"Filthy stuff, gas," Goldfarb said.

"Aye, that it is." Stanegate nodded vigorously. "My father, he was in France the last war, and he said it were the worst of anything there."

"Looking at this, I'd say he was right." That England had resorted to poison gas in the fight against the Lizards bothered Goldfarb, and not just because he'd had the bad luck to get hurt by it. His cousin Moishe Russie had talked about the camps the n.a.z.is had built in Poland for ga.s.sing Jews. How anyone could reckon gas a legitimate weapon of war after that was beyond Goldfarb.

But Fred Stanegate said, "If it shifts the b.l.o.o.d.y Lizards, Ah don't care how filthy it is. Manure's filthy, too, but you need it for your garden."

"That's so," Goldfarb admitted. And it was was so. If you were invaded, you did whatever you could to beat back the invaders, and worried about consequences later. If you lost to the Lizards now, you lost forever and you never had the chance to worry about being moral again. Wouldn't that make gas legitimate? Churchill had thought so. Goldfarb sighed. "Like you said, it's a rum world." so. If you were invaded, you did whatever you could to beat back the invaders, and worried about consequences later. If you lost to the Lizards now, you lost forever and you never had the chance to worry about being moral again. Wouldn't that make gas legitimate? Churchill had thought so. Goldfarb sighed. "Like you said, it's a rum world."

Fred Stanegate pointed. "Isna that the Three Swans there?"

"That used to be the Three Swans, looks more like to me," Goldfarb answered. The inn had boasted a splendid eighteenth-century wrought-iron sign. Now a couple of finger-length chunks of twisted iron lay in the gutter. A sh.e.l.l hit had enlarged the doorway and blown gla.s.s out of the windows. "b.l.o.o.d.y shame."

"They're not dead yet, seems to me," Stanegate said. Maybe he was right, too. The building hadn't been abandoned; somebody'd hung blankets over the doorway. And, as Goldfarb watched, a man in a publican's leather ap.r.o.n slipped out between two of those blankets and looked around in wonder at what Market Harborough had become.

Spying Goldfarb's and Stanegate's draggled uniforms, he waved to the two military men. "Come in and have a pint on me, lads."

They looked at each other. They were on duty, but a pint was a pint. "Let me buy you one, then, for your kindness," Goldfarb answered. The innkeeper did not say no, but beckoned them into the Three Swans.

The fire crackling in the hearth was welcome. The innkeeper drew three pints with professional artistry. "Half a crown for mine," he said. Given what England was enduring, it was a mild price. Goldfarb dug in his pockets, found two shillings. He was still rummaging for a sixpence when Fred slapped one on the bar.

Goldfarb leered at him. "Pitching in on the cheap, are you?"

"That Ah am." Stanegate sipped his beer. One blond eyebrow rose. So did his mug, in salute to the publican. "Better nor I looked for. Your own brewing?"

"Has to be," the fellow said with a nod. "Couldn't get delivery even before the b.l.o.o.d.y Lizards crashed in on us, and now-Well, you'll know more about now than I do."

A good number of tavern keepers were brewing their own beer these days, for just the reasons this one had named. Goldfarb had sampled several of their efforts. Some were ambrosial; some were horse p.i.s.s. This one... He thoughtfully smacked his lips. Fred Stanegate's "Better nor I looked for" seemed fair.

Someone pushed his way between the blankets that curtained off the Three Swans. Goldfarb's gulp had nothing to do with beer: it was Major Smithers, the officer who'd let him embark on his infantry career.

Smithers was a short, chunky man who probably would have run to fat had he been better fed. He ran a hand through thinning sandy hair. His forward-thrusting, beaky face was usually red. Goldfarb looked for it to get redder on his discovering two of his troopers in a public house.

But Smithers had adaptability. Without it, he would have taken Goldfarb's RAF uniform more seriously. Now he just said, "One for me as well, my good man," to the innkeeper. To Goldfarb and Stanegate, he added, "Drink up quick, lads. We're moving forward."

David Goldfarb downed his pint in three long swallows and set it on the cigarette-scarred wood of the bar, relieved not to be placed on report. Stanegate finished his at a more leisurely pace, but emptied it ahead of Major Smithers even so. He said, "Moving forward. By gaw, Ah like the sound o' that."

"On to Northampton," Smithers said in tones of satisfaction. He sucked foam from his mustache. "That won't be an easy push; the Lizards are there in force, protecting their perimeter, and they have outposts north of town-their line runs through Spratton and Brixworth and Scaldwell." He swallowed the last of his pint, did that foam-sucking trick again, and shook his head. "Just a pack of b.l.o.o.d.y little villages n.o.body'd ever heard of except the people who lived in 'em. Well, they're on the map now, by G.o.d."

He meant that literally; he drew from a pocket of his battledress an Ordnance Survey map of the area and spread it on the bar so Goldfarb and Stanegate could see. Goldfarb peered at the map with interest; Ordnance Survey cartography, so clear and detailed, always put him in mind of a radar portrait of the ground it pictured. The map seemed to show everything this side of cow tracks in the fields. Brixworth lay along the main road from Market Harborough down to Northampton; Spratton and Scaldwell flanked that road to either side.

Major Smithers said, "We'll feint at Spratton. The main attack will go in between Brixworth and Scaldwell. If we can roll them out of Northampton, their whole position north of London unravels." He glanced at the gas masks hanging from the soldiers' belts. "Canisters in there fresh?"

"Yes, sir," Goldfarb and Stanegate said together. Goldfarb clicked his tongue between his teeth. The question probably meant another mustard gas bombardment was laid on as part of the attack. After a moment, he asked, "Sir, how do things stand south of London?"

"Not as well, by what I've heard." Smithers made a sour face, as if the admission tasted bad to him. "They put more men-er, more Lizards-into that one, and seized a broader stretch of territory. In spite of the gas, it's still very much touch and go in the southeast and the south. I've heard reports that they're trying to push round west of London, by way of Maidenhead and such, to link their two forces. Don't know whether it's so, but it would be bad for us if it is."

"Just on account of you're goin' good one place, you think it's the same all around," Fred Stanegate said. He sighed. "Wish it were so, Ah do."

Major Smithers folded the map and returned it to the pocket whence it had emerged. "Let's be off," he said. Reluctantly, Goldfarb followed him out of the Three Swans.

Not far outside Market Harborough, they pa.s.sed a battery of 17-pounders bombarding the Lizards farther south. The men serving the three-inch field guns were bare-chested in the summer sun, but wore gas masks. "Gas sh.e.l.ls," Goldfarb said, and took a couple of steps away from the guns. If one of those sh.e.l.ls went off by accident, that wouldn't do much good, but he couldn't help it.

The 17-pounders barked and bucked, one after another. As soon as they'd fired three sh.e.l.ls each, their crews. .h.i.tched them to the backs of the lorries from which the sh.e.l.ls had come and rattled off across the crater-pocked meadow to a new firing position.

They hadn't gone more than a couple of hundred yards when incoming sh.e.l.ls tore fresh holes in the greensward where they'd been. Goldfarb dove for a hole. Fred Stanegate, half a step slower, chose the same hole and landed on top of him. "Ow!" he said; Stanegate's knee dug into his left kidney.

"Sony," Stanegate grunted. "Blighters are quick to shoot back, aren't they?"

"Too b.l.o.o.d.y accurate, too," Goldfarb answered, wriggling toward greater comfort, or at least less discomfort. "They always have been. I shouldn't wonder if they don't slave their guns to radar somehow." He had no idea how to do such a thing, but it would account for both speed and accuracy in the Lizards' response.

Fred Stanegate shifted, too, and not in the right direction. "What's radar?" he asked.

"Never mind. I talk too b.l.o.o.d.y much, that's all." The sh.e.l.ls stopped falling. Goldfarb scrambled out of the hole. So did Stanegate. He looked to the radarman curiously. Goldfarb felt himself flushing. He muttered, "Trust me, Fred, you don't Need to Know."

Stanegate heard the capital letters. "It's like that, is it? All right, Ah'll say nowt further."

Three clanking, smoking, rumbling monsters clattered south on iron tracks: two Cromwell tanks and a heavy Churchill. The Cromwells were a vast improvement over the Crusaders they supplanted, but not as good as the tanks the n.a.z.is were turning out these days. The Churchill had thick armor, but a weak engine and a popgun 2-pounder for a cannon. Against Lizard armor, either model was woefully inadequate. They were, however, what Britain had, and into the fight they went.

Fred Stanegate waved to the commander of a Cromwell, who was standing up and peering out his hatch to get a better view. The tankman waved back. In his gas mask, he looked as alien as any Lizard. Stanegate said, "An didn't know we had so many cards left in t'hand."

"If we don't play them now, we'll never get to use them," Goldfarb said. "They'll do some good against Lizard infantry, I hope. From all I've heard, gas is the only thing that really does much against their tanks, unless somebody climbs on top and tosses a Molotov c.o.c.ktail down a hatch."

The farther south they went, the more chewed up the ground became. They pa.s.sed the hulks of several burned-out British tanks, as well as tin hats hung on rifles stuck bayonet-first into the ground to mark hastily dug graves. Then, not much later, they came on a Lizard tank in the middle of a field.

Had it not been for the men in masks climbing in and out of the monster machine, Goldfarb would have expected to die in the next moments. The Lizard tank was not much bigger than its English foes, but looked more formidable. Its armor was smooth and beautifully sloped, so that it brought to mind the "cars of the future" magazines sometimes hired artists to draw. As for its cannon-"If that's not a four-inch gun, or maybe a five-, I'm a Lizard," Goldfarb said. "I wonder if the sh.e.l.l would even notice one of our tanks on the way through."

"We knocked it out some kind of way," Stanegate said. "Don't look like it's burned-could be they got a mite too much mustard in their sandwiches." He laughed at his own wit.

"I don't care why it's dead. I'm just glad it is." Goldfarb set his gas mask on his head, made sure the seal was tight. "Time to start using 'em, I'm afraid." His voice sounded m.u.f.fled and alien, even to himself.

Fred Stanegate understood him. "Right y'are," he said, and put on his own mask. "Hate this b.l.o.o.d.y thing," he remarked halfway through the process, although without much rancor. When the mask was in place, he added, "Better nor breathing that stinkin' mustard, now, mind tha." Goldfarb's burned leg twinged, perhaps in sympathy.

Off to the north, British field guns opened up again, pounding the Lizard defenses between Brixworth and Scaldwell. "Not going to be much of a surprise, with them hammering away so," Goldfarb said, after first glancing around to make sure Major Smithers was out of earshot.

"Aye, well, if they don't give 'em a nice dose o' gas first off, the b.u.g.g.e.rs'll be waiting for us with all their nasty guns," Stanegate said. Goldfarb smiled inside the mask where his companion couldn't see him: the Yorkshire accent made the last sound like nahsty goons. nahsty goons. But however rustic he sounded, that didn't mean he was wrong. But however rustic he sounded, that didn't mean he was wrong.

Smithers' Ordnance Survey map had shown a country road going northeast to southwest from Scaldwell down to Brixworth. The Lizards' line ran just behind it. Or rather, the line had run there. Some Lizards still held their posts and fired on the advancing Englishmen, but others had fled the rain of mustard gas and still others lay in the trenches, blistered and choking. Goldfarb hadn't been worse than moderately terrified by the time they forced their way through the foxholes and razor wire and pushed on.

"By gaw, if it's this easy the rest o' the way, we'll roll right into Northampton, we will," Fred Stanegate said.

Before Goldfarb could answer, a flight of Lizard warplanes roared low over the battlefield. Mustard gas didn't bother them; they had their own independent oxygen supplies. They flailed the English with cannons and rockets. Everywhere men were down, dead or screaming. Several tanks sent greasy black pillars of smoke up into the sky. The Lizards on the ground raffled and peppered survivors with small-arms fire.

Digging himself in with his entrenching tool, Goldfarb panted, "I don't think it'll be this easy any more." Digging just as hard beside him, Fred nodded mournfully.

Mutt Daniels huddled inside the Chicago Coliseum, waiting for the place to fall to pieces around him. The Coliseum had been built with the battlemented facade of Richmond's Libby Prison, which had housed Union prisoners during the War Between the States. Mutt didn't know how the h.e.l.l the facade had got to Chicago, but here it was. He did know that, even if he thought of himself as a very mildly reconstructed Johnny Reb, he sure felt as if he were a prisoner in here, too.

Only bits and pieces of that battlemented facade were left; Lizard artillery and bombs had chewed holes in it and in the roof. The destruction didn't bother Mutt. The wreckage scattered in the interior of the building made it a better place in which to fight. With any luck at all, the Americans could give the Lizards as much grief here as they had in the meat-packing plants off to the southwest. Rumor said some holdouts were still holed up in the ruins of the Swift plant, sniping at any Lizard dumb enough to show his snout inside rifle range.

"How you doing, Lieutenant?" asked Captain Stan Szymanski, Daniels' new C.O. He couldn't have been more than half Mutt's age (these days, n.o.body seemed more than half Mutt's age): blond as a Swede, but shorter, stockier, wider-faced, with gray eyes slanted almost like a j.a.p's.

"I'm okay, sir," Mutt answered, which was more or less true. He still didn't get up and yell "whoopee" at the prospect of sitting on his a.s.s, but he didn't get much chance to sit on his a.s.s these days, anyhow. Or maybe Szymanski was trying to find out if his new platoon leader was going to be able to stand the strain generally. Mutt said, "Captain, I been in this slat since the git-go. If I ain't fallen to pieces by now, don't reckon I'm gonna."

"Okay, Mutt," Szymanski said with a nod-yes, that was what he'd been worrying about. "Why do they call you Mutt, anyway?"

Daniels laughed. "Back when I first started playin' bush-league ball-this woulda been 1904, 1905, somethin' like that-I had me this ugly little puppy I'd take on the train with me. You take one look at it, only thing you want to say is, 'What a mutt.' That's what everybody said. Pretty soon they were sayin' it about me instead of the dog, so I been Mutt now goin' on forty years. If it wasn't that, I figure they'd've called me somethin' worse. Ballplayers, they're like that."

"Oh." Szymanski shrugged. "Okay. I just wondered." He'd probably figured there was a fancier story behind it.

"Sir, are we ever gonna be able to hold the Lizards around these parts?" Mutt asked. "Now that they done broke through to the lake-"

"Yeah, things are tough," the captain said, as profound a statement of the obvious as Daniels had ever heard. "But they don't have all of Chicago, not by a long shot. This is still the South Side. And if they want all of it, they're going to have to pay the price. By the time they're done here, they'll have paid more than it's worth."

"Lord, I hope so," Daniels said. "We've sure paid a h.e.l.l of a price fightin' 'em."

"I know." Szymanski's face clouded. "My brother never came out of one of those meat-packing plants, not so far as I know, anyhow. But the idea is that the more they pour down the rathole here, the less they have to play with someplace else."

"I understand that, sir. But when you're you're at the bottom of the rathole and they keep pourin' all that stuff down on top of you, it wears thin after a while, it really does." at the bottom of the rathole and they keep pourin' all that stuff down on top of you, it wears thin after a while, it really does."

"You can sing that in church," Szymanski said. "Eventually, though, they're supposed to run out of stuff, and we're still making more. The more we make 'em use, the faster that'll happen."

Mutt didn't answer. He'd heard that song a lot of times before. Sometimes he even believed it: the Lizards did have a way of playing it close to the vest now and again, as if they were short of soldiers and ammunition. But you'd end up dead if you counted on them doing that all the time, or even any one time.

Szymanski went on, "Besides, if they're still stuck in downtown Shytown when winter comes around again, we'll give 'em a good kick in the a.s.s, same way we did last year."

"That'd be pretty fine," Mutt said agreeably. "They don't like cold weather, and that's a fact. Course, now that you get right down to it, I don't much like cold weather, neither. But what worries me is, the Lizards, they're peculiar, but they ain't stupid. You can fool 'em once, but you try foolin' the same bunch again the same way and they'll hand you your head."

Captain Szymanski clicked his tongue between his teeth. "You may have something there. I'll pa.s.s it on to Colonel Karl next time I talk with him, see if he wants to b.u.mp it up the line. Meanwhile, though-"

"We gotta stay alive. Yeah, I know."

The Lizards weren't going to make that easy, not if they could help it. Their artillery opened up; sh.e.l.ls landed just west of the Chicago Coliseum. Chunks of masonry crashed down. Mutt huddled in his rubble shelter. So did his comrades. When the sh.e.l.ling slowed, they came out and dragged newly fallen boards and pieces of sheet metal back to their positions, strengthening them.

Mutt liked that. It meant he had a good bunch of veterans in his new platoon. He wondered how his old gang of thugs was getting on without him. He'd miss Dracula Szabo; he'd never known anybody else with such a nose for plunder. Somebody here would have a talent for scrounging, though. Somebody always did.

A Lizard jet shrieked past, not far above the Coliseum's battered roof. A bomb hit just outside the building. The noise was like the end of the world. For anybody out there, it was the end of the world. More of the nineteenth-century facade crumbled and fell into the street.

Another bomb crashed through the roof and thudded down onto the bricks and boards and broken chairs strewn below. It landed maybe twenty feet from Mutt. He saw it fall. He buried his head against the rough wall of his shelter, knowing it would do no good.

But the explosion that would have thrown and torn and smashed him did not come. The Lizard plane dropped a couple of more bombs a little north of the Chicago Coliseum, close enough to make it shake, but the one inside lay inert where it had fallen.

"Dud!" Mutt shouted in glad relief, and sucked in as wonderful a breath of air as he'd ever enjoyed, even if it did smell like a cross between an outhouse and a forest fire. Then he realized that wasn't the only possible explanation. "Or else a time bomb," he added, his voice more subdued.

Captain Szymanski spoke to the company communications man: "Gus, call back to division headquarters. Tell 'em we need a bomb disposal unit fast as they can s.h.a.g a.s.s up here."

"Yes, sir." With a happy grunt, Gus slipped from his shoulders the heavy pack that contained a field telephone and batteries. He cranked the telephone and spoke into it. After a couple of minutes, he told Szymanski, "They're on their way." He closed up the phone pack and, sighing, redonned it.

Mutt scrambled to his feet and walked over toward the bomb. It wasn't bravado: if the stupid thing went off, it would kill him just as dead in his shelter as out in the open. "Don't touch it!" Captain Szymanski called sharply.

"Touch it? Captain, I may be a d.a.m.n fool sometimes, but I ain't crazy. I just want to look at it-I thought it had my name on it."

"You and me both," Szymanski said. "Okay, Mutt, go ahead."

The bomb looked like a bomb: sheet metal casing painted olive drab, a boxy tail section for aerodynamics. If it hadn't been for the complicated gadget that replaced a normal twirl fuse, and for the wires that ran back from the gadget to flaps attached to the tail section, he would have taken it for an American weapon, not one the Lizards had made at all.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n," Mutt said quietly after he'd walked all the way around the bomb. "That don't just look like one of ours, it is is one of ours, wearin' a Lizard vest and spats." He raised his voice: "Captain, I think maybe you want to take a good close look at this thing your own self." one of ours, wearin' a Lizard vest and spats." He raised his voice: "Captain, I think maybe you want to take a good close look at this thing your own self."

Szymanski came; nothing was wrong with the size of his b.a.l.l.s. As Mutt had, he walked around the bomb. By the time he'd got back to where he'd started from, he looked as bemused as Daniels did. "That's a U.S. Army Air Force 500-pounder, either that or I'm Queen of the May. What the h.e.l.l have the Lizards gone and done to it?"

"Damfino," Mutt answered. "But you're right, sir, that's what it is, all right. Seems to me somebody ought to know about this." He reached under his helmet to scratch above one ear. "Reckon those bomb disposal people'll be able to say more about it than we can-if they make it here alive, that is."

They did. There were four of them, all quiet and unhurried men who didn't look as if anything got on their nerves, If you were nervous when you started out disposing of bombs, odds were you wouldn't last long enough to get good at it.

Their leader, a first lieutenant in his middle thirties, nodded when he saw the bomb. "Yeah, we've run into a fair number of these," he said. He'd stuck a toothpick in one corner of his mouth, maybe in lieu of a cigarette. "It's one of ours, but the fixtures there make it nastier than it used to be." He pointed to the Lizards' additions at the nose and tail of the bomb. "Some way or other-don't quite know how-they can guide these things right into a target. You fellas are lucky to be here."

"We figured that out, thanks," Szymanski said dryly. "Can you pull its teeth for us?"

The toothpick waggled. "Sir, if we can't, you won't be around to complain about it." The first lieutenant turned around and studied the bomb. With his back to Mutt and Szymanski, he said, "Now that I think about it, we've run into too d.a.m.n many of these. I used to think the Lizards had raided an a.r.s.enal or something, but now my guess is that they're making bombs for themselves-or having us make 'em for them, I mean."

"I don't even like to think about it," Mutt said. "How can you go to a weapons plant, work all day, know the Lizards are going to use whatever you make to blow up other Americans, and then go home at night and look at yourself in the mirror?"

"Beats me," the bomb disposal man said. He and his companions stooped beside the bomb and got to work. Their talk reminded Mutt of what you heard in movie operating rooms, except they asked one another for wrenches and pliers and screwdrivers instead of scalpels and forceps and sutures. The real doctors and medics in the aid station he'd just escaped had been a gamier crew; they'd sounded more like ballplayers than anybody's conventional notion of medical men. On the other hand, if they made a mistake on one of their patients, they wouldn't blow themselves sky high. That might have a way of concentrating the mind on the job at hand.

One of the men grunted soffly. "Here we go, sir," he said to the first lieutenant. "The fuse a.s.sembly in the nose is fouled up eight ways till Sunday. We could use this one for a football and it still wouldn't go off."

The first lieutenant's sigh was long and heartfelt. "Okay, Donnelly. We've seen a fair number of those, too." He turned back to Mutt and Szymanski. Sweat was pouring down his face. He didn't seem to notice. "I think maybe the guys who work the bomb factory do a little bit of sabotage when they can get away with it. When the Lizards were using all their own ordnance, they hardly ever had duds."

"So are they all out of theirs?" Mutt asked.

"Don't know," the bomb disposal man answered, with a shrug to dramatize it "If it blows up, who can say who made it?"

"Plenty of them blew up outside." Captain Szymanski's voice was harsh. "This probably wouldn't have been the only Made in the U.S.A. bomb in whatever load that airplane carried. They may be sabotaging some, but they sure as h.e.l.l aren't sabotaging all of 'em."

"Sir, that's the G.o.d's truth," the first lieutenant said. He and his men set up what looked like a heavy-duty stretcher next to the bomb. With much careful shifting, they loaded it onto the stretcher and carried it away. Their chief said, "Thanks for calling us on this one, sir. Every time we get one of these guiding mechanisms in one piece, it b.u.mps up the odds we'll figure out how they do what they do, sooner or later."

Staggering under the weight of weapon and stretcher, the bomb disposal crew hauled their burden out of the Chicago Coliseum. Mutt watched anxiously till they were gone. Yeah, Donnelly had said the bomb was harmless, but high explosive was touchy stuff. If one of them fell and the bomb went thud on the ground, the bad guys might still win.

Szymanski said, "Sabotage one in ten, say, and you hurt the enemy with that one, yeah, but the other nine are still gonna hurt your friends."

"Yes, sir," Mutt agreed, "but even if you're just sabotaging one in a hundred, you're making it so you can live with yourself afterwards. That counts, too."

"I suppose so," Szymanski said unwillingly.

Mutt didn't blame him for sounding dubious. Being able to live with yourself counted, sure. But giving the Lizards a good swift kick in the b.a.l.l.s counted for more in his book. Having them bomb American positions with American bombs... it stuck in his craw.