Second Variety and Other Stories (5 page)

And then they started getting into the Russian bunkers, slipping down when the lids were raised
for air and a look around. One claw inside a bunker, a churning sphere of blades and metal, that was
enough. And when one got in others followed. With a weapon like that the war couldn't go on much
longer.

Maybe it was already over.

Maybe he was going to hear the news. Maybe the Politburo had decided to throw in the sponge.
Too bad it had taken so long. Six years. A long time for war like that, the way they had waged it. The
automatic retaliation disks, spinning down all over Russia, hundreds of thousands of them. Bacteria
crystals. The Soviet guided missiles, whistling through the air. The chain bombs.

And now this, the robots, the claws. The claws weren't like other weapons. They were alive,
from any practical standpoint, whether the Governments wanted to admit it or not. They were not
machines. They were living things, spinning, creeping, shaking themselves up suddenly from the gray ash
and darting towards a man, climbing up him, rushing for his throat. And that was what they had been
designed to do. Their job.

They did their job well. Especially lately, with the new designs coming up. Now they repaired
themselves. They were on their own. Radiation tabs protected the UN troops, but if a man lost his tab he
was fair game for the claws, no matter what his uniform. Down below the surface automatic machinery
stamped them out. Human beings stayed a long way off. It was too risky; nobody wanted to be around
them. They were left to themselves. And they seemed to be doing all right. The new designs were faster,
more complex. More efficient.

Apparently they had won the war.

Major Hendricks lit a second cigarette. The landscape depressed him. Nothing but ash and ruins.
He seemed to be alone, the only living thing in the whole world. To the right the ruins of a town rose up, a
few walls and heaps of debris. He tossed the dead match away, increasing his pace. Suddenly he
stopped, jerking up his gun, his body tense. For a minute it looked like -

few walls and heaps of debris. He tossed the dead match away, increasing his pace. Suddenly he
stopped, jerking up his gun, his body tense. For a minute it looked like -

The boy stopped. Hendricks lowered his gun. The boy stood silently, looking at him. He was
small, not very old. Perhaps eight. But it was hard to tell. Most of the kids who remained were stunted.
He wore a faded blue sweater, ragged with dirt, and short pants. His hair was long and matted. Brown
hair. It hung over his face and around his ears. He held something in his arms.

"What's that you have?" Hendricks said sharply.

The boy held it out. It was a toy, a bear. A teddy bear.

The boy's eyes were large, but without expression.

Hendricks relaxed. "I don't want it. Keep it."

The boy hugged the bear again.

"Where do you live?" Hendricks said.

"In there."

"The ruins?"

"Yes."

"Underground?"

"Yes."

"How many are there?"

"How -- how many?"

"How many of you. How big's your settlement?"

The boy did not answer.

Hendricks frowned. "You're not all by yourself, are you?"

The boy nodded.

"How do you stay alive?"

"There's food."

"What kind of food?"

"Different."

Hendricks studied him. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

It wasn't possible. Or was it? The boy was thin, stunted. And probably sterile. Radiation
exposure, years straight. No wonder he was so small. His arms and legs were like pipe-cleaners, knobby
and thin. Hendricks touched the boy's arm. His skin was dry and rough; radiation skin. He bent down,
looking into the boy's face. There was no expression. Big eyes, big and dark.

"Are you blind?" Hendricks said.

"No. I can see some."

"How do you get away from the claws?"

"The claws?"

"The round things. That run and burrow."

"I don't understand."

Maybe there weren't any claws around. A lot of areas were free. They collected mostly around
bunkers, where there were people. The claws had been designed to sense warmth, warmth of living
things.

"You're lucky." Hendricks straightened up. "Well? Which way are you going? Back -- back
there?"

"Can I come with you?"

"With me?" Hendricks folded his arms. "I'm going a long way. Miles. I have to hurry." He looked
at his watch. "I have to get there by nightfall."

"I want to come."

Hendricks fumbled in his pack. "It isn't worth it. Here." He tossed down the food cans he had
with him. "You take these and go back. Okay?"

with him. "You take these and go back. Okay?"

"I'll be coming back this way. In a day or so. If you're around here when I come back you can
come along with me. All right?"

"I want to come along with you now."

"It's a long walk."

"I can walk."

Hendricks shifted uneasily. It made too good a target, two people walking along. And the boy
would slow him down. But he might not come back this way. And if the boy were really all alone -

"Okay. Come along."

The boy fell in beside him. Hendricks strode along. The boy walked silently, clutching his teddy
bear.

"What's your name?" Hendricks said, after a time.

"David Edward Derring."

"David? What -- what happened to your mother and father?"

"They died."

"How?"

"In the blast."

"How long ago?"

"Six years."

Hendricks slowed down. "You've been alone six years?"

"No. There were other people for a while. They went away."

"And you've been alone since?"

"Yes."

Hendricks glanced down. The boy was strange, saying very little. Withdrawn. But that was the
way they were, the children who had survived. Quiet. Stoic. A strange kind of fatalism gripped them.
Nothing came as a surprise. They accepted anything that came along. There was no longer any normal,
any natural course of things, moral or physical, for them to expect. Custom, habit, all the determining
forces of learning were gone; only brute experience remained. "Am I walking too fast?" Hendricks said.

"No."

"How did you happen to see me?"

"I was waiting."

"Waiting?" Hendricks was puzzled. "What were you waiting for?"

"To catch things."

"What kind of things?"

"Things to eat."

"Oh." Hendricks set his lips grimly. A thirteen-year-old boy, living on rats and gophers and
half-rotten canned food. Down in a hole under the ruins of a town. With radiation pools and claws, and
Russian dive-mines up above, coasting around in the sky.

"Where are we going?" David asked.

"To the Russian lines."

"Russian?"

"The enemy. The people who started the war. They dropped the first radiation bombs. They
began all this."

The boy nodded. His face showed no expression.

"I'm an American," Hendricks said.

There was no comment. On they went, the two of them, Hendricks walking a little ahead, David
trailing behind him, hugging his dirty teddy bear against his chest.

About four in the afternoon they stopped to eat. Hendricks built a fire in a hollow between some
slabs of concrete. He cleared the weeds away and heaped up bits of wood. The Russians' lines were not
very far ahead.

Around him was what had once been a long valley, acres of fruit trees and grapes. Nothing
remained now but a few bleak stumps and the mountains that stretched across the horizon at the far end.
And the clouds of rolling ash that blew and drifted with the wind, settling over the weeds and remains of
buildings, walls, here and there once in a while what had been a road.

Around him was what had once been a long valley, acres of fruit trees and grapes. Nothing
remained now but a few bleak stumps and the mountains that stretched across the horizon at the far end.
And the clouds of rolling ash that blew and drifted with the wind, settling over the weeds and remains of
buildings, walls, here and there once in a while what had been a road.

"No."

"No? Don't you want any?"

"No."

Hendricks shrugged. Maybe the boy was a mutant, used to special food. It didn't matter. When
he was hungry he would find something to eat. The boy was strange. But there were many strange
changes coming over the world. Life was not the same anymore. It would never be the same again. The
human race was going to have to realize that. "Suit yourself," Hendricks said. He ate the bread and
mutton by himself, washing it down with coffee. He ate slowly, finding the food hard to digest. When he
was done he got to his feet and stamped the fire out.

David rose slowly, watching him with his young-old eyes.

"We're going," Hendricks said.

"All right."

Hendricks walked along, his gun in his arms. They were close; he was tense, ready for anything.
The Russians should be expecting a runner, an answer to their own runner, but they were tricky. There
was always the possibility of a slip-up. He scanned the landscape around him. Nothing but slag and ash,
a few hills, charred trees. Concrete walls. But somewhere ahead was the first bunker of the Russian lines,
the forward command. Underground, buried deep, with only a periscope showing, a few gun muzzles.
Maybe an antenna.

"Will we be there soon?" David asked.

"Yes. Getting tired?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

David did not answer. He plodded carefully along behind, picking his way over the ash. His legs
and shoes were gray with dust. His pinched face was streaked, lines of gray ash in rivulets down the pale
white of his skin. There was no color to his face. Typical of the new children, growing up in cellars and
sewers and underground shelters. Hendricks slowed down. He lifted his field-glasses and studied the
ground ahead of him. Were they there, someplace, waiting for him? Watching him, the way his men had
watched the Russian runner? A chill went up his back. Maybe they were getting their guns ready,
preparing to fire, the way his men had prepared, made ready to kill. Hendricks stopped, wiping
perspiration from his face.

"Damn." It made him uneasy. But he should be expected.

The situation was different.

He strode over the ash, holding his gun tightly with both hands. Behind him came Davis.
Hendricks peered around, tight-lipped. Any second it might happen. A burst of white light, a blast,
carefully aimed from inside a deep concrete bunker.

He raised his arm and waved it around in a circle. Nothing moved. To the right a long ridge ran,
topped with dead tree trunks. A few wild vines had grown up around the trees, remains of arbors. And
the eternal dark weeds. Hendricks studied the ridge. Was anything up there? Perfect place for a
lookout.

He approached the ridge warily, David coming silently behind. If it were his command he'd have
a sentry up there, watching for troops trying to infiltrate into the command area. Of course, if it were his
command there would be claws around the area for full protection. He stopped, feet apart, hands on his
hips.

"Are we there?" David said.

"Almost."

"Almost."

"I don't want to take any chances." Hendricks advanced slowly. Now the ridge lay directly
beside him, along his right. Overlooking him. His uneasy feeling increased. If an Ivan were up there he
wouldn't have a chance. He waved his arm again. They should be expecting someone in the UN uniform,
in response to the note capsule. Unless the whole thing was a trap.

"Keep up with me." He turned towards David. "Don't drop behind."

"With you?"

"Up beside me. We're close. We can't take any chances. Come on."

"I'll be all right." David remained behind him, in the rear, a few paces away, still clutching his
teddy bear.

"Have it your way." Hendricks raised his glasses again, suddenly tense. For a moment -- had
something moved? He scanned the ridge carefully. Everything was silent. Dead. No life up there, only
tree trunks and ash. Maybe a few rats. The big black rats that had survived the claws. Mutants built their
own shelters out of saliva and ash. Some kind of plaster. Adaptation.

He started forward again. A tall figure came out on the ridge above him, cloak flapping.
Gray-green. A Russian. Behind him a second soldier appeared, Russian. Both lifted their guns, aiming.
Hendricks froze. He opened his mouth. The soldiers were kneeling, sighting down the side of the slope.
A third figure had joined them on the ridge top, a smaller figure in gray-green. A woman. She stood
behind the other two.

Hendricks found his voice. "Stop!" He waved at them frantically. "I'm --"

The two Russians fired. Behind Hendricks there was a faint pop. Waves of heat lapped against
him, throwing him to the ground. Ash tore at his face, grinding into his eyes and nose. Choking, he pulled
himself to his knees. It was all a trap. He was finished. He had come to be killed, like a steer. The
soldiers and the woman were coming down the side of the ridge towards him, sliding down through the
soft ash. Hendricks was numb. His head throbbed. Awkwardly, he got his rifle up and took aim. It
weighed a thousand tons; he could hardly hold it. His nose and cheeks stung. The air was full of the blast
smell, a bitter acrid stench.

"Don't fire," the first Russian said, in heavily accented English.

The three of them came up to him, surrounding him. "Put down your rifle, Yank," the other said.