rching for any moving object。
He saw no moving thing in the space between the lab building and the nearest structure across the way。 Firing was louder as he reached the corner and rounded it。
A strong wind drove over the roof of the laboratory； blowing debris along the pany street and bowing the tops of the trees planted along the thoroughfare。 The wind seemed to be ing from everywhere； from every direction； moaning with a mounting intensity as it raced toward the northeast。 Moresby stared that way with growing wonder and knew he'd made another mistake in guessing the ing dawn。 That was not the sun。 The red…orange brightness beyond the horizon was fire and the raging wind told him Chicago was being caught up in an enormous firestorm。 When it grew worse； when steel melted and glass liquefied； a man would be unable to stand upright against the great inward rush of the feeding winds。
Moresby searched the street a second time； searched the parking lot； then jumped suddenly to his feet and ran across the street to the safety of the nearest building。 No shot followed him。 He hugged the foundation wall； turned briefly to scan his back trail； and darted around a corner。 Shrubbery offered a partial concealment。 When he stopped to catch his breath and reconnoiter the open yard ahead； he discovered he had lost the military radio。
The continued booming of the mortars worried him。
It was easy to guess the Corporal's guard holding the northwest corner was outnumbered； and probably pinned down。 The first voice on the radio said he had a hell of a fight on his hands…〃double red〃 was new terminology but quickly recognizable…down there near the gate or along the eastern perimeter； and men could not be spared for the defense of the northwestern corner。 A wrong decision。 Moresby thought that officer guilty of a serious error in judgment。 He could hear light rifle fire at the gate…punctuated at intervals by a shotgun； suggesting civilians were involved in the skirmish…but those mortars were pounding the far corner of the station and they made a deadly difference。
Moresby left the concealing shrubbery on the run。 There had been no other activity about the laboratory； no betraying movement of invader or defender。
He moved north and west； taking advantage of whatever cover offered itself； but occasionally sprinting along the open street to gain time…always watchfully alert for any other moving man。 Moresby was painfully aware of the gap in intelligence： he didn't know the identity of the bandits； the ramjets； didn't know friend from foe save for the uniform he might be wearing。 He knew better than to trust a man without uniform inside the fence： shotguns were civilian weapons。 He supposed this damned thing was some civil uprising。
The mortar fired again； followed by a second shell。 If that pattern repeated itself； they were side by side working in pairs。 Moresby fell into a jogging trot to hold his wind。 He worried about the Chinese thrust； about the Harry called in on Chicago。 Who would bring them in on an American city？ Who would ally himself with the Chinese？
In a surprisingly short time he passed a series of old barracks set back from the street； and recognized one of them as the building he had lived in for a few weeks…some twenty…odd years ago。 It now appeared to be in a sorry state。 He jogged on without pause； following the sidewalk he'd sometimes used when returning from the mess hall。 The hot wind rushed with him； overtaking him and half propelling him along his way。 That fire over the horizon was feeding on the wind； on the debris being sucked into it。
On a vagrant impulse…and because it lay in his direction…Moresby turned sharply to cut across a yard to E Street： the swimming pool was near at hand。 He glanced at the sky and found it appreciably lighter： the real dawn was ing； bringing promise of a hot July day。
Moresby gained the fence surrounding the patio and the pool and stopped running； because his breath was spent。 Cautiously； rifle ready； he moved through the entranceway to probe the interior。 The recreation area was deserted。 Moresby walked over to the tiled rim and looked down： the pool was drained； the bottom dry and littered with debris…it had not been used this summer。 He expelled a breath of disappointment。 The next to last time he'd seen the pool…only a few days ago； after all； despite those twenty years…Katrina had played in the blue…green water wearing that ridiculous little suit； while Art had chased her like a hungry rooster； wanting to keep his hands on her body。 A nice body； that。 Art knew what he was doing。 And Chaney sat on the sun deck； mooning over the woman…the civilian lacked the proper initiative； wouldn't fight for what he wanted。
The mortars boomed again in the familiar one…two pattern。 Moresby jumped； and spun around。
Outside the patio fence he saw the automobile parked at the curb a short distance up the street； and cursed his own myopic planning。 The northwest corner was a mile or more away； an agonizing distance when on foot。
Moresby stopped in dismay at sight of the dashboard。
The car was a small one…painted the familiar olive drab…more closely resembling the German beetle than a standard American pact； but its dash was nearly bare of ornament and instrument controls。 There was no key； only a switch indicating the usual on…off positions； the vehicle had an automatic drive offering but three options： park； reverse； forward。 A toggle switch for headlights； another for the windshield wipers pleted the instrument cluster。
Moresby slid in under the wheel and turned the switch on。 A single idiot light blinked at him briefly and stayed out。 Nothing else happened。 He pushed the selector lever deeper into park； flicked the switch off and on again； but without result other than a repetitious blinking of the idiot light。 Cursing the balky car； he yanked at the lever…pulling it into forward…and the car quickly shot away from the curb。 Moresby fought the wheel and kicked hard on the brake； but not before the vehicle had ricocheted off the opposite curb and dealt a punishing blow to his spine。 It came to a skidding stop in the middle of the street； throwing his chest against the wheel。 There had been no audible sound of motor or machinery in motion。
He stared down at the dashboard in growing wonder and realized he had an electric vehicle。 Easing off on the brake； he allowed the car to gather forward momentum and seek its own speed。 This time it did not appear to move as fast； and he went down gently on the accelerator。 The car responded； silently and effortlessly。
Moresby gunned it； running for the northwest fence。 Behind him； the rattle of gunfire around the gate seemed to have lessened。
The truck was still burning。 A column of oily black smoke climbed into the early morning sky。
Major Moresby abandoned the car and leaped for the ground when he was within fifty yards of the perimeter。 A second hole had been torn in the fence； blasted by short mortar fire； and in his first quick scan of the area he saw the bodies of two aggressors sprawled in the same opening。 They wore civilian clothing…dirty shirts and levis…and the only mark of identification visible on either corpse was a ragged yellow armband。 Moresby inched toward the fence； seeking better information。
The mortar was so near he heard the cough before the explosion。 Moresby dug his face into the dirt and waited。 The shell landed somewhere behind him； up slope； throwing rocks and dirt into the sky； debris pelted the back of his neck and fell on his unprotected head。 He held his position； frozen to the ground and waiting stolidly for the second mortar to fire。
It never fired。
After a long moment he raised his head to stare down the slope beyond the ruptured fence。 The slope offered poor shelter； and the enemy had paid a high price for that disadvantage： seven bodies were scattered over the terrain between the fence and a cluster of tree stumps two hundred yards below。 Each of those bodies was dressed alike： street clothing； and a yellow band worn on the left arm。
Ramjets。
Moresby slid his gaze away to study the terrain。
The land sloped