Second Variety and Other Stories (4 page)

"Suicide?" the doctor rubbed his jaw. "I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It
was an accident; I'm positive."

"I don't mean suicide," Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at the clock on the wall. "I
meant something else."

But no one heard him.

The Russian soldier made his way nervously up the ragged side of the hill, holding his gun ready.
He glanced around him, licking his dry lips, his face set. From time to time he reached up a gloved hand
and wiped perspiration from his neck, pushing down his coat collar.

Eric turned to Corporal Leone. "Want him? Or can I have him?" He adjusted the view sight so
the Russian's features squarely filled the glass, the lines cutting across his hard, somber features.

Leone considered. The Russian was close, moving rapidly, almost running. "Don't fire. Wait,"
Leone tensed. "I don't think we're needed."

The Russian increased his pace, kicking ash and piles of debris out of his way. He reached the
top of the hill and stopped, panting, staring around him. The sky was overcast, drifting clouds of gray
particles. Bare trunks of trees jutted up occasionally; the ground was level and bare, rubble-strewn, with
the ruins of buildings standing out here and there like yellowing skulls.

The Russian was uneasy. He knew something was wrong. He started down the hill. Now he was
only a few paces from the bunker. Eric was getting fidgety. He played with his pistol, glancing at Leone.

"Don't worry," Leone said. "He won't get here. They'll take care of him."

"Are you sure? He's got damn far."

"They hang around close to the bunker. He's getting into the bad part. Get set!"

The Russian began to hurry, sliding down the hill, his boots sinking into the heaps of gray ash,
trying to keep his gun up. He stopped for a moment, lifting his field-glasses to his face.

"He's looking right at us," Eric said.

The Russian came on. They could see his eyes, like two blue stones. His mouth was open a little.
He needed a shave, his chin was stubbled. On one bony cheek was a square of tape, showing blue at the
edge. A fungoid spot. His coat was muddy and torn. One glove was missing.

As he ran his belt counter bounced up and down against him. Leone touched Eric's arm. "Here
one comes." Across the ground something small and metallic came, flashing in the dull sunlight of
mid-day. A metal sphere. It raced up the hill after the Russian, its treads flying. It was small, one of the
baby ones. Its claws were out, two razor projections spinning in a blur of white steel. The Russian heard
it. He turned instantly, firing. The sphere dissolved into particles. But already a second had emerged and
was following the first. The Russian fired again.

A third sphere leaped up the Russian's leg, clicking and whirring. It jumped to the shoulder. The
spinning blades disappeared into the Russian's throat.

Eric relaxed. "Well, that's that. God, those damn things give me the creeps. Sometimes I think we
were better off before."

"If we hadn't invented them, they would have." Leone lit a cigarette shakily. "I wonder why a
Russian would come all this way alone. I didn't see anyone covering him."

Lieutenant Scott came slipping up the tunnel, into the bunker. "What happened? Something entered the screen."

"Just one?"

Eric brought the screen view around. Scott peered into it. Now there were numerous metal
spheres crawling over the prostrate body, dull metal globes clicking and whirring, sawing up the Russian
into small parts to be carried away. "What a lot of claws," Scott murmured.

"They come like flies. Not much game for them any more." Scott pushed the sight away,
disgusted. "Like flies. I wonder why he was out there. They know we have claws all around." A larger
robot had joined the smaller spheres. It was directing operations, a long blunt tube with projecting
eyepieces. There was not much left of the soldier. What remained was being brought down the hillside by
the host of claws. "Sir," Leone said. "If it's all right, I'd like to go out there and take a look at him."

"Why?"

"Maybe he came with something."

Scott considered. He shrugged. "All right. But be careful."

"I have my tab." Leone patted the metal band at his wrist. "I'll be out of bounds."

He picked up his rifle and stepped carefully up to the mouth of the bunker, making his way
between blocks of concrete and steel prongs, twisted and bent. The air was cold at the top. He crossed
over the ground towards the remains of the soldier, striding across the soft ash. A wind blew around him,
swirling gray particles up in his face. He squinted and pushed on.

The claws retreated as he came close, some of them stiffening into immobility. He touched his
tab. The Ivan would have given something for that! Short hard radiation emitted from the tab neutralized
the claws, put them out of commission. Even the big robot with its two waving eyestalks retreated
respectfully as he approached. He bent down over the remains of the soldier. The gloved hand was
closed tightly. There was something in it. Leone pried the fingers apart. A sealed container, aluminum.
Still shiny.

He put it in his pocket and made his way back to the bunker. Behind him the claws came back to
life, moving into operation again. The procession resumed, metal spheres moving through the gray ash
with their loads. He could hear their treads scrabbling against the ground. He shuddered.

Scott watched intently as he brought the shiny tube out of his pocket. "He had that?"

"In his hand." Leone unscrewed the top. "Maybe you should look at it, sir."

Scott took it. He emptied the contents out in the palm of his hand. A small piece of silk paper,
carefully folded. He sat down by the light and unfolded it.

"What's it say, sir?" Eric said. Several officers came up the tunnel. Major Hendricks appeared.

"Major," Scott said. "Look at this."

Hendricks read the slip. "This just come?"

"A single runner. Just now."

"Where is he?" Hendricks asked sharply.

"The claws got him."

Major Hendricks grunted. "Here." He passed it to his companions. "I think this is what we've
been waiting for. They certainly took their time about it."

"So they want to talk terms," Scott said. "Are we going along with them?"

"That's not for us to decide." Hendricks sat down. "Where's the communications officer? I want
the Moon base." Leone pondered as the communications officer raised the outside antenna cautiously,
scanning the sky above the bunker for any sign of a watching Russian ship.

"Sir," Scott said to Hendricks. "It's sure strange they suddenly came around. We've been using
the claws for almost a year. Now all of a sudden they start to fold."

"Maybe claws have been getting down in their bunkers."

"One of the big ones, the kind with stalks, got into an Ivan bunker last week," Eric said. "It got a
whole platoon of them before they got their lid shut."

"How do you know?"

"A buddy told me. The thing came back with -- with remains."

"Moon base, sir," the communications officer said. On the screen the face of the lunar monitor
appeared. His crisp uniform contrasted to the uniforms in the bunker. And he was clean-shaven. "Moon
base."

"Moon base, sir," the communications officer said. On the screen the face of the lunar monitor
appeared. His crisp uniform contrasted to the uniforms in the bunker. And he was clean-shaven. "Moon
base."

The monitor faded. Presently General Thompson's heavy features came into focus. "What is it,
Major?"

"Our claws got a single Russian runner with a message. We don't know whether to act on it -there
have been tricks like this in the past."

"What's the message?"

"The Russians want us to send a single officer on policy level over to their lines. For a
conference. They don't state the nature of the conference. They say that matters of --" He consulted the
slip. "Matters of grave urgency make it advisable that discussion be opened between a representative of
the UN forces and themselves."

He held the message up to the screen for the general to scan. Thompson's eyes moved.

"What should we do?" Hendricks asked.

"Send a man out."

"You don't think it's a trap?"

"It might be. But the location they give for their forward command is correct. It's worth a try, at
any rate."

"I'll send an officer out. And report the results to you as soon as he returns."

"All right. Major." Thompson broke the connection. The screen died. Up above, the antenna
came slowly down. Hendricks rolled up the paper, deep in, thought.

"I'll go," Leone said.

"They want somebody at policy level." Hendricks rubbed his jaw. "Policy level. I haven't been
outside in months. Maybe I could use a little air."

"Don't you think it's risky?"

Hendricks lifted the view sight and gazed into it. The remains of the Russian were gone. Only a
single claw was in sight. It was folding itself back, disappearing into the ash, like a crab. Like some
hideous metal crab...

"That's the only thing that bothers me." Hendricks rubbed his wrist. "I know I'm safe as long as I
have this on me. But there's something about them. I hate the damn things. I wish we'd never invented
them. There's something wrong with them. Relentless little --"

"If we hadn't invented them, the Ivans would have."

Hendricks pushed the sight back. "Anyhow, it seems to be winning the war. I guess that's good."

"Sounds like you're getting the same jitters as the Ivans."

Hendricks examined his wrist watch. "I guess I had better get started, if I want to be there before
dark."

He took a deep breath and then stepped out on to the gray, rubbled ground. After a minute he lit
a cigarette and stood gazing around him. The landscape was dead. Nothing stirred. He could see for
miles, endless ash and slag, ruins of buildings. A few trees without leaves or branches, only the trunks.
Above him the eternal rolling clouds of gray, drifting between Terra and the sun.

Major Hendricks went on. Off to the right something scuttled, something round and metallic. A
claw, going lickety-split after something. Probably after a small animal, a rat. They got rats, too. As a sort
of sideline. He came to the top of the little hill and lifted his field-glasses. The Russian lines were a few
miles ahead of him. They had a forward command post there. The runner had come from it.

A squat robot with undulating arms passed by him, its arms weaving inquiringly. The robot went
on its way, disappearing under some debris. Hendricks watched it go. He had never seen that type
before. There were getting to be more and more types he had never seen, new varieties and sizes coming
up from the underground factories. Hendricks put out his cigarette and hurried on.

It was interesting, the use of artificial forms in warfare. How had they got started? Necessity. The

Soviet Union had gained great initial success, usual with the side that got the war going. Most of North
America had been blasted off the map. Retaliation was quick in coming, of course. The sky was full of
circling diskbombers long before the war began, they had been up there for years. The disks began
sailing down all over Russia within hours after Washington got it.

Soviet Union had gained great initial success, usual with the side that got the war going. Most of North
America had been blasted off the map. Retaliation was quick in coming, of course. The sky was full of
circling diskbombers long before the war began, they had been up there for years. The disks began
sailing down all over Russia within hours after Washington got it.

The American bloc governments moved to the Moon base the first year. There was not much
else to do. Europe was gone; a slag heap with dark weeds growing from the ashes and bones. Most of
North America was useless; nothing could be planted, no one could live. A few million people kept going
up in Canada and down in South America. But during the second year Soviet parachutists began to drop,
a few at first, then more and more. They wore the first really effective anti-radiation equipment; what was
left of American production moved to the moon along with the governments.

All but the troops. The remaining troops stayed behind as best they could, a few thousand here, a
platoon there. No one knew exactly where they were; they stayed where they could, moving around at
night, hiding in ruins, in sewers, cellars, with the rats and snakes. It looked as if the Soviet Union had the
war almost won. Except for a handful of projectiles fired off from the moon daily, there was almost no
weapon in use against them. They came and went as they pleased. The war, for all practical purposes,
was over. Nothing effective opposed them.

And then the first claws appeared. And overnight the complexion of the war changed.

The claws were awkward, at first. Slow. The Ivans knocked them off almost as fast as they
crawled out of their under-ground tunnels. But then they got better, faster, and more cunning. Factories,
all on Terra, turned them out. Factories a long way underground, behind the Soviet lines, factories that
had once made atomic projectiles, now almost forgotten.

The claws got faster, and they got bigger. New types appeared, some with feelers, some that
flew. There were a few jumping kinds. The best technicians on the moon were working on designs,
making them more and more intricate, more flexible. They became uncanny; the Ivans were having a lot
of trouble with them. Some of the little claws were learning to hide themselves, burrowing down into the
ash, lying in wait.