Morale | Page 8

"I commandeer this car," said the 'copter pilot. "Military necessity. We
have to trail that Wabbly."
Someone grunted. Lights flashed on within. The 'copter pilot and
Sergeant Walpole stiffened to attention. The stars of a major-general
shone on the collar of the stout man within.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the pilot, and was still.
"Umph," said the major-general. "There seem to be just four of us alive,
who've seen the thing clearly. I hit on it by accident, I'll admit. What do
you know about it?"
"It come on a tramp-steamer--" began Sergeant Walpole.
"Hm. You're Sergeant Walpole. Mentioned in dispatches to-morrow,
Sergeant. You, sir?"

"Its weapon against our planes, sir," said the 'copter man precisely, "is a
radio beam carrying several thousand horsepower of energy. When it
hits iron, sir, the energy is absorbed and the iron heats up and blows up
the ship. The Wabbly's working with a bomber well aloft, sir, which
spots planes from below by picking up their spark-plug flashes in a
directional loop. The bomber aloft, sir, drops eggs when the Wabbly's
attacked. Sergeant Walpole reports several planes disabled by their
fabric being blown off their wings."
* * * * *
"I know," said the major-general. "Dammit, the front takes every ship
that's fit to go aloft. We have only wrecks back here. You're sure about
that spark-plug affair?"
"Yes, sir," said the 'copter pilot. "My ship crashed, sir. I started the
motors again, trying to take off. Eggs began to drop about me
instantly."
"Nasty!" said the major-general. "I was going to join my men. We've
flung a line of artillery ahead of the thing. Motor-driven, of course. But
if they can pick up motors by the spark-waves, the bomber knows all
about it. Nasty!"
He lit a cigar, calmly. The gyrocar shifted suddenly and backed away
from the thing it had been tangled in.
"Why ain't the bombers been shot down?" demanded Sergeant Walpole
angrily. "Dammit, sir, if it wasn't for them bombers--"
"Up to an hour ago," said the major-general, "we had lost sixty-eight
planes trying to get those bombers. You see, it works both ways. The
bombers drop eggs to help the Wabbly defend itself. And the Wabbly
uses that power-beam you spoke of to wipe the sky clean about the
bombers. I wondered how it was done, before you explained, sir. Do
you men want to come with me? Get on the running-board if you like.
We shall probably be killed."

The gyrocar purred softly away, with two horses left wandering and
two men clinging fast in a sweep of wind. They found a ribbon of
concrete road and the wind sang as the car picked up speed. Then,
suddenly, it bucked madly and went out of control, and, as suddenly,
was passing along the road again. The Wabbly had passed over the
roadway here.
* * * * *
And then they heard gunfire ahead. Honest, malevolent gunfire. Flashes
lit the horizon. The gyrocar speeded up until it fairly hummed, and the
wind rushed into the nostrils and mouths of the men on the
running-boards. The cannonade increased. It reached really respectable
proportions, until it became a titanic din. As the road rose up a long
incline, a shell burst in mid-air in plain view, and the driver of the
gyrocar jammed on the brakes and looked down upon the strangest of
sights below.
There were other hills yet ahead, and from behind them came that faint,
indefinite glow which is the glow of the lights of a city. At the bottom
of a valley, a mile and a half distant, there was the Wabbly. Star-shells
flared near it, casting it into intolerable brightness and clear relief. And
other shells were breaking upon it and all about it. From beyond the rim
of hills came the flashes of guns. The air was full of screamings and
many crashes.
The Wabbly was motionless. It looked more than ever like a monstrous,
deadly centipede. It was under a rain of fire that would have shattered a
dreadnaught of the 1920's. Its monstrous treads were motionless. It
seemed queerly quiescent, abstracted; it seemed less defiant of the
shell-fire that broke upon it like the hail of hell, than indifferent to it.
Yes, it seemed indifferent!
Only the queer excrescence on its top moved, and that stirred vaguely.
Star-shells floated overhead and bathed it in pitiless light. And it
remained motionless.... Sergeant Walpole had a vague impression of
colossal detonations taking place miles above his head, but the sound
was lost in the drumfire of artillery nearer at hand.

* * * * *
Then a gun on the Wabbly moved. It spouted a flash of bluish flame,
and then another and another. It seemed to fire gas-shells into the town,
at this moment,