The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century by Harry Turtledove Page A

“I think this is what we’ve been waiting for. They certainly took their time about it.”
    “So they want to talk terms,” Scott said. “Are we going along with them?”
    “That’s not for us to decide.” Hendricks sat down. “Where’s the communications officer? I want the Moon Base.”
    Leone pondered as the communications officer raised the outside antenna cautiously, scanning the sky above the bunker for any sign of a watching Russian ship.
    “Sir,” Scott said to Hendricks. “It’s sure strange they suddenly came around. We’ve been using the claws for almost a year. Now all of a sudden they start to fold.”
    “Maybe claws have been getting down in their bunkers.”
    “One of the big ones, the kind with stalks, got into an Ivan bunker last week,” Eric said. “It got a whole platoon of them before they got their lid shut.”
    “How do you know?”
    “A buddy told me. The thing came back with—with remains.”
    “Moon Base, sir,” the communications officer said.
    On the screen the face of the lunar monitor appeared. His crisp uniform contrasted to the uniforms in the bunker. And he was cleanshaven. “Moon Base.”
    “This is forward command L-Whistle. On Terra. Let me have General Thompson.”
    The monitor faded. Presently General Thompson’s heavy features came into focus. “What is it, Major?”
    “Our claws got a single Russian runner with a message. We don’t know whether to act on it—there have been tricks like this in the past.”
    “What’s the message?”
    “The Russians want us to send a single officer on policy level over to their lines. For a conference. They don’t state the nature of the conference. They say that matters of—” He consulted the slip: “—matters of grave urgency make it advisable that discussion be opened between a representative of the UN forces and themselves.”
    He held the message up to the screen for the general to scan. Thompson’s eyes moved.
    “What should we do?” Hendricks said.
    “Send a man out.”
    “You don’t think it’s a trap?”
    “It might be. But the location they give for their forward command is correct. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”
    “I’ll send an officer out. And report the results to you as soon as he returns.”
    “All right, Major.” Thompson broke the connection. The screen died. Up above, the antenna came slowly down.
    Hendricks rolled up the paper, deep in thought.
    “I’ll go,” Leone said.
    “They want somebody at policy level.” Hendricks rubbed his jaw. “Policy level. I haven’t been outside in months. Maybe I could use a little air.”
    “Don’t you think it’s risky?”
    Hendricks lifted the view sight and gazed into it. The remains of the Russian were gone. Only a single claw was in sight. It was folding itself back, disappearing into the ash, like a crab. Like some hideous metal crab…“That’s the only thing that bothers me.” Hendricks rubbed his wrist. “I know I’m safe as long as I have this on me. But there’s something about them. I hate the damn things. I wish we’d never invented them. There’s something wrong with them. Relentless little—”
    “If we hadn’t invented them, the Ivans would have.”
    Hendricks pushed the sight back. “Anyhow, it seems to be winning the war. I guess that’s good.”
    “Sounds like you’re getting the same jitters as the Ivans.”
    Hendricks examined his wristwatch. “I guess I had better get started, if I want to be there before dark.”
             
    H E TOOK A deep breath and then stepped out onto the gray rubbled ground. After a minute he lit a cigarette and stood gazing around him. The landscape was dead. Nothing stirred. He could see for miles, endless ash and slag, ruins of buildings. A few trees without leaves or branches, only the trunks. Above him the eternal rolling clouds of gray, drifting between Terra and the sun.
    Major Hendricks went on. Off to the right something scuttled, something round and