on the floor by an overturned table, grabbed it, snapped it on and went into the corridor, around a corner, and up the stairs to the second floor. He rounded a corner and found himself facing a short hall.

At the end of the hall, a door was slowly opening.

Towers stepped forward, and felt suddenly dizzy. He eased back around the corner, steadied his gun hand against the wall, and covered the door. The flashlight dimmed, and brightened again.

As he stood, tensely watching, Towers' chest hurt so that it was hard to breath. His left ankle felt as if a vise were methodically crushing it, and every separate bone, muscle, and joint seemed suddenly to have developed its own individual ache. He thought dazedly that he should go down the hall to help whoever was in trouble there, but the sensations of his body told him that he was dangerously close to his own limits.

The sound of choked breathing came from the room in front of him, and it dawned on Towers that he could, at least, shout for help. He drew in a painful breath, then paused as a huge humanoid, larger than any of those he'd seen earlier, moved back-first and slowly out the door in the flickering flashlight beam.

In the dim light, Towers could see the humanoid's arms stretched out, as if he were choking someone and pulling him out into the corridor.

The sense of weakness passed, and Towers stepped forward, to get a clear shot from the side.

The humanoid stumbled backward, and slammed into the wall of the corridor.

For an instant, Towers looked on blankly, wondering which of his men had the physique to shove back one of these creatures by raw strength.

The flashlight lit up more brightly, to show Towers the dark broad chest, huge arms, and massive head of a male gorilla, its big hands clamped around the humanoid's throat, as it forced it down.

There was a brief violent struggle, a grim thrashing, and then the gorilla straightened up. The humanoid remained on the floor.

Towers found the hall light, and snapped it on.

The gorilla saw Towers, and automatically snapped to a posture as close to attention as its physique allowed.

Towers bent over the inert hairy form on the floor. Seen in a good light, it looked considerably worse for wear than Logan did, and it showed no visible sign of life. Towers felt around till he located an artery. There seemed to be a very faint pulse.

He straightened up, and glanced at the gorilla. "Watch. If move—kill."

The gorilla grunted obediently.

Towers went downstairs.

Logan was lying motionless at the bottom of the flight of steps, a gun near his hand. Towers shook him gently by the shoulder.

Logan grunted, and opened his eyes.

Towers said, "Who's in charge of the guard detail tonight?"

"Cartwright," said Logan, sitting up. He picked up the gun.

"Stay there," said Towers.

"No, I'm coming, too." Logan stumbled to his feet.

They went down the hall, past Towers' office to an office marked "Guard and Security Detail." They opened the door. Across the room, stretched out on a cot, lay a tall, uniformed figure with first lieutenant's insignia.

Towers and Logan glanced at each other. Towers crossed the room, looked the figure over, and observed no marks or bruises. He took hold of a shoulder and gave it a rough shake.

Cartwright's eyes came open. He groaned, looked at Towers, and abruptly sat up. His glance darted from Towers to Logan.

Towers looked at Logan. "Get the next man on the list."

Logan gave Cartwright a long look, crossed the room, set his gun on the desk, and jerked open a drawer.

"I—" groaned Cartwright.

"Shut up," said Towers.

Cartwright swallowed.

Logan was speaking into the phone, turned so he could keep an eye on the closed door.

Out in the hallway, an alarm bell set up its jarring clutter.

Towers looked at Cartwright. "Name for me the precautions you've taken since you came on duty tonight."

"Sir, we're inside a friendly camp. With guards all around us."

Towers said, his voice grating, "Name for me the precautions you've taken since you came on duty tonight."

Outside, there was a sound of something large and heavy running swiftly past. An instant later, the sound was repeated. Then repeated again.

Cartwright said, "I put a half-squad of gorillas in each end of the barracks where the captives are tied up. There was a little disturbance there around two o'clock, then everything settled down. I checked everything at four, then around half-past four—everything was quiet. I felt awfully tired and just lay down for a moment. I must have fallen asleep instantly."

The door opened up and a strongly-built man in first lieutenant's uniform came in, frowned at Cartwright, looked at Towers and Logan, froze and swallowed.

Logan had set down the phone and aimed his gun at the door, but now put the gun down and picked the phone up again. He hung up the phone, spoke briefly to the lieutenant, then turned to Towers.

"Nobody else heard anything. The Centrans had no trouble on the wall last night."

"That leaves the prisoners," said Towers.

"Sir," said Cartwright earnestly, "the prisoners are guarded."

"I'm going over there now, and see how they're guarded," said Towers. "Wait right here till I get back."

Logan got up, and went out with him. When they were out in the hall, Towers said, "Hadn't you better get that arm taken care of?"

"I want to see these well-guarded prisoners first," said Logan.

They walked out into the gray light of dawn, and up the steps of the barracks across the way.

Towers opened the door, and a corporal nodding at a table in a small anteroom shot to his feet. "Attenshun!"

Six massive hairy forms in body armor snapped erect.

"Where are the prisoners?" said Towers.

"In the next room sir."

"Quiet, aren't they?"

"They settled down after they got a taste of that wire."

"Let's see them."

The corporal opened up the door, and snapped on a light.

Towers stepped into a long room divided into three parts by a heavy wire mesh fence, with mesh carried across the walls, ceiling, and floor, and covering all the windows. The central portion of the room had a pile of straw on the floor and could be entered by a steel-and-wire door from either end.

"You see, sir," said the corporal, "they can't get out unless they spring the gate on this side, or the other gate. Then they have to come out the doors. We're waiting for them."

"Fine," said Towers. "Where are they?"

"Under the straw, sir. That's where they were the last time." He took a long pole from the corner of the room, and rammed it through the heavy mesh into the pile of straw. "Funny," he murmured.

Logan said, "Sir, that wire is stretched out of shape here and there, but I don't see any break."

"Neither do I, but there's one somewhere."

The corporal was getting frantic with his pole. "I know they're here somewhere!"

"Look there," said Towers. "At the ceiling. In the far corner."

"It looks like a hole. But the wire isn't broken."

"Sir," said the corporal. "They're gone."

"Open that gate," said Towers.

The corporal unsnapped the lock, and lifted a bar that fastened the gate to its frame at several points. Towers and Logan walked in and looked up. In the far corner was a rough hole in the ceiling with wire stretched across it.

"Yes," said Towers, studying it, "the edge of the wire on the ceiling was fastened to the wire of that fence with a kind of heavy loop, like a hog-ring. Look there." On the floor nearby lay a thick piece of wire bent in the form of an open U. "They sprang the fasteners, got up between the two pieces the fasteners held together, tore the ceiling boards loose—then they were upstairs." Towers glanced at the corporal. "Who told you to have half your squad in one end of the barracks and half in the other, with no one outside, or in here watching these prisoners?"

"Lieutenant Cartwright, sir. But about watching the prisoners, sir. If any of us were in the room with them, it seemed to drive them into fury. And that was getting through to the gorillas. We had to get out."

"Was there anything to prevent you from drilling a peephole through the wall, so you could watch them without being seen?"

The corporal opened his mouth, then shut it. He shook his head dazedly.

"Next time," said Towers angrily, "think." He turned, left the prisoners' cage, and with Logan close behind, went outside and back to the headquarters barracks. He paused at the door marked "Guard and Security Detail," turned to Logan, and said, "You'd better get yourself taken care of."

"Yes, sir. I'll go see the medic right now."

Outside, a Centran bugle was rousing the troops in the other part of camp. The day was just starting, and Towers felt as if he'd been rolled down a mountainside in a barrel. He opened the door, glanced at the perspiring Cartwright, and motioned him to come out. Towers shut the door and looked at him. There was a painful silence.

Towers said, "People in the Special Effects Team are not supposed to be stupid, Lieutenant. We've been on this planet not quite twenty-four hours, and we have had more dislocation from two officers who refused to think than from any other cause whatever. Major Logan and I were almost killed this morning. The Centran position here may break down anytime, so we've got to find a solution as quickly as possible. But thanks to your witless arrangements to guard the prisoners, and to your going to sleep when you were supposed to be awake, the whole business has been thrown into confusion. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Sir . . . there isn't anything to be said."

"What was the cause of this trouble?"

"I . . . I went to sleep . . . I—"

"Nuts," said Towers furiously. "Why did you go to sleep?"

"I was tired . . . I didn't—" He hesitated.

"Go on," said Towers tensely.

"I didn't think, sir."

"All right. You've hit on the answer. Now, for the love of heaven, start thinking. If we don't think in the Special Effects Team, who will?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"You'll be more sorry, yet, before this is over. And every time you're sorry, remember it's because you didn't think. Now, down this hall about halfway is my room. You can recognize it because the door is knocked in, and there's a dead humanoid halfway through the window. Down at the end of the hall is Major Logan's room, which you can recognize because it's a shambles, the door is knocked off, and there's a dead humanoid across a table knocked upside down. Clean up both rooms, deliver the humanoids to the medic for examination, and replace the doors, windows, and anything else that's damaged. Do it yourself, with no help, then report to me. Don't eat any breakfast. Don't eat any lunch. Major Logan and I lost the benefit of sleep, and you are going to lose the benefit of those two meals. If I learn that you had anything whatever to eat before the evening meal, I will see to it that you wish you had never been born."

"Yes, sir."

"All right, get started."

"Yes, sir."

Towers went into the Guard Detail office. "There's a wire mesh prisoners' cage on the barracks across the way. It's been broken out of. Have it repaired with more and heavier fastening rings to bind the sections of wire together, and put in some arrangement so prisoners can be watched unseen. See that the prisoners are watched unseen. Put a patrol outside, just in case. Also, there's a humanoid upstairs in this building, with a gorilla on guard. The humanoid is either dead or playing possum. If he's dead, blow his head off just to be on the safe side, and deliver the body to the medic for examination. If he's alive, stick him back in the cage. And see that he's watched."

"Yes, sir."

"Then check up on exactly how the prisoners got out, and let me know."

"Yes, sir. I'll take care of it as soon as possible."

"Good."

Towers went back to his room, washed, dressed, went out to eat breakfast, then walked back to his office. He felt like a man after a two-week binge, but he had accomplished this overnight, and without benefit of any pleasure in the process.

As he entered the office, Logan, one arm in a sling, was just putting down his telephone.

"Sir," said Logan. "The Centran ammunition supply has been cut."

Towers shut the door, and nearly fell over a tied stack of Centran reports that lay tipped over on the floor. Logan sprang up, and heaved the stack back against the wall. The whole long row of stacks teetered precariously, and two at the end tipped out and fell over with a heavy crash.

Logan spat out an unprintable oath. "That thing," he added, "was tipped over when I came in, and I no sooner sat down then it fell over again. I'll—"

Towers said, "Wait a minute. The trouble is, when they brought these reports in, they just set them here. They should have leaned them against the wall. Or at least set them close enough to it so—" he heaved a stack upright, and leaned it back. He heaved the other stack upright, and wrestled it into place. Everything now seemed to be in order, save that the whole row was slumping a little toward the door. Towers scowled, then shrugged. "Good enough. Now, what was that about the Centran ammunition supply?"

"A bunch of humanoids got into one of their biggest munitions works, and raised so much hell that the garrison got excited and forgot where they were. One thing led to another, and the place blew up."

Towers pulled out his chair and sat down.

"What did that take out?"

"Thirty per cent of the Centran ammunition capacity. They'll feel the pinch in three or four days, which is about all the local reserves are good for."

Towers' phone rang, and he picked it up.

"Sir," said a voice, "you wanted me to let you know when the blockhouse was finished. It's finished now, and ready to take the prisoners."

"Good. Thank you." Towers hung up and glanced at Logan. "The blockhouse is ready. Now all we need are some prisoners to put in it."

Logan said exasperatedly, "Well, at least, the Centrans ought to be able to give us some more of them."

"Call up and see. We may still have one alive, anyway." Towers called up the Guard Detail.

"Yes, sir," said a voice on the other end. "That one upstairs with the gorilla watching was alive, all right. When we went to pick it up, it almost put Private Higgins through the wall. That big gorilla on guard went to work before we could stop him, bashed the humanoid through the fiberboard, and wrapped him around an overhead beam. Doc's working him over now. About how they got out of the barracks, sir—"

"Wait a minute. Doc's working who over now?"

"Sir? Oh, Higgins."

"What about the humanoid?"

"Dead. As you suggested, sir, we blew his head off for good measure. I guess that takes care of the four of them."

Towers looked at the phone. "The four of them?"

"Yes, sir. The one dead in your room, the one dead in Major Logan's room, the one we killed, and the one Doc was dissecting when we got Higgins over there."

"Wait a minute. Do you mean to say there were four prisoners?"

"Yes, sir. I have the receiving sheet right on my desk here. There were four male humanoid prisoners, all captured yesterday, delivered at 10:58 last night, signed for by Cartwright, also by Meigs, private in charge of temporary detention barracks."

Towers glanced at Logan, but Logan was busy on the phone. Towers thought a moment, then said, "Listen, I think you've counted one of the dead humanoids twice. One was killed in Logan's room, one in my room, and one upstairs. Cartwright had orders to take the one in Logan's room and the one in my room over to the medic for examination. I think you saw the humanoids in those rooms, then had the fight with the one upstairs. Meantime, Cartwright brought the one in Logan's room over to the medic. Then you took Higgins over there, saw the one Cartwright had brought over, and counted it again."

"Then one's still loose. I'll get right at it, sir."

"How did they get out of the detentions barracks?"

"Through a join in the wire, through the first-floor ceiling, up through the second-floor ceiling, and out the roof."

"O.K. Find out about that other humanoid."

"Yes, sir."

Towers hung up. Logan said, "Sir, the Centrans say they can supply us with all the humanoids we want. But it will take a half-hour or so before they can get us one. What they do is to let him climb up to the top of the wall, then knock them over the head with a big hammer, grab them with hooks, and strap them up."

Some kind of oddly-shaped bug droned past Towers' head, distracting him for a moment, then settled on the opposite wall.

"Well," said Towers, bringing his mind back to business, "the blockhouse is finished, and we'll have some prisoners in a little while. Better get the arrangements for testing set up."

"I've taken care of it, sir. They were all set up even before the blockhouse was ready."

"Good work," said Towers approvingly.

The phone buzzed, and he picked it up. "Hello?"

"Sir, the first of the scouts is back from observing that jungle down below. We thought you'd want to hear his story."

"Fine. Send him in." Towers turned to Logan. "They're sending in one of the scouts. And just incidentally, Logan, how many of those humanoids did you think we had around this morning?"

"Well," said Logan. "There was a dead one halfway through your window when I got back from getting patched up. There was the one in my room. And there was that terrific fight going on upstairs after those two got finished. That makes three."

"The guard detail has record of four being delivered to us last night."

"Four." Logan glanced around, the hair at the back of his neck seeming to bristle.

There was a respectful knock on the door, and a tired-looking Special Effects lieutenant of about average height came in, and saluted. "Sir, second Lieutenant James Andres, in charge of Scout Unit One—two Wings and six Mark II Supercondas."

"You were down in the forest."

"Yes, sir. It's actually more of a jungle down there—the growth is luxuriant. Sir, we were supposed to observe particularly the humanoids. When we got down, it was approaching dusk, and as it got light this morning we had to pull the 'condas back into a swamp. The jungle growth is so thick that from the Wings it's next to impossible to see what's going on, while from the supercondas we had a splendid view, but were attacked on sight by any humanoid that happened along. What I mean, sir, is that I can give a fairly clear report of what we saw, but during daylight we couldn't get into the place where the humanoids were really thick, without creating such an uproar that it defeated our purpose."

Towers nodded. "Go ahead. I'd like to hear your impressions."

"Sir, the place is a hellhole. There are humanoids all over, crouching on limbs, behind tree trunks, and hiding in the brush. We saw them eat just about everything in sight, but they seem to prefer—from our short observation—a kind of berry on a thorny vine that grows up high into the trees."

"They spend most of their time eating?"

"No, sir. That just seems to be their objective. They actually spend most of their time creeping up on each other, and bashing each other's brains in. When they're not attacking, they're looking over their shoulder for fear somebody's going to attack them."

"That's in the daytime?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is it at night?"

"They climb trees, hide under fallen logs, or somehow get out of sight. Most of them, that is. We did see some of them work their way up a giant tree at night after what we think was an insect nest of some kind. They broke off the limb the nest was on, then came down again."

"Eat the insects? Or find honey on the nest?"

"No, sir, they just threw it down. But it landed out of sight, and it may be that later on they got it. The way we figure it, sir, is that the nest belonged to some pest that couldn't see at night, and they were getting rid of it. The humanoids seem to have some night vision. Only a few seem to have the courage to move around much, but we noticed a number waiting to brain anyone that did."

"Cannibalistic?"

"Not that we saw last night, sir. The idea seems to be, to wait till somebody else has a delicacy, then kill him and eat the delicacy. The place seems to abound in food. We saw them eat chunks of thick bark right off the trees. But the foods they really like seem to be rare."

"What happens to any humanoids that are sick, or injured?"

The scout lieutenant shook his head. "All the ones we saw were healthy. I imagine any sick or injured ones get killed off pretty fast. The strange part is, with all this fighting amongst themselves, they unite the instant they spot anything different. There are scavenger birds that come down at night, and live on the dead from the previous day. One came down a little early last night, before it was really dark, and a bunch of humanoids tore it to shreds. Whenever they saw us, they attacked us, even though one superconda—even if it had been just a big snake—could have slaughtered dozens of them before being finished. And yet, we were glad to get out into the swamp. There are so many of those humanoids, they are so fast and so violent, and their reactions seem to be on such an instinctive basis, with no time wasted on thought, that to tell the truth they scared the living daylights out of us, and some of those supercondas have the outer camouflage casing around the snout pretty well beat up. It's an awful place down there."

Towers imagined a jungle alive with creatures like the ones he and Logan had fought with that morning. "Yes," he said, "it must be."

"In order to get some good out of the trip, we each jammed a couple of humanoids into the forward sample pouches on the supercondas. But we'd better do the rest of our scouting remotely, by planting hidden TV and radio pickups down there. We can use the 'condas to do that at night."

"Good. Now, did you say, you'd brought up some humanoid prisoners?"

"Yes, sir. A dozen, all told."

"Fine. Go down the hall to the Guard Detail office, and arrange to unload the humanoids under guard, half at the blockhouse, and half at the detention barracks, as soon as you can."

"Yes, sir. I'll do that right now." The lieutenant saluted, and went out.

Towers and Logan glanced at each other.

Logan said, "I don't care much for the sound of this. We're up against a kind of situation I don't think we ever ran into before. These humanoids aren't stupid, actually, but they're completely oriented toward combat. They all gang up on any different life form that raises its head. When they don't have any alien life form to fight, they fight each other. It's an ingrained instinctive-traditional reaction backed up by the sheer mechanics of the situation. They've got to fight, because with unrestricted reproduction there just can't be enough food for all. But as long as they do fight all the time, every man's hand against every other man's, they can never develop any organization or technological skills worth mentioning. They'll just go by a process of natural selection getting tougher, faster, and trickier, till they reach the limit, and the slaughter will just go on by itself with no more sense or reason than a chemical reaction. But how do we end it? There must be plenty of surplus birth rate down there, and we have a huge mass of these humanoids to contend with."

Towers watched the odd-shaped bug he'd seen earlier buzz across the room, and hover outside the door of a small storage closet in the corner of the room. The bug hovered by the crack at the top of the door, its buzz rising to a whine, and dying away again. Towers stared at it in puzzlement, then with an effort dragged his mind back to the problem at hand.

"Maybe," he said, "these tests will give us some idea."

The first series of tests, carried out at the specially fitted blockhouse, took all afternoon, and were designed to find which of a great variety of available insects and arachnids the humanoids might be most susceptible to. The tests showed conclusively that the humanoids were untroubled by—among others—gnats, flies, ticks, and several sizes and varieties of mosquitoes, all of which lost interest after a taste of humanoid blood. The humanoids seemed vaguely aware of attacking yellow jackets, hornets, giant bumblebees, and tarantulas, which they squashed absent-mindedly when they chanced to notice them. The only thing that seemed to cause the humanoids any real trouble was a selected strain of scorpion, which succeeded in raising a dark pink bump about half the size of a man's little fingernail, which disappeared in an hour.

Towers and Logan, considerably depressed, went through the motions of eating a hasty supper, paused briefly at their office, then watched tests designed to determine the limits of the humanoid's tolerance for various foods. These tests revealed that the humanoids could eat all bark, root, branch, leaf, grass, moss, fungus, and lichen samples given to them, together with leather, rubber, cotton, wool, synthetic fiber, chalk, every kind of normal food, spice, and flavoring in the camp, plus soap, grease, wallboard, a variety of plastics, and engine oil. The humanoids drew the line at gasoline, which made them sneeze, but gnawed and sucked on nails, tin cans, rocks and the concrete walls of the blockhouse.

The medic now reported that he had examined the specimens given him for dissection, had dulled a large number of knives in the process, but had succeeded in finding out that the humanoids had an exceptionally powerful digestive system, including a small gizzard, a "selection chamber" where food was apparently split into digestible and occasional indigestible portions, and a "bypass" by which the rare nondigestible or poisonous portions were routed around the ordinary digestive system through several valves and disposed of with no wasted effort. The medic also mentioned that he had passed along portions of the humanoids' tissues for chemical analysis, and gotten back a report that the tissues contained an unusually large amount of silicon. The medic hazarded the guess that just as certain silicon coatings were tougher than ordinary organic coatings, so the body tissue of the humanoids was tougher than ordinary tissue.

In a state bordering on shock, Towers and Logan went back to their office. Nothing much had changed here, save that the piles of Centran reports were gradually slumping more steeply, and the odd-looking bug was perched over the door of the storage closet, giving an occasional buzz from time to time. The guard detail reported no sign of the missing humanoid, and Lieutenant Cartwright, looking exhausted, reported that he had cleaned up and repaired Towers' and Logan's rooms, had eaten no breakfast or lunch, but had eaten some supper, and he was ready for the next stage of his punishment, which he knew he well deserved.

Towers told him to report back the next morning, then sent him to bed, and looked over a report from one of his men on possible ways to slow down the attacks on the Centran camps. He approved for immediate action the measures it suggested, then after a half hour of futile wrestling with the problem, he turned out the lights, and he and Logan went off to try to catch up on sleep.

Towers was in the middle of a nightmare, with half-a-dozen escaped humanoids lurking all over the barracks as he stood paralyzed in a hallway, listening for telltale signs, when there was a crash that shook the room and jolted him awake. Towers was out of bed, gun in hand, crouched in a corner of the room, with his heart hammering and the blood pounding in his ears, before he was fully awake. He heard a door come open somewhere, there was a thunderous crash, the sound of running feet, another roar, the sound of splintering wood, a yell and a hideous worrying sound.

A lifetime of devotion to duty moved Towers across the room, and out the door into the dim-lit hallway before he had time to really consider the matter.

As he stepped into the hall, there came a growl from the direction of his office, a heavy grunt, and the biggest humanoid he'd seen yet exploded at him out of the shadows.

Towers squeezed the trigger, whipped back against the wall, and fired again as the humanoid veered toward him, gripped him around the waist, and threw him down the hallway. Towers lost his footing, slammed down on his back, the humanoid landed on top of him, and with a heavy smash a lion landed on the humanoid. There was one chaotic instant full of claws, teeth, and noise, then Towers was on his feet, the badly-wounded humanoid was in a corner, and the lion was mauling the humanoid with terrific blows from his paws.

There was a sound of running feet, and a strongly-built private with a guard detail armband, a thick smear of dirt across his face, and a bloody nose, ran up and shouted, "Back! Sit!"

The lion, growling, backed from the shambles of the humanoid, and with his right forepaw raised and the claws out, the paw making tentative motions in the air, sat, crouched forward on his haunches.

The guard shone a powerful light in the corner, murmured fervently to himself, and said in a clear steady voice, "Good boy. Good. All right, now."

The lion abruptly sat back, gave a final growl, and began to clean himself.

"Sir," said the guard, "do you know where that thing was?"

"Where?"

"In your office, sir!"

Towers limped down the hall, took a look in his office, which was a shambles, and waited while the guard detail checked, and reported that no new captives had gotten loose, so this latest humanoid must be prisoner number four, missing since last night.

Towers went back to sleep, and after what seemed only a few minutes, woke up exhausted and aching from head to foot, with someone gently but insistently shaking him by the shoulder.

Logan was saying, "Sir, I'm sorry. The situation's gotten worse."

Towers opened his eyes. The room was light, and from outside came an almost continuous firing.

Towers sat up. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten."

Towers swung out of bed, winced at a sharp pain in his side, splashed cold water on his face, and dressed rapidly. "What's happened?"

"A searchlight on the wall burned out late last night, and in trying to light that section of wall, the soldiers on duty stepped up the current at the two neighboring searchlights, and burnt them out, too. Before they got them back in operation, some humanoids climbed over the wall. They killed about a dozen Centrans in their sleep, and there was a reign of terror in the camp till sun-up. Now," Logan stepped to the window and raised it, "listen out there."

Towers stepped to the window and listened.

Clear and distinct, a chant came through the window: "Home . . . We want to go home. Home . . . We want to go home."

"That's the Centrans?" said Towers.

"About half of them, sir. Klossig's deputy was just on the phone, and says General Klossig is out there with the Headquarters Guard, trying to break up the mob. Anything we can do to support the general, to distract, to—"

The crash of a volley of gunfire came through the window, followed by another crash, and another. Then the chant rose up again, "Home! Home! We want to go—"

Towers shut his eyes and tried to think. Again there was a crash of guns, this time followed by screams and yells.

Towers said, "Where are the bugs we were using to test the humanoids?"

"There are whole cases of them in the Special Devices barracks next to the blockhouse."

"Break out the all-purpose bug spray, and be sure everybody—and all the animals—gets a good dose. Then turn loose the Jersey Special mosquitoes, the yellow jackets, the hornets, and all the other flying pests on hand except the giant bumblebees. We'll make this the shortest rebellion in Centran history."

Logan left the room at a run.

Towers strapped on his gun, went down the hall to his office, and looked around. All the stacks of Centran reports were out flat on the floor. Logan's desk was knocked over on its side, and Towers' desk was slewed around five feet from where he had left it. The door of the storage closet was open, with half-a-dozen empty cans and a brass belt buckle lying on the floor. Over the door, smashed flat on the doorframe, was the bug that had been flying around the room the day before. Towers went into the closet, and looked around. Bottles were empty, cans were licked clean, a large section of wallboard was eaten away from the floor halfway to the ceiling, exposing the studs. Towers stepped back and looked up at the bug. He gave a low exclamation, and turned at the sound of the door opening.

One of his men burst in, carrying a formidable gun with a number of outthrust nozzles.

"Bug spray, sir! Don't move!"

Towers shut his eyes. He was enveloped in a cloud of fine stinging spray that seemed to hit him from all directions at once. From somewhere, he could hear the clanging of an alarm bell, and the booming of loudspeakers warning that there was just ninety seconds left to get sprayed with repellent.

"Done, sir!"

The door opened and slammed shut. There was the pound of feet hurrying down the hall, and the bang of doors being thrown open and shut again as the hunt went on for anybody who needed bug repellent.

"Sixty seconds!" roared an amplified voice.

Logan came in as Towers was choking in a breath of air that stank of repellent. Right behind Logan came Cartwright. Clouds of vapor rose from both men.

"We're about set," said Logan, stepping around the fallen stacks of Centran reports. "The bugs are ready, and we've got plenty of them."

"O.K.," said Towers. "Now—"

"Thirty seconds!" roared the loudspeaker.

"Sir," said Cartwright hopefully, "is there anything I can do?"

Towers said to Logan, "Listen—"

The phone rang, and Logan, still facing Towers, scooped it up. "Yes, sir . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . In about half-a-minute, sir." He hung up, and said to Towers, "General Klossig's deputy, sir."

"O.K.," said Towers. "Now—"

"Fifteen seconds!" roared the voice from the loud- speaker.

The door flew open. A set of nozzles thrust in. A voice shouted "Here are some!"

"No, no!" said Towers. "We've already—"

A blast of spray enveloped him.

"Ten seconds!" boomed the loudspeaker.

Logan swore, and gagged.

"O.K., now!" The door banged shut.

Towers groped his way to a window, and savagely threw it up.

"Five seconds!" boomed the loudspeaker. "Four! Three! Two!"

"Sir—" choked Cartwright.

"Open that door," said Towers, "and get a little air in here."

"Zero!" screamed the loudspeaker.

Cartwright threw the door open.

There was a buzzing, droning noise from outside. Towers looked out to see a tornado of hurrying black dots rise over the human section of the camp. The air filled with buzzing, droning, whining sounds, and little darting shapes.

Logan was furiously wiping his face. "Thank God that's over."

"Yes," said Towers, "as long as some fool didn't—"

There was a thunder of feet that shook the building.

Towers shouted, "Look out!"

A huge gorilla burst into the room, and whirled around. A black-and-yellow thing about the size of a one-inch cut off the end of a lead pencil, flew in right behind and dove at him. The gorilla let out a roar of terror and heaved a chair at it. The chair smashed through the ceiling, legs first, and hung there. The black-and-yellow thing reappeared from the side, and darted for the gorilla.

A set of nozzles poked in the doorway.

"Spray him!" yelled Towers and Logan simultaneously.

The gorilla streaked around the room.

Towers, Logan, and Cartwright bolted to get out of the way.

There was a crash that shook the building.

Towers whirled around. There was a big hole in the opposite wall of the room. Logan and Cartwright were hastily picking themselves up. The gorilla was gone. At the door, the nozzles now thrust in decisively.

"No!" shouted Towers. He's gone!"

There was a rolling cloud from the nozzle, then a yell. The spray gun flew in the doorway followed by a shouting figure with half-a-dozen yellow jackets swirling around his head. The gun landed against the wall, and the figure went out the open window, hit the ground in a somersault, and streaked across the open space.

Towers shut his eyes.

Logan picked up the spray gun. "The total, one hundred per cent, witless damned fool. He was so busy spraying everyone else, he didn't get sprayed himself."

Towers said, "Just so long as they didn't miss any more gorillas."

Cartwright cleared his throat apologetically, "Sir, excuse me. If there's anything else I can do to clear myself?"

"There is." Towers took him by the arm. "You see that bug, flattened on the doorframe? Odd-looking bug, isn't it? It appears to have a sting on one end, and a sucker on the other end. Now, look in this supply closet. Obviously from all this stuff that's eaten up, the escaped humanoid spent a long time in here. Now, this bug didn't pay much attention to us yesterday, but flew around the room, hovered outside the door to this closet or sat on the doorframe over the closet, buzzing from time to time. Now, our insects don't trouble these humanoids, but something kept that humanoid from coming out till after we closed up and snapped off the lights in here."

"Yes, sir," said Cartwright, frowning at the squashed bug. "It must have been that insect."

Towers nodded. "And the sooner we find out what that insect is, the better. The obvious way would be to get the information from some expert in Planetary Integration, but" —he listened for a moment to the distant shouts and screams coming from the Centran part of camp—"I'm afraid they're not going to be available for a while."

"Yes, sir," said Cartwright. "So I should—"

"Go through these papers," said Towers, pointing to the stacks of Centran reports on the floor. "As soon as you find out what this bug is, your punishment's over."

Cartwright whipped out a pocket knife, cut the strings binding the end stack of reports, pulled out the top one, and started to read. Abruptly he stopped, and looked intently at the thousands of reports waiting to be read.

Logan said to Towers, "Sir, if we do find the right kind of bug, and can mass-breed it, that should take care of protecting the Centran camps. After we have enough bugs."

"We might be able to do more than that with them," said Towers, frowning. "We have to be very careful about spreading complete colonies of our own insects over a planet. But this bug is native to the planet, and on top of that it doesn't seem to bother us." He slewed his desk around to something like a normal position, and amidst the shouts, buzzing, droning, and whining sounds, sat down and tried to think.

"But, sir," said Logan apologetically, "first we've got to get around this ammunition shortage."

The days blended into weeks as they struggled with the ammunition shortage, and a host of miscellaneous problems.

Klossig's part of camp was like a city after a siege. The buildings were shot up, dead and wounded were strewn around indiscriminately, the air was choked with smoke from small fires that threatened to get out of hand and burn up the whole camp. The Centrans not hurt in the shooting were dazed from the shock of the revolt, and half-dead from the attacks of the insects that broke it up. Powerful insecticides had disposed of most of the insects, but a few kept reappearing from unlikely places, to add a pall of nervous dread to the desolation.

To keep the camp from being overrun by the humanoids, Towers had to rush his own men onto the walls as sharpshooters, backed up by roaming squads of close-trained wolves, big cats, and gorillas. The other Centran camps pleaded for help as their munitions supply dwindled, and this strained Towers' manpower to the limit. Just as he reached the point where he had nothing to spare, Cartwright discovered in the Centran reports a reference to an odd bug that terrorized the humanoids in the daytime, and was destroyed by them at night, the nests being thrown down, ripped open, and the young bugs torn out, to be eaten as a special delicacy.

By degrees, Towers managed to straighten out the worst of the mess, getting automatic devices into operation to ease the strain on his men. The scouts then went into action, and brought back several nests of the insects. But now, one of the random eddying migrations of the humanoids produced a surge of population below Klossig's camp, and the number of desperate climbers coming up the cliff rose to an unprecedented flood.

At this point, Klossig fortunately was able to get back onto his feet. A sudden burst of energy swept through the Centran part of camp. The troops, jolted into action by the sight of dead mutineers dangling from gallows, took over from the Special Effects men on the walls, and savagely knocked the humanoids off with clubs, axes, and sledge hammers.

This desperate effort gave Towers and his men just time enough to study the main routes up which the humanoids climbed, and to put some Special Effects into operation. The mountain suddenly blossomed out in live wires, strips of rock polished mirror-smooth and greased, and sets of handholds that supported a climber's full weight for a brief moment, then snapped out on forty feet of cable, stopped with a jolt, and wound up ready for the next climber.

Towers, mopping perspiration from his brow, returned to his office to find a report stating that the local bugs were now being propagated successfully by mass-breeding. The report stated: "Initial efforts at fractionation suggest that in no very great time we will have on hand a spectrum of strains ranging, in their effects on the local humanoids, from very moderate to near-lethal virulence."

"In other words," said Towers, in relief, "we'll have strains of bugs capable of hitting the humanoids with everything from annoyance to terror."

"Well," said Logan, "that's a relief. We've about stopped the humanoids coming up the wall, but the Centran troops are dead on their feet, and I hate to think what will happen if more humanoids should climb up. With the bugs, we can stop them."

Towers was drawing a careful sketch on a pad. "The original problem wasn't just to stop them," he said. "That will leave us, Klossig, and the humanoids, right in the same hole we were in to start with. The problem is to somehow break the humanoids out of their planetary mob. See if you can find one of our men who's ingenious at construction."

Logan went out, and came back with a thin, wiry individual with capable hands. Towers pointed to several sketches. "We're going to plant nests of bugs down there in the jungle. The bugs will frustrate and terrorize a large proportion of the humanoids by day—which, we hope, will tend to break up their instinctive-traditional pattern of living in an endless cycle of eat, reproduce, and kill. But at night, the humanoids will go up after the nests, and only a few that happen to be located in particularly inaccessible spots will survive. Unless we take precautions."

The technician looked over the drawings. "You want a kind of cage, or barrier, with knives and other stuff sticking out, so the humanoids can't get at the nests?"

"No," said Towers, "so the humanoids can't get at the nests as the humanoids are now. These cages have to be of various kinds, requiring different degrees of ingenuity to open, the mechanism has to be out where it can be seen, and some of the doors are to have widely-separated releases, so they can be opened by cooperative effort."

The technician frowned, then straightened up as a light seemed to dawn on him. "I get it. I'll start right to work on it, sir."

"Good."

The technician hurried out with the sketches.

Towers, feeling exhausted, pushed back his chair and got up. He thought he would go outside, take a little walk, and get some fresh air. He opened the outer door and froze.

Coming straight for him, a wild-eyed hairy figure burst across the clear space between the barracks. Right behind sprinted a crowd of Centrans with clubs, axes, and sledge hammers. But the humanoid was gaining.

Towers barely had time to reach for his gun.

There was a terrific burst of lights, then spiraling blackness.

Towers was on his back, vaguely aware of a soft covering over him. He opened his eyes.

Daylight hit him with a hammering shock.

He waited a moment, and tried opening his eyes gradually. By degrees, he succeeded, until in a half-squint he could look around.

He was lying in his own room with a medical orderly watching him tensely.

Towers tried to sit up. The room wavered around him.

"Careful, sir," warned the orderly.

Towers waited till the room steadied, then sat up further. The orderly propped him up with a pillow.

Towers said, "Where's Major Logan?" His voice came out in a whisper, and he had to clear his throat and try again.

"I'll get him, sir." The orderly went out.

A few minutes later, Logan came in.

Towers said, "What day is it?"

"Sir, you've been out for nearly ten days. The doctor thought you were done for."

Towers grunted, and swung carefully to sit on the edge of the bed. He felt light-headed, but otherwise all right. It came to him with a shock that he actually felt better than he had earlier. He no longer ached all over. He glanced at Logan.

"What happened while I was out?"

"We got into production on the barriers and cages to protect the nests. We've got a pilot project going down there."

Towers got carefully to his feet. "How's it working?"

"Inside the test area, the insects knock the humanoids' normal daytime procedure to bits and pieces, and the more virulent ones create a terrific casualty rate. At night, a few individuals and little groups of humanoids hunt out the insects. At first the cages cut the humanoids to ribbons, and we thought it was going to be the same procedure as outside on the cliff. The ones in front rush on because they're pressed from behind, and the ones behind neither know nor care what happens to the ones in front. But apparently the humanoids that hunt the nests at night have a little more initiative than the rest."

"What happened?"

"Early the other night, we were watching a scene on infra red, and one of those scarred-up humanoids got into a terrific fight with two others, finally beat them into a stupor, dragged them around to opposite sides of a fence of knives protecting the base of a pole with a nest on it, and by sheer persistence finally got the others to press down the two separated release-levers simultaneously. The fence collapsed, and the three of them got the big nest for their reward. The next day, these three stayed together, and a couple of nights later, they got at a trickier nest. Now there are half-a-dozen humanoids in this group, they generally stick together in the daytime, and they don't get broken up by the others. Swarms of the less-virulent bugs create so much distraction that not many of the humanoids can spare the patience to stalk the others. What's getting formed down there is a tribe, with a leader."

Towers breathed a sigh of relief. "When that process picks up enough speed, we should have something it's possible to deal with."

Logan said, "Klossig thinks so, too. When we started the second test area—a ring of virulent bugs on the outside to stop migration, with the less virulent ones scattered around the interior—he insisted on having special briefings for his troops. It's boosted morale terrifically, and the Centrans are in high spirits." Logan glanced out the window and added, "Most of them, that is." Then he said, "I think these humanoids are the toughest opposition we've ever run into."

Towers glanced out the window to see what Logan had seen that made him add the qualification "Most of them, that is."

Outside was a Centran colonel, in charge of a small crew of Centrans led by a private wearing a uniform with threads sticking out in the form of sergeant's chevrons. Towers leaned forward, and recognized the colonel and the sergeant who had caused Logan and him so much trouble when they first landed on the planet.

The colonel gloomily led his little band slowly past the barracks, where they picked up cigarette butts, chewing-gum wrappers, odd bits of string and broken rubber bands, and other miscellaneous junk.

Towers laughed. "Klossig's caught up with the colonel."

"Yes," said Logan, glancing out the window, "the colonel's in charge of the worst foul-ups in camp. Last week Klossig had the colonel and his boys putting new crack-filler between all the boards in the main hall of the Headquarters Building. It's only about two hundred feet long."

Towers grinned, then said suddenly, "As a matter of fact, these humanoids aren't our toughest opponents. They're just one minor variety of our toughest opponents. Think of the colonel. Think of Cartwright, before he started to use his head. Think of either of us sitting in that office, seeing the antics of that bug without realizing something was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"Our toughest opponents," said Towers, "are all those who have the capacity for thought, but—for some reason—won't think."

Towers and Logan looked out the window, glanced from the colonel to the humanoids to Cartwright, just crossing the yard below. Then they cast a furtive glance at each other.

An object across the room caught Towers' attention. He cleared his throat.

"Look there, Logan. There's the worst offender of all."

"Who?"

"Right there. Look." He pointed.

Logan glanced around, then growled under his breath.

Towers laughed.

Then he paused, and thought the matter over carefully.

He was right there in the mirror, too.

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Framed