17.

When the troop train was held up on a siding next to a dingy, dirty station about two hundred miles from the Khonti border, Private Second Class Zef ran to the tank for boiling water and returned with a portable radio. He informed his companions that bedlam had broken out at the station, where two brigades were being shipped out; and the generals were barking at each other. While mingling with the crowd of orderlies and adjutants, he had managed to liberate a radio.

The trainload of soldiers greeted this announcement with shouts of approval. All forty of them quickly crowded around Zef. For a long time they were unable to settle down; they shoved, swore, and complained until Maxim finally yelled: "Shut up, you bastards!' ' When they quieted down Zef turned on the radio and tuned in one station after another.

Within minutes they learned some very strange things. First of all, it turned out that hostilities had not begun yet; there had been no bloody battles. The Khonti Fighting League was shouting righteously that those bandits, those usurpers, the All-Powerful Creators, were using their hirelings, the so-called Khonti Union for Justice, for treacherous provocation and were now concentrating their forces on the borders of long-suffering Khonti. The Khonti Union, in turn, castigated the Khonti League, those paid agents of the All-Powerful Creators, and described in detail how such-and-such a unit with superior forces had driven a small unit exhausted by previous engagements across the border and kept it pinned down. These were the facts, and they served as a pretext for the so-called All-Powerful Creators to launch their barbaric invasion, which was expected at any moment. Both the League and the Union, in almost identical statements, dropped veiled hints about atomic traps lying in wait for the invasion forces of the treacherous enemy.

Zef also tuned in on some broadcasts in languages that only he could understand. He told them that the Ondol Principality still existed as a sovereign state and, moreover, continued to launch its murderous attacks on Khazzalg Island. But the ether was filled mainly with cross-invective between the commanders of units trying to force their way through to the main bridgehead along two disorganized rail lines.

The ordinary prisoners felt that their main goal should be to cross the border, where each man would become his own master; the political prisoners were inclined to a pessimistic view of the situation. They were of the opinion that they were being sent to be blown up by atomic mines. None would survive the holocaust. Therefore it would be a good idea, when they arrived at the front, to hide until it all blew over. The men held such conflicting views that a coherent discussion was out of the question, and the dispute deteriorated very rapidly into monotonous invective directed at the dirty bastards serving in the rear who hadn't served them any grub for two days and had probably ripped off all their whiskey rations. The soldiers in the penal battalion would spend the rest of the night developing variations on this theme, so Maxim and Zef forced their way through the crowd and climbed into their crude bunks.

Zef, hungry and irritated, was about to fall asleep, but Maxim wouldn't let him. "You'll sleep later. We'll probably be at the front tomorrow and we haven't come to agreement about anything yet." Zef muttered that there was nothing to agree about; that one's mind was always sharper in the morning; that Maxim was not blind and must see what a quagmire they were in; and that you couldn't go anywhere with these feeble-minded sons of bitches. Maxim replied that he wasn't concerned with that at the moment. The cause of the war, who needed it and why, was the issue he wanted to discuss -- his understanding of it was still fuzzy.

Zef muttered, yawned, and rewound his foot bindings, but after being nagged and cajoled long enough, he finally acquiesced and expounded his views on the cause of the war.

There were at least three possible causes. The primary one was economic. Everyone knew that when a country's economy was in rotten shape, the easiest dodge was to start a war as a pretext for gagging everyone immediately. Vepr, who knew a lot about the influence of economics on politics, had predicted this war several years ago. You can deceive people about the towers, but poverty is another story. How long can you tell a hungry man that he's got a full belly? He'll eventually go berserk; and it's hardly pleasant to govern a country of madmen, especially when you consider that lunatics are not affected by radiation. Another possible cause was related to the colonial question -- markets, cheap slave labor, raw materials, all sources of profit for the Creators' personal investments. Finally, it had to be kept in mind that the Department of Public Health and the military had been bickering for years. Dog eat dog. The Department of Public Health was an insatiable organization, but if the military achieved any degree of success, the generals would make short work of the department. On the other hand, if the war ended in a stalemate, the department would make short work of the generals. Therefore, the possibility could not be excluded that the whole affair was a clever provocation concocted by the Department of Public Health. It could be the case, judging from the general chaos now rampant, and also from the fact that we had been shouting at the top of our lungs for a week and military operations hadn't begun. And maybe they wouldn't.

Just as Zef reached this point, the coupling buffers screeched, the car shuddered, shouting and whistling filled the air outside, and the troop train lurched forward. The ordinary prisoners struck up a song: "We Get No Whiskey Once Again."

"All right," said Maxim. "What you've said sounds quite plausible. Now, if the war does begin, how will it go for us? What will happen?"

Zef growled that he wasn't a general, then launched into an exposition of his views. "During a brief respite between the end of the World War and the beginning of the Civil War, the Khontis fenced themselves off from their former suzerain with a powerful line of atomic mine fields. In addition, they undoubtedly had atomic artillery, and their politicians had the foresight not to exhaust all these riches during the Civil War but to save them for us. So the invasion picture looks roughly like this: Three or four penal tank brigades will be drawn up at the spearhead of the assault; an army corps will support them to their rear; and a detachment of legionnaires in heavy tanks equipped with emitters will follow. Degens like myself win rush forward, fleeing the radiation whips, and the army corps will race forward in a frenzy of enthusiasm induced by the same emitters. Those who fail to respond properly -- and there will be some -- will be destroyed by Legion fire. If the Khontis aren't fools, they will open fire with their long-range guns and destroy the tanks, but the Khontis, we assume, are fools and hence will be engaged in mutual destruction. In the midst of this confusion, the League will attack the Union, and the Union will sink its teeth into the League's throat. Meanwhile, our courageous forces will penetrate deep into enemy territory, and the most interesting part will begin -- which we, unfortunately, will not see. Our glorious armored columns will break ranks and spread out through Khonti. If you are right about Guy, the men will then experience radiation withdrawal symptoms. And the symptoms will be especially severe because the legionnaires will have given them a super-radiation dose during the breakthrough into enemy territory.

"Massaraksh!" howled Zef. "I can just see those idiots climbing from their tanks, lying down on the ground and pleading to be shot. And the kindly Khonti citizenry, to say nothing of Khonti soldiers, enraged by the disgraceful state of affairs, will not deny their request. There'll be a slaughter."

The train picked up speed and the car swayed violently. In a far comer, prisoners were shooting dice; a light swung back and forth beneath the ceiling; and someone was mumbling in a monotone -- probably praying.

Their eyes were burning from the dense tobacco smoke.

"I think the General Staff will take this into account and therefore there won't be a sudden breakthrough. What we'll have is trench warfare, and the Khontis, for all their stupidity, will figure out what's going on, and they'll start hunting for the emitters. I'm not sure what will happen," he concluded. "I don't even blow if we'll get grub tomorrow morning. I'm afraid we won't get anything more. Why on earth should they feed us now?"

There was a long pause.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing? That our place is here?" asked Maxim.

"It's a staff order," muttered Zef.

"An order is an order," retorted Maxim. "OK. But we, too, have brains in our heads. Maybe we should have bolted to the capital with Vepr? Maybe we could have been more useful there?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Vepr is counting on a nuclear attack. Lots of towers will be destroyed, and regions liberated. But suppose there isn't any bombing? No one knows anything, Mac. I can imagine the bedlam at headquarters now." He grew thoughtful and stroked his beard. "Vepr fed us this nonsense about bombing, but I don't think that was the reason he bolted for the capital. I know him; he's been trying to get to those underground leaders for a long time. So it's entirely possible that heads will start rolling at headquarters."

"So there's bedlam there, too," said Maxim slowly. "They aren't prepared either."

"How can they be prepared? Some of them hope to destroy the towers, others to save them. The underground is not a political party, but a hodgepodge of ideas."

"Too bad. I was hoping that the underground was planning to use the war -- you know, the difficulties, confusion -- to take advantage of a potential revolutionary situation."

"The underground doesn't know a damn thing," said Zef gloomily. "How can we know what it's all about with emitters breathing down our necks?"

"Your underground isn't worth a damn." Maxim could restrain himself no longer.

Zef flared up. "Not so fast there! Who are you to judge us? Who are you, massaraksh, to make demands on us? You wanted a military assignment? OK, you got it. Watch everything, survive, return, and report. Does that sound too simple for you? Great! So much the better for us. Enough of this. I'm tired. Leave me alone, massaraksh. I want to sleep."

He turned his back to Maxim and shouted at the men shooting dice: "Hey, you gravediggers! Hit the sack! Make it snappy, or else!"

Maxim lay down on his back, folded his hands behind his head, and stared at the low ceiling. Something was crawling along it. The gravediggers cursed each other softly as they bedded down for the night. The man on Maxim's left groaned and cried out in his sleep: he had been condemned to death and was sleeping, perhaps, for the last time. And everyone around him was snoring, wheezing, and muttering probably for the last time. The world was a dreary yellow, stifling and hopeless. The wheels rumbled, the locomotive wailed, and fumes drifted through the tiny barred windows.

"Everything is rotten here," thought Maxim. "There isn't one real man among them. Not a single clear head. And I've gotten myself into a mess again because I relied on other people. You can't rely on anyone or anything here. Only on yourself. But I'm of no use alone: I know enough history to realize that. Alone, a man can't accomplish a damned thing. Maybe the Wizard was right. Maybe I should stand aside from all this? But I can't. It goes against my grain. And this business of arriving at a balance of forces is frightening. But the Wizard did say that I was a force. And since we do have a definite enemy, we have a point where this force can be applied. Sure, I'll be knocked offshore. No question about it. But not tomorrow! Not until I can show that I'm a real force. We'll see... The Center. Yes, the Center. We must find it. All the underground's efforts must be focused on this one task now. And I'm going to lead the way. Working with me, they will be doing real work, doing what must be done. Yes, Zef, you're going to get down to some real work now... Listen to that guy snore. Snore away. Tomorrow I'm dragging you out of here. When will I ever get a decent night's sleep? In aclean, spacious room, between two clean sheets? Massaraksh, what a strange custom they have here -- sleeping night after night on the same sheets. Ah, yes, clean sheets, and a good book before I turn out the light and fall asleep. The train is still moving and we haven't stopped for a long time. I suppose someone decided that the war couldn't get going without us. I wonder how Guy is doing in the corporals' car. I haven't thought about Rada for a long time... Enough now, Mac, you hunk of cannon fodder. Get some sleep."

He didn't get much sleep. The train halted, a heavy door scraped open, and a stentorian voice barked: "Fourth Company. Out, on the double!" It was five o'clock in the morning and dawn was breaking. It was foggy and drizzling. Yawning and shivering in the morning chill, the penal detachment trudged sluggishly from the car. The corporals were already at their posts; angrily and impatiently they grabbed legs, pulled men off the train, and smacked them around, yelling: "Break up into teams! Take your positions! Where do you think you're going? What's your platoon? You, fathead, how many times do I have to tell you? Step lively. Take your positions!"

They split up into teams and fell in beside the cars. Some poor devil who had strayed in the fog ran around searching for his platoon and was yelled at from all sides. Zef, glum and tired, his beard all frizzy, called out in a wheezy but distinct voice: "Come on, step it up, fall in. You'll get your bellyful of combat today." A passing corporal slapped him in the face. Maxim reacted instantly, and the corporal rolled in the mud. The delighted prisoners laughed heartily. "Brigade, attention!" shouted an invisible figure. Battalion commanders shrieked orders; company commanders echoed them down the line, and platoon leaders began running. No one stood at attention: the shock troops were running in place to warm up; the lucky ones were smoking; there was grumbling in the ranks about food -- it looked as if they wouldn't be getting grub again -- and there was cursing: "To hell with their damn war!"

"Brigade, at ease!" shouted Zef. "Fall out! Take a leak!" The crews were about to fall out, but the corporals rushed about again, and suddenly legionnaires in shiny black raincoats spread out in a thin line and ran with drawn guns along the cars. A frightened silence followed in their wake; the crews fell in quickly and straightened up their ranks.

An iron voice pierced the fog: "If any of you bastards open your traps, I'll have you shot!" Everyone froze. The anxious waiting dragged on. The fog had dispersed somewhat, revealing an ugly station, wet rails, and telegraph poles. On the right, in front of the brigade, stood a dark crowd of people. Low voices drifted from it, and someone snapped: "Carry out your orders!"

Maxim glanced back out of the comer of his eye: to their rear stood motionless legionnaires, staring at them with suspicion and hatred from beneath their black rain hoods.

A baggy figure in camouflage fatigues emerged from the crowd. It was brigade leader Anipsu, an ex-colonel basted and imprisoned for trading government fuel on the black market.

Twirling his cane, he addressed the men:

"Soldiers! I know I am not mistaken when I address you as soldiers, although all of us, myself included, are still social outcasts. Be grateful that you are being permitted to enter into battle today. In a few hours most of you will be dead, and that will be to your honor. But those of you who survive will live well: soldiers' rations, whiskey, and the rest. We'll set out for our positions now, and when you reach them you'll get into your tanks. Then about a hundred miles -- no big deal. You're not real tank soldiers, but you know that whatever you get will be yours. There is no turning back; whoever retreats will be shot on the spot. There will be no questions. Brigade! Right face! Forward! Close order, march! Blockheads! I said close order! Corporals, massaraksh! What the hell are you looking at? Cattle! Break up into fours. Corporals, break them up into fours! Massaraksh!"

With the legionnaires' assistance the corporals arranged the brigade into columns of four, and the order to come to attention was repeated. Maxim was standing rather close to the brigade commander. The ex-colonel was blind drunk. He swayed, leaned on his cane, shook his head now and then, and wiped his hand across his savage bluish face. Battalion commanders, also blind drunk, stood behind him: one giggled senselessly; another tried stubbornly to light a cigarette; a third grabbed his holster and staggered through the ranks. The men sniffed the whiskey fumes enviously, and an approving murmur ran through the ranks. "Let's go, let's go," muttered Zef. "You'll get your bellyful of combat today." Maxim, irritated, poked him with his elbow.

"Shut up," he said through his teeth. "I'm sick of listening to that."

Two men approached the colonel: a Legion captain, clenching a pipe between his teeth, and a heavyset man, a civilian wearing a long raincoat with a turned-up collar. The civilian seemed familiar to Maxim, and he studied him more closely. The civilian whispered something to the colonel. "Hub?" answered the colonel, looking at him dully. The civilian began again, pointing at the penal columns. The Legion captain puffed on his pipe indifferently. "What do you need him for?" yelled the colonel. The civilian took out a document, but the colonel waved it away. "You can't have him," he said. "They must die together, as one man." The civilian insisted. "The hell with you!" replied the colonel. "And your department, too. They will all die, every one of them. Am I right?" he asked the captain. The captain agreed. The civilian grabbed the colonel's sleeve and jerked him forcefully. The colonel almost fell, and his face darkened with anger; he slipped his hand into his holster and pulled out an army pistol. "I'm counting to ten," he announced to the civilian. "One. Two." The civilian spat and walked away alongside the penal column, peering into the men's faces. The colonel continued to count; when he reached ten, he fired. The captain, alarmed, got him to put away his gun. "They're all going to croak, every last one," declared the colonel. "Together with me... Brigade!gade! Forward march! Damn you all to hell!"

The brigade moved along the bumpy tracks made by caterpillar treads. The column, the men slipping and grabbing onto each other, descended into a swampy hollow and slogged away from the rail line. Here the platoon leaders overtook their columns. Guy moved up beside Maxim. His face was pale and tense, and he said nothing for a long time, although Zef had asked him what he had heard. The hollow widened gradually, bushes appeared, and a grove loomed up ahead. A clumsy tank of ancient vintage, equipped with a small square turret, stuck up from the shoulder of the road where it had tipped over into a muddy ditch. Morose figures in grease-stained jackets dawdled by the tank. Then came the shock troops, hands in pockets, rigid collars upturned, marching loosely, out of formation. Many glanced around cautiously, hoping to slip away into the underbrush. The bushes were very tempting, but black-clothed figures with submachine guns were stationed every two or three hundred paces. Three fuel trucks plunged into potholes and crawled toward the troops. Their glum drivers ignored the shock troops as they passed. The rain grew heavier, and the troops more dejected. They walked in silence, submissively, like cattle, glancing around less and less frequently.

"Listen, corporal," muttered Zef, "is it true we're not getting any grub?"

Guy took a piece of bread from his pocket and gave it to him.

"That's it," he said, "until we're dead."

Zef slipped the crust through his beard and chomped away at it.

"This is insane," thought Maxim. "Everyone knows that he's headed for certain death. Still they go, like cattle. Maybe they are counting on something unexpected? Docs each man have some sort of private plan? These fools know nothing about the emitters. Each one thinks that somewhere along the way he'll jump out of the tank and hide, while the other fools advance. We should prepare leaflets about the emitters; we should set up radio stations, although the radios work only on two frequencies. No matter, we could still get our message through to the people -- during pauses, during station breaks. Our underground people should be spreading counterpropaganda, not knocking down towers. But all that will have to come later; we must not divert our attention now. We must be vigilant and find the tiniest loopholes. We didn't see a single cannon at the tank stations, only the Legion's marksmen posted everywhere. I must keep that in mind. The hollow is a good, deep spot, and the guards will probably be removed as soon as we pass through. Guards? Everyone, including the guards, will dash forward as soon as the emitters are turned on."

With amazing clarity he could see what lay ahead. The emitters would be turned on. The shock troops' tanks would race forward with a roar, and the army would follow en masse behind them. The entire prefrontal zone would be deserted. "It's difficult to determine the depth of the zone, since we don't know the emitters' effective radius -- surely a good two miles. So for two miles inside the zone there won't be a single clear head left, except mine. No, not for just two miles. More than that. All the stationary units and all the towers will be turned on, too, and full blast for sure. The entire border region will go crazy. Massaraksh, what about Zef? He won't be able to hold out with a dose like that." Maxim cast a sidelong glance at the red-bearded former psychiatrist moving peacefully through the woods. "No, he'll hold out. At worst, I'll have to help him, although I'm afraid there may not be time. And Guy -- 1 can't take my eye off him for a minute. It's going to be rough. Anyway, I'll still be the boss in this murky whirlpool, and no one is going to stop me or even try to stop me."

As soon as they passed the grove, they heard the hum of loudspeakers, the roar of exhausts, and exasperated cries. Ahead, on a gentle grassy slope rising to the north, stood three rows of tanks. Men were wandering among them, through a veil of blue-gray smoke.

"Well, men, there are your coffins!" shouted a cheerful voice ahead of them.

"Take a look at what they're giving us," said Guy. "Prewar machines, junk, tin cans. Mac, what's going to happen to us? Are we really going to die here?"

"How far is it to the border?" asked Maxim. "And what's beyond the crest of the hill?"

"A plain," replied Guy. "Flat as a pancake. It's about two miles to the border. Then the lulls begin and they go as far as --"

"A river?"

"No."

"Ravines?"

"No. I don't remember. Why?"

Maxim caught his arm and squeezed it firmly.

"Don't give up, Guy. Everything will be all right."

"You mean that? Otherwise, I can't see any way out of this. They've taken away our weapons, given us blanks instead of real ammo. No machine guns. No matter which way we turn, we're going to die."

"Aha!" gloated Zef, picking at his teeth. "So, Guy, you've finally gotten your feet wet. It's not as simple as giving your prisoners a smack across the mouth."

The column straggled into the rows of tanks and halted. It was difficult to carry on a conversation over the noise. Huge loudspeakers had been set up on the grass, and a taped voice kept repeating: "Beyond the crest a treacherous enemy lies in wait. Forward! Forward! There is no retreat! Pull your accelerators back and go forward. Against the enemy. Forward! Beyond the crest a treacherous enemy lies in wait. Forward! Forward!..."Then the voice broke off in the middle of a sentence, and the colonel began to shout. He stood on the hood of his jeep while battalion leaders held his legs steady.

"Soldiers!" shouted the colonel. "Enough talk! Get into your tanks! And drivers, watch out, because I don't give a damn about you: if any one of yon remains behind, I'll..." He drew out his pistol and waved it in the air. "Do you understand, you numb-skulls? Captains, lead your crews to the tanks. "

Pandemonium broke out. The colonel, swaying on the hood, continued to shout, but he was drowned out by the loudspeakers, repeating the same taped message. The shock troops dashed to the third row of tanks. A fight erupted and hobnailed boots flew through the air. A huge gray crowd swarmed slowly around the last row of tanks. Some tanks began to move, and people scattered. The colonel turned blue trying to make himself heard above the loudspeakers and in desperation fired over the soldiers' heads. Legionnaires, like a long black chain, came running from the woods.

"Let's go." Maxim gripped Guy and Zef firmly by the shoulders and led them, on the double, to the last tank in the first row.

"Wait a minute," babbled Guy, bewildered. "We're in the Fourth Company; we're supposed to be over there, in the second row."

"Keep going, don't stop!" said Maxim angrily. "Maybe you still want to lead your platoon?"

"It's the soldier in his bones," said Zef.

Someone grabbed Mac from the rear by his belt. Without turning, Maxim tried to free himself but couldn't. He looked around. Behind his back, hanging onto him stubbornly with one hand and wiping a bloody nose with the other, trailed the fourth member of the crew, the driver. A criminal, nicknamed the Hook.

"Oh," said Maxim, "I forgot about you. Come on, make it snappy."

Annoyed at himself, he made a mental note of his oversight; in all the commotion he had forgotten about a man who had been assigned an important role in his plan. At that instant, the Legion's submachine guns opened fire, and a hail of bullets pinged and hopped along the armor of surrounding tanks, forcing Maxim to bend over and race headlong toward the last tank. When they reached it, Maxim halted.

"Obey my orders," he said. "Hook, you drive. Zef, to the turret! Guy, check the lower hatches. And thoroughly, or I'll have your head!"

He circled the tank and examined its treads. Bullets were flying all around him and the loudspeakers grumbled monotonously, but he had promised himself not to let anything divert him. He made another mental note: the loudspeakers -- Guy -- don't forget. The treads were in fairly good condition, but the front drive wheels didn't exactly inspire confidence. "Never mind, it will do. We won't be riding this monster for long." Guy, covered with mud, crawled out from under the tank.

"The hatches are rusty!" he shouted. "I didn't close them. I left them open. OK?"

"Beyond the crest, a treacherous enemy lies in wait!" repeated the taped voice. "Forward! Forward! Pull your accelerators back."

Maxim caught Guy by the collar and pulled him close.

"You're my buddy, right?" He stared hard into Guy's wide-open eyes. "You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course!"

"Obey only me! No one else! Everything else you hear is a pack of lies. I am your buddy. You can trust only me and no one else. Remember that! I am giving you an order: remember it!"

Guy nodded hastily and repeated: "Yes, yes. Only you. No one else."

"Mac!" someone shouted into his ear. Maxim swung around. Before him stood that strangely familiar man in the long raincoat. Massaraksh. That square, peeling face, those bloodshot eyes. It was Fank. He had blood on his cheek, and his lip was cut badly.

"Massaraksh!" yelled Fank, trying to be heard over the noise. "Are you deaf? Don't you recognize me?"

"Fank!" said Maxim. "What are you doing here?"

Fank wiped the blood from his lip.

"Let's go!" he shouted. "Hurry!"

"Where?"

"Let's get the hell out of here!"

He grabbed Maxim by his belt and pulled him. Maxim pushed away his hand.

"We'd be killed!" shouted Maxim. "The legionnaires!"

Fank shook his head.

"Let's go! I have a pass for you." Maxim refused to budge. "I've been searching for you all over the country. I almost didn't find you. We must go, at once!"

"I'm not alone!" shouted Maxim.

"I don't understand."

"I'm not alone," snapped Maxim. "There are three of us. I won't go without the others."

"Nonsense! What kind of idiotic nobility is that? Are you tired of living?" Fank choked from the strain of shouting.

Maxim looked around. Pale, his lips trembling, Guy clung to his sleeve and looked at him. He had heard everything.

In the next tank two legionnaires were beating a soldier with their gun butts.

"One pass!" yelled Fank, coughing and choking. "One!" He held up one finger.

Maxim shook his head.

"There are three of us!" He held up three fingers. "I'm not going anywhere without the others!"

Zef's red beard stuck out from the side hatch. Fank bit his lips. Obviously he didn't know what to do.

"Who are you?" shouted Maxim. "Why do you need me?"

Fank glanced at him for an instant, then looked at Guy.

Is this fellow with you?" he shouted.

"Yes," replied Maxim, "and this one, too!"

Fank's eyes grew wild. He slid his hand under his raincoat, pull out a pistol, and aimed it at Guy. Maxim struck Fank's hand upward with all his strength, and the pistol flew into the air Fank bent over, tucking his injured hand beneath his arm. With a short accurate blow Guy struck him in the neck, and he collapsed. Suddenly legionnaires appeared beside them teeth clenched, faces taut with rage.

"Into the tank!" Maxim bent over and grabbed Fank under the arms.

Fank was fat and Maxim had trouble shoving him. Maxim dived in after him, receiving a parting blow from a gun butt. Inside the tank it was as dark and cold as a crypt. Zef pulled Fank away from the hatch and laid him on the floor.

"Who is this?" he snapped. Maxim didn't have a chance to reply. After tugging at the starter for a long time, Hook finally got the tank rolling. Maxim climbed through the turret and stuck his head out. The rows between the tanks were deserted now except for legionnaires. All the engines had been started, and the roar was incredible. Dense clouds of exhaust obscured the slope. Some tanks were moving: here and there heads protruded from turrets. The shock trooper in the next tank thrust his head out, signaled to Maxim, made a wry face, then disappeared. The tanks moved forward and up the slope.

Suddenly Maxim felt someone grab him around the waist and try to pull him down. Bending over, he saw Guy's eyes staring at him idiotically. Massaraksh, it was the bomber scene all over again! Guy grabbed him with both hands and kept muttering; his face grew repulsive as all its youthful charm vanished and sheer inanity and murderous impulses seized control. "It's begun," thought Maxim, struggling to loosen Guy's grip. "Yes, it's begun all right. The emitters have been turned on."

The tank climbed onto the crest, and clods of earth shot out from under its treads. Blue-gray smoke blocked visibility to the rear, and a gray, clayey plain suddenly opened ahead of them. In the distance stretched Khonti's low hills, and the avalanche of tanks swept toward them relentlessly. No longer in formation, the tanks raced forward, brushing against each other now and then and swinging their turrets around comically. A tread flew from one tank racing full speed; the vehicle spun in place like a top and turned over; its other tread tore off and flew into the sky like a shiny snake; its front wheels continued to spin, and two men in gray jumped from its lower hatches. They landed on the ground, waved their arms, and rushed forward, forward, toward the treacherous enemy. A shell burst through the clanging and roaring tanks with a resounding crash. Long red tongues leaped simultaneously from the tanks' guns. The tanks crouched, leaped up, and shrouded themselves in dense black gunsmoke. Within minutes everything was covered by a blackish-yellow cloud. Maxim was too fascinated to tear his eyes away from this spectacle, so impressive in its criminal absurdity. Meanwhile he patiently loosened Guy's tenacious grip on him, while Guy called out and pleaded, consumed with a desire to shield Maxim from all perils with his own body.

Maxim remembered that he must take over the controls. As he dropped down, he slapped Guy on the shoulder; then grabbing onto metal braces and choking from the gasoline fumes, he surveyed the scene in the cramped, swaying box. He glanced at Fank's dead-white face and at Zef, writhing under the ammunition case. He shoved Guy aside, and made his way to the driver.

Hook had pulled the accelerator back all the way, as hard as he could; and he sang so loudly that he could be heard over all the noise. Maxim could distinguish the words of "The Hymn of Thanksgiving. " He must tranquilize him somehow, take his place at the controls, and look around in this smoke for a convenient ravine or deep hollow where they could shield themselves from nuclear explosions.

No sooner had he begun to unclench Hook's fists, frozen on the levers, than faithful Guy, angered that his master was not being obeyed, lunged and struck half-crazed Hook on the temple with a heavy wrench. Hook crumpled, releasing the levers. Enraged, Maxim shoved Guy aside. There was no time to react with horror or sympathy. He pulled the body away, sat down, and took the controls.

Almost nothing was visible through the observation hatch: only a small patch of grass, and beyond that a dense shroud of blue-gray fumes. It would be impossible to find anything in this haze. He could do only one thing: slow down and move cautiously until the tank had made its way deep into the hills. But it would be dangerous to slow down: if the atomic mines went off before he reached the hills, they would be incinerated. Guy kept clinging to him, hoping to hear a command.

"Never mind, buddy," muttered Maxim, pushing him away with his elbows. "К will pass. You'll get over it. Hold out a little longer."

The tank slipped through a thick stream of black smoke, and as they emerged they had to swerve sharply to the left to avoid a man flattened by tank treads. When the smoky shroud had partially cleared, Maxim saw brown hills not far away and the muddy romp of a tank crawling at an oblique angle to the rest of the tank force. Then he saw a burning tank. Turning to the left, he headed for a deep brush-covered hollow nestled between two hills. Just before he reached it, a flame spurted toward them, and the whole tank vibrated from the heavy blow. Maxim reacted instantly, racing the tank at top speed. Bushes and a cloud of whitish smoke leaped toward them; white helmets, faces distorted with hate, raised fists flashed by; then something made of steel crackled as it burst beneath the treads. Maxim clenched his teeth, made a sharp right, and maneuvered the heavily listing vehicle farther away, along the slope. It almost overturned as it skirted a hill. Finally he entered a narrow hollow overgrown with saplings. He decided to stop here.

He flung open the forward hatch and looked around. It was a suitable spot; high brown hills crowded the tank on all sides. No sooner had Maxim muffled the engine than Guy howled some nonsense, absurdly rhythmic words, a homemade ode in honor of his great and beloved master, Mac Sim.

"Shut up!" ordered Maxim. "Get the others outside and lay them next to the tank. Wait, I haven't finished yet! These are my best friends, and yours, too, so take it easy. Be very gentle."

"Where are you going?" Guy was terrified.

"Nowhere. I'll be right here, nearby."

"Don't go away. Or can I go with you?"

"I gave you an order. Do as you're told. And remember, gently."

Guy protested, but Maxim ignored him. He climbed from the tank and ran up the slope. Somewhere in the distance, tanks were rolling, engines roaring full blast, treads clattering, and cannons thundering. A shell whined high in the sky. Crouching, Maxim ran to the top, squatted between the bushes, and congratulated himself for choosing such a suitable refuge for their tank.

Below, seemingly within arm's reach, a wide corridor stretched between the hills, and tanks rolled through it from the smoke-covered plain. Low, snub-nosed, powerful, with enormous flat turrets and long cannons, the tanks streamed by in a solid mass. This was not the penal battalion, but the regular army. Maxim observed this awesome spectacle for several minutes, as if he were watching a historical film. Although the air reeled and shuddered from the frenzied thundering and roaring and the lull trembled beneath his feet like a frightened animal, Maxim felt as if the tanks were moving in sullen silence. He knew very well that beneath the armored plates half-crazed soldiers were gasping for breath. But all the hatches were sealed, and it seemed that each tank was a solid block of metal. When the last tanks had passed, Maxim glanced below at his own tank listing among the trees. It looked like a pitiful tin toy, a decrepit parody of a real military weapon. Yes, one army had passed below, to confront an opposing, more fearsome army. Maxim hastened back to the grove.

He skirted the tank and stopped short.

They lay in a row: Fank, his blood-drained face almost as blue as a dead man's; the writhing, groaning Zef, his dirty fingers clutching his mop of red hair; and the cheerfully smiling Hook, with the dead eyes of a puppet. His order had been executed to the letter. But Guy, in tatters and covered with blood, lay there, too, a short distance away; his face, wearing a hurt expression, was turned away from the sky, and his arms were flung apart. The grass around him was crushed and trampled; a flattened white helmet with dark stains lay in the mud, and a pair of boots protruded from some broken bushes.

"Massaraksh," muttered Maxim, imagining with horror how only a few minutes ago two snarling and howling dogs had grappled here to the last, each for the glory of his master.

At that instant, the opposing army inflicted a reciprocal blow. It caught Maxim in the eyes. He snarled with pain, closed his eyes as tightly as possible, and fell on Guy, trying to shield him with his body, although he knew Guy was already dead. It was an automatic reflex: he had no time to think about anything, to feel anything except the pain in his eyes. He was still falling when he blacked out.

Probably no more than several seconds had elapsed before he regained consciousness, but he was drenched in sweat. His throat was parched and his ears rang as if he had been hit on the head with a two-by-four. The world had suddenly changed: it had turned crimson. It was strewn with leaves and broken branches, with scorching air, with bushes torn up by their roots. Burning twigs and clods of hot, dry earth fell like rain from a red sky. The silence was morbid. Guy, spattered with leaves, lay face down about ten steps away. Next to him sat Zef, still clutching his head with one hand and shielding his eyes with the other. Fank had rolled into a gully, and was thrashing around and rubbing his face in the dirt. The tank had been swept below, where it had overturned. Thrown back against a tread. Hook was still smiling.

Maxim jumped up and pushed aside the fallen branches. He ran to Guy, grabbed him, lifted him, looked into his glassy eyes, and pressed his cheek to Guy's. He cursed this world where he was so alone and helpless, where the dead were dead forever, where there was no way of restoring them to life. He cried, beat the ground with his fists, trampled the white helmet; but he recovered his senses when Zef screamed with pain. Now filled only with hatred and a thirst to kill, Maxim, without turning, plodded back up the hill to his observation post.

Here, too, everything had changed. The bushes had vanished, the baked clay smoked and crackled, and the hill's northern slope was burning. To the north the crimson sky fused with a solid wall of blackish-brown smoke, and above the wall rose oily bright orange clouds, which swelled before his very eyes.

Maxim looked down at the corridor between the hills. It was deserted. The clay, plowed up by tank treads and burned by the nuclear strike, was smoking; thousands of flames danced on it. The plain to the south seemed very broad and deserted. It was no longer obscured by the haze of burning gunpowder; it was red beneath the red sky, and on it rested lonely boxes, the blackened ruins of the penal battalion tank corps. Along the plain, approaching the hills, rolled a thin broken chain of strange vehicles.

They resembled tanks, except that instead of gun turrets a high latticed cone with a dull circular object at its tip was mounted on each vehicle. They moved rapidly, rocking gently on the uneven ground. They were neither black, like the tanks of the ill-fated shock troops, nor grayish-green like the army tanks at the breakthrough; they were yellow, a vivid yellow, like the Legion's patrol cars. Beyond the hills, the ranks of the right flank were no longer visible. Maxim managed to count eight emitters. How brazen they were, as if they knew they were masters of the situation. Imagine -- plunging into combat without cover or camouflage! They deliberately flaunted their garish yellow paint, their ugly five-meter protuberance, and their absence of weapons. Their drivers probably believed themselves to be completely safe. From the way they rushed ahead, it appeared that they scarcely gave safety any thought. They spurred on the iron herd with their radiation whips, a herd now rolling through hell. Yet they themselves knew nothing about the whips, were unaware that they were lashing themselves. Maxim spotted an emitter on the left flank heading for the hollow. He set out to meet it.

He walked erect. He realized that force must be used to extract the black-uniformed legionnaires from their iron shells, and that was precisely what he wanted now. Never before had he craved the feel of human flesh beneath his fingers. By the time he had descended into the hollow, the emitter was very close. The yellow vehicle rolled straight at him, staring blindly with its glass periscopes. Its latticed cone rocked ponderously, out of phase with the vehicle's bobbing motion. Now Maxim could make out a silver sphere, thickly covered with long shiny needles, rocking at the cone's peak.

Realizing that they had no intention of stopping, Maxim yielded the road, let them pass, and ran alongside the vehicle for several yards. Then he jumped onto its armor plating.