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  They were like two vast palms. Giant palms waiting to press slowly together and mash him to butter. Conn pulled himself upward with fingernails, not daring to listen to the whisper and mutter of the trembling rock. The trembling tamed into a shake and the sound grew. He could sense the heavy palms pressing gently together. He groaned and struggled feverishly. It would be a very slow death, very gentle and very horrible.

  Then hands gripped him and pulled upward. Bradley whispered: "Sh-h-h-h—" and Conn was blissfully aware of night wind on his face, stars overhead and the comforting nearness of a hundred fighting men. He lay a while until he caught his breath.

  It would be about three or four in the morning, Conn thought. The moon had passed the zenith and was a small silver apple dropping to the west. He got to his feet and peered cautiously around. A mile across the fields towered the castle. About a quarter of a mile to one side was a large black smudge that made quiet noises.

  "Horses," Bradley said. "The Swasts have got them picketed there under a small guard. Have to give 'em a wide berth."

  Conn nodded. In a single file they started out, bending low to get all the cover the wheat afforded. There was hardly any sound. The Readers, after hundreds of years of skulking, knew how to move quietly.

  They approached the hill and swiftly passed it. Conn thought: Time is peculiar. I always knew it was, but it never affected me personally. If this ruse works, we'll wipe out the Swasts. Maybe in a month or two I'll be able to build enough equipment to recharge my batteries and get back to Hilda. Maybe I'll get back to the day after I left her-She'll have missed me only a day, and yet I'll have missed her for ten weeks—

  The thought came to him that he might take Rollins back through Time with him. Rollins could gather up every clue he needed to recreate an advanced civilization in his own time. Then Conn shrugged. He'd forgotten. Rollins would make it ABC+3b. He could never return to his own alternate. Rollins, too, would become a probable man. No, there was nothing more Conn could do for these people. They had his records. That would be enough.

  Bradley caught his arm.

  "This is it," he whispered. "Probably the Swasts left a guard. We'd better be careful."

  The castle loomed before them. It was a high square building with a tower at each corner. Around the building the Swasts had constructed a heavy rubble wall at least twenty feet high. It would be impossible to climb it. The Swasts could shoot them down as they came over the crest.

  Conn lit a cigarette. He brought the rucksack around under his arm and opened the flap so that be could dip in quickly and grab a bottle. The Readers formed a wedge behind him and they advanced cautiously, with Conn at the apex.

  Suddenly lights flared and a gong began to bang. It was so deep-toned it had no sound. It just pressed on the ears, beat—beat—beat. From the towers giant torches flared, spraying ruddy light over the surrounding terrain, flooding the grounds with brightness. There were shouts from the castle and flaming craters began to appear before them.

  "Alarm!" Bradley shouted above the roar of the torches. "They've given the alarm!"

  Conn growled: "Keep moving!" He sprinted.

  He cradled the rucksack in his arms and wondered if a lance blast would reach him. The craters were coming dangerously close. If he was hit, he and his little army would go up in an explosion that would sing the end of the Readers. He didn't want to lose this last battle with the Nazis. The Battle of America.

  Conn pulled out a bottle and touched the fuse tip to his glowing cigarette ember. It fizzed and flamed. Still on the run, he yanked back his arm, striking Bradley across the shoulder. He almost dropped the bomb, but managed to let it fly. It exploded as it reached the wall, and the bang hurt his ears. But when the dense smoke drifted, he saw that part of the rubble had disappeared.

  Bradley exclaimed hoarsely and there were terrified yelps from the Readers.

  Conn lit another fuse and sent the bottle toward the breach. This time a rumble of clattering stones followed the explosion and the wall came down for a space of twenty feet.

  They reached the wall and huddled under its cover just to one side of the breach. It was cold there after the heat from the giant torches. Conn watched the haze of craters exploding silently in the breach. He thought: They're covering it. Anyone trying to get through there will go up in a puff.

  "The noise!" Bradley screamed. "It'll bring the other Swasts back!"

  "That was the general idea," Conn said.

  He lit a third fuse and heaved the bottle far down the length of the wall. It exploded with a boom, and rubble forty feet away clattered. As it did, he had already lit a fourth fuse. It was a long chance, but he had to take it. Maybe the Swasts in the castle would cover the site of the fresh explosion. They ought to be bewildered.

  Conn jerked to his feet and stepped around into the open breach. A black arch showed in the side of the castle, just before him. He let fly toward it and dove back to cover as the bomb blasted. When he crawled back to look, he saw a great jagged rent where the arch had been. Light shone through twisted window frames. He had blasted in a row of castle windows. It was crazy, but he noted that they were Gothic. High and pointed.

  "Bradley," Conn said, "take half your men and go to the second breach I made. You'll wait until you hear two more bombs land—then make a dash to get into the castle."

  Bradley nodded and vanished. Fifty men, lances poised in their hands, drifted off into the darkness.

  Conn peered around the corner of the breach and heaved two bombs in quick succession. The first had too short a fuse. It exploded while it was still rolling. He heard the whine of glass fragments. Conn cursed Wilder. The second plunged into the castle and went off with a muffled bang. Screams sounded.

  He puffed his cigarette and barked: "Come on!" and then they were swerving around the breach and legging it for the hole. The craters flared and men began to drop with choked grunts. To one side Conn saw Bradley's men hurdling rock fragments and charging down the second breach. A dozen disappeared in silent flowers of light while they were jumping. The rest converged toward the rent windows.

  Conn lit a fuse on the run and hurled it before him. By the time the bomb exploded, he had already entered the castle. What he could see of the room he entered was a shambles. It had evidently been some kind of vast hall. Now the flagged flooring was shattered. The walls toppled and the ceiling overhead sagged. Splotches of ghastly blood and flesh pasted pieces of mail armor to the stone.

  Hoarse bellows came from above, and then from behind. Craters leaped and flared. Conn saw the Swasts were firing down through the gaps in the ceiling. Before him was the broken remnant of a broad stairway. The shouting Readers behind him went sprinting up.

  Conn pulled to a halt. He grabbed Bradley as the man hurtled by and brought him to one side.

  "Listen," shouted Conn. Bradley looked around wildly. He licked his lips.

  "We've broken them!" Bradley panted. He looked exultant. "The last stronghold's fallen. We can mop up in here inside of an hour." He turned to follow his men. Conn could hear the shouting and crashes of falling stone as the Readers blasted through the floors above.

  "Listen," Conn repeated. "We've only done a quarter of the job. The rest of the Swasts will be back any minute. Keep half of your men for mopping up. Send down the rest to me to hold the Swasts."

  Bradley nodded and ran. Conn counted bombs. Twenty left. He stared around the broken hall, wondering what it could have been. There were broken marble pillars and fragments of what looked like sarcophagae. Could the Swasts have buried their men inside this hall? A graveyard? There were the tapestries, too. Great hangings, now torn and spattered. Most confusing of all was the giant Sphinx at the head of the stairs. It had a ruined face and it looked incredibly old. Maybe the Swasts were collectors of art. That didn't seem to jibe with what Rollins had said.

  Twenty Readers came vaulting down the stairs. They were torn and looked blood-drunk. Conn lined them up and tried to shake sense into them, b
ut they muttered to themselves incessantly and fingered their lances. It was impossible to shake a thousand years of hatred out of their veins all at once.

  They trotted out on the double and Conn spaced them along the crest of the wall. He had barely returned to his mm position when his ears caught the thunder of hoofs. He lit another cigarette and watched the far fringes of the blood-red floodlit area. Dim shapes galloping there. There was the ruby glint of light on metal and the long streaks that were lances. Craters began to flame again. Along the wall the Readers yelled.

  Conn heaved a bomb. It exploded far short, but the whirling fragments of glass whistled around a horse and rider. The horse reared and screamed. Conn didn't like that. The rider went jerking to the ground. Conn saw him get to his feet and run back to the cover of darkness. The Swasts continued to circle and fire.

  Bradley ran out with a small squad, yelling for Conn.

  Conn shouted, "Here!"

  "This is no good," Bradley panted. "They can keep us besieged and still attack the cavern. What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know," Conn spat. "I'd counted on getting out of the castle before they returned and ambushing them."

  Bradley said, "We might be able to pick them off better from up above. We've got to make a helluva fight of it here and now. Otherwise we'll be worse off than before."

  VII

  Conn ordered ten of Bradley's men to the walls. The rest followed him and Bradley went back into the castle. They clattered up the stairway and rounded the Sphinx. Bradley led Conn through a low hall racked on all sides with arms. The middle was aisled with shattered crystal cases. Within the cases were tumbled heaps of armor.

  "Storeroom," Bradley grunted.

  But it didn't look one to Conn. He could understand the Swasts getting their armor here, but it still didn't look like a storeroom. As they ran through with their little squad, his mind struggled with the problem.

  Bradley led him briskly past a hall filled with paintings and statuary, up another flight of stairs and into a large room that was the entire width of the tower. Conn gaped and skittered to a halt.

  "Come on," Bradley snapped. "Don't let this place scare you, I don't know what it is, but it's nothing to worry about."

  Only Conn knew. Suddenly he understood. He looked at the scale models on the walls; at the tiny helicopter hanging from the ceiling; and lastly at the giant tractor within the crystal case. Suddenly he realized that the Swasts had appropriated a museum, of all places, for their last stronghold.

  "Wait a minute," he said to Bradley's excited yells. He walked to the case within which stood the tractor. It was a dump machine with a vast steel bin in the rear that had evidently been used to cart tons of earth or stone. Probably, he thought, it was a twenty-first-century model, for it was better than anything 1940 had seen, and it was Diesel powered. That was what gave him the idea. He'd fight a 1940 war in 2941 with a harmless 2040 machine. Abruptly he seized a lance from one of the Readers and shattered the crystal case.

  A cloud of gas, so pungent it almost knocked him over, whiffed around him as he stepped through the naked case frame. That was a good sign. Whoever had set up this tractor exhibit had taken pains to make sure it would remain in good condition.

  It seemed to be a new machine. The steel gleamed and the rivet heads were solid. Conn went over it. Cylinder heads; crankshaft; exhaust manifold, the fuel feed pump—everything was in brand-new condition.

  "Bradley!" he said curtly. "How do the Swasts get those big torches in the towers. Oil?"

  Bradley nodded.

  Then take all these men and get up to the towers. Locate the oil-feed and bring down all the oil you can carry. Make it fast!"

  Bradley gaped and flared into action. He drove the squad before him up toward the towers. Conn carefully hid his rucksack of bombs in a corner, ferreted out a small oil lamp and began heating the cylinders. Diesels had to be plenty hot before they started.

  The Readers began to hurry back for containers. Conn dumped mineral exhibits on the floor and gave them the metal bins. He ripped his shirt off and improvised a cloth filter. From the Diesel came the strong odor of heating metal.

  They were able to collect a total of fifteen gallons. As Conn refiltered it and waited for the Diesel to heat, he reflected that that would be enough to drive him to California and back. He improvised a funnel and poured the oil into the fuel tank. The fuel-system filter, he saw, was of the waste type. The cotton wadding was fresh and white.

  The Diesel was fitted with an electric starter. The batteries were dry and Conn sent Bradley for water and filled them. They'd still have to be charged, and although Conn noted a five-hundred-watt generator connected to them, the generator wouldn't charge them until the Diesel was turning. He'd have to start the Diesel by hand.

  They ran a loop of heavy rope around the fly wheel and Conn got a good running start and yanked. The wheel turned crustily. He kept yanking until he was exhausted. Then Bradley took over. He was prodigiously muscled, Conn remembered. Now the muscles cracked and strained. Abruptly the tractor coughed and bellowed. Bradley had the rope burned through his palms. He spit on them, yowling with pain.

  But the tractor was rattling and bellowing furiously, and Conn knew the war was more than half won.

  "Sorry, Brad!" Conn yelled. He shouldered his sack of bombs and vaulted into the driver's seat. "Get your men into the back."

  The Readers gathered up their lances and helped Bradley into the vast steel bin behind. Conn threw in the clutch. The tractor coughed again and calmly shuddered through a pair of cases before he could get it turned. He drove it shakily down the stairs while the men bounced and murmured in the bin and Bradley cursed fiendishly at his raw palms.

  In the armor room, Conn rammed through half a dozen exhibits as an experiment. This tractor, he thought, was almost as deadly as the best Panzer tank. He swerved around the giant Sphinx and charged down the broken stairway, fragments of stone and steel crackling under the treads.

  The rent windows were a little too narrow. The treads kicked out space for themselves and left crumbling stone behind. Conn drove up to the breach in the wall and yelled for the Readers. A score of them mustered enough courage to vault into the bin. They could conceal themselves, Conn figured, and fire out at the Swasts. The steel would protect them. He was the only one exposed, but he'd have to take the chance.

  He thundered through the breach in the rubble wall. The Swasts were still galloping around the castle. Squads of them were poised on the flanks waiting to rush in. Conn fumbled at the dashboard and tried the light switch. The forward searchlights flickered and eddied out long brilliant streamers. It was astonishing how quickly the batteries charged—astonishing how efficient this machine was.

  Craters sent earth and stone banging against the steel walls of the tractor bin. Conn could just hear them clank over the interminable roar of the engine. He braked a tread and sent the tractor in a long course through the wheat fields. It would make riding tougher for the Swasts.

  They galloped on all sides, like swarms of furies. The horses were frightened at the horrible sound, and still the Swasts managed to dart in, fire their lances at the bin, and then pivot and gallop away. The Readers in the bin were firing rapidly. Swasts were vanishing from their saddles in blinding flares of light. The night was filled with roars.

  Conn thought: Oh, hell, let's get it over with fast. Hilda's waiting. He drove his heels down to steady himself in the jiggling driver's seat, managed to get another cigarette lit and began heaving bombs. They sounded like empty thumps in the open, but the flames they set off were real, and the dry wheat began to run with rivulets of fire.

  He felt utterly dispassionate about it. He had the illusion that he was watching a stranger light the glass bottles of wholesale death and throw them. It seemed that these little groups of armed riders that were torn into screaming bloody bits were toy figures. It seemed that someone was hammering on his back.

  Someone was—Bradley. His f
ace was contorted with pain, but he continued to bang Conn's back. Conn shouted: "Is it all over?" and set his ears to Bradley's mouth.

  "We've cleaned 'em out," Bradley screamed, "but that's not it. You've got to stop throwing bombs. You've started a landslip."

  Conn stared around. There were no more Swasts in sight He threw the clutch and let the Diesel idle. He listened and stared. Then he caught it. The growling shake of earth underneath. It made him feel sick.

  "That snub-nose warned me," he said. "The mining chief. He said this area is one big honeycombed fault. And I don't suppose your tunneling did anything to strengthen it."

  First Conn thought of the cavern and felt nauseous. There were hundreds of Readers down there, but he remembered Rollins and Wilder and the other technicians. They'd realize in time. They'd get everyone out. Besides, all the land was theirs now. They could build anew in the sun and open air.

  He knew he was trying to put the hill in the back of his mind. The fear was gripping him. The hill Was a granite outcropping. It would be the first to crash away under the strain. There wouldn't be any more time machine. He would never see Hilda again.

  Bradley screamed: "The cavern might hold and it might not. We've got to get there!"

  Conn gritted: "No!" He threw in the clutch again. The Diesel howled and he turned the machine in starts and drove headlong for the hill. Wheat swished and the tractor banged into hollows and mounted the rolling rises. Behind him, Conn heard Bradley curse and bellow questions. He ignored him.

  As the hill came into sight, Conn sensed heat on his back. He turned and suddenly realized what Bradley had been cursing about. Acres of dry wheat were aflame. A curtain of red-orange, topped by a thick, oily smoke cloud was marching after them. Then the jerk of the tractor as it began to mount the hill recalled his attention. He eased it up to the crest and let the motor idle again. The Readers leaped out of the bin.

  "What the hell, Conn!" yelled Bradley. "Are you mad?"

  Conn paid no attention. He bent and uncovered the stud bank. The earth was shuddering underfoot. Fire and earthquake and a war, that's what he was going through for Hilda. But it was worth it.