The main minesite, he recalled, had been knocked out on Day 92 by a pilot...MacArdle? Yes, MacArdle. And he'd had a bit of trouble. The Psychlos had attempted to loft two battle planes and MacArdle had nailed them right at the hangar launch door, blocking it. He'd blown their power lines to bits and knocked out huge breathe-gas and fuel and ammunition dumps. The Psychlos had gotten two batteries of antiaircraft into operation and he'd had to knock those out. This was the fight where the copilot had been wounded, if Jonnie and Sir Robert recalled. A very fighting minesite!

Anyway, Dunneldeen went on, on his overflights from one hundred thousand feet up during the last three

days he hadn't found any current movement in the place but– he showed them the pictures he'd gotten from his screens– those apes had cleared away the hangar door– that's it there– and look over here, see? Those shadows under the trees at the edge of their field...no, over there. Ten battle planes on standby!

“Nobody ever came back to mop up that minesite," he concluded, “and those gorillas have been busy!”

Jonnie looked at the several pictures. One had been taken with a lower sun. He examined the profiles of the planes half-hidden under the trees. He looked at Dunneldeen.

“Yes,” said Dunneldeen. “Just like you described the one you put on the gas drone. Mark 32 low-flying ground strafers, heavy, heavily armored. Not much range but they can carry extra fuel cartridges.”

“Those Psychlos," said Jonnie, “are not setting up to defend their minesite. They are probably desperate for breathe-gas. They had their fuel blown up...see the dolly tracks in the grass in front of those Mark 32s. They were dollied there, not flown there.” He pointed to the hut half-seen through the trees. “They've been over there for days manufacturing fuel and ammunition like mad. They used what fuel they could scrape up to get that convoy here; they grabbed all the breathe-gas, I’m sure. And they're on their way back.”

“The only other big supply of breathe-gas,” said Robert the Fox, “is over at the central compound in America! That's where they're headed.”

“With those ten Mark 32s they could turn this whole war around the other way,” said Jonnie. He opened a map, water still dripping off him and onto it, and traced out the exit road. He found it left the forest, ran across a plain and into a long ravine that was open to the sky. The road went on toward Lake Albert but there was a flat place as it left the ravine. He looked at some pictures Dunneldeen had taken.

“We've got a battle coming up,” said Jonnie. He measured distances and turned to Sir Robert. “It will take them a day and a half to reach this spot; two days to the main compound since that road is awfully bad. Meanwhile we have to take care of the main force of Brigantes. Pack Colonel Ivan, four raiders, and a mortar into this place. Tell him he's got to hold that pass until relieved. And you, Dunneldeen, stand by up there to make sure that convoy doesn't get through. Remember, we're only after live Psychlos."

“We're after stopping a counterattack on the Denver area,” said Sir Robert.

Thor had gone down to put in an appearance at the Mountains of the Moon as "Jonnie." He was a fair rider and would put on a bit of a show for them and say hello. He was scheduled to visit another tribe south of there. He was a bit far for recall and it would mess up their plans to expose where Jonnie really was.

"I’m sorry you've only got one battle plane,” said Jonnie.

Dunneldeen smiled happily. “But there's only one battle, Jonnie lad.”

Robert the Fox was rapping out orders, and very shortly Colonel Ivan and four soldiers struggled up through the rain carrying a bazooka and a blast mortar and other equipment. They'd forgotten about their Coordinator to translate for them and it was a very tight fit indeed to get all this into the battle plane.

Sir Robert briefed Colonel Ivan. He smiled cheerfully. Ambushes in passes of the Hindu Kush were much more complicated. Have no fear, Marshal Jonnie and War Chief Robert. That pass would be held. Live Psychlos? Well, not quite as satisfactory, but have no fear, the valiant-red-army would perform.

The battle plane soared up, seven men and one battle plane to stop a convoy of dozens of Psychlos and battle tanks. Dunneldeen waved down at them through the rain and was gone.

True it was that the stockpiles of breathe-gas and ammunition had been stripped to the last cartridge. The grass and shrub had been crushed dead for years. A quarter of an acre had been the extent of the breath-gas dump; half an acre the extent of the fuel and ammunition dump. And it was all gone.

Angus opened the lock of the compound's main door, and the reserve troops from the attack carrier went sprinting in, covering each other.

The place was empty. It had four levels of offices, shops, and hangars. Pumps were running. Lights were all on. And it was a jumble of hasty departure.

Jonnie stood in the corridor outside the recreation area. What a dismal, dank place; mold was growing on things. Water was dripping down the walls, only kept cleared out by the pumps. What an awful place to try to live, even for a Psychlo.

He thumbed through sheaves of radio dispatch forms that had been spouting out of a printer. Even the paper was wet in this hot, humid place. They had been monitoring all bands, particularly the pilot band. It was odd to see: “Andy, can you pick up that load of pilgrims in Calcutta?” and “Please bring me another flying suit and some fuel, MacCallister." The Scot pilots largely talked Psychlo with a jumble of English. It must have looked quite mad to the company employees, huddled here in this remote jungle, not knowing what was really going on but monitoring every scrap of it.

A Russian raced up to him holding a Psychlo breathe-mask he must have found someplace. It still had the bottle attached and was operating. Jonnie sniffed it and it burnt his nose passages. Let's see, it took about twelve hours for one of the flasks to run out. This was still...half-full? quarter-full? He shook it to see how much of the breathe-gas in liquefied form was still there. The Psychlos had left within the last eight or nine hours.

He hobbled along the corridor, sweat streaming off him. The pumps were

running air into the place but it didn't make it any cooler. The usual Psychlo stink...no, worse, for it was mixed up with mold. Bubbles of sound floating in from various parts of the interior levels where his people were still searching. There was a mine phone off its buttons and he listened at it. Still alive. He could even hear the mine pumps running at the distant tungsten workings.

This minesite wasn't as old as most.

Probably been moved here from elsewhere in the forest when they found another tungsten deposit. They were mad for tungsten. The viewscreens in the mine manager's office were on. Jonnie looked at the big electric roasting ovens at the mine. They conveyed and roasted ore there. Steam was coming off coils. They must have considered this upset on the planet temporary for they'd gone on mining.

He went down the stairs that led to the hangar. The usual Psychlo steps, twice the height of human steps, hard to negotiate with this leg. Well, he was getting better. He'd sure been able to use a blast rifle today. No speed in his arm. But it was improving.

The hangar was in the same disarray as the other parts of the interior. It still held vehicles.

Angus was poking around in the vast, overlit interior. He had a big crayon in his hand and was putting an “X” on vehicles he felt couldn't be readily made operational. Two small tanks. Angus had "X'd" them out. Several flying mine platforms. No "Xs," so okay. Several flatbeds, only half of them usable.