’em?”
“I sure hope so,” Auerbach answered. He thought back to the knapsack that colonel—what was his name? Groves, that was it—had toted from Boston all the way to Denver, complete with a detour into Canada. He’d commanded the company that had escorted Groves on the cross-country jaunt. He didn’t know for sure what was in that knapsack; Groves had been mighty tight-lipped about the whole business, like any good officer. But if it wasn’t something to do with one of those fancy bombs, Auerbach figured his guesser needed repairing.
He didn’t say anything about that to Magruder, who hadn’t been with the company then. If Groves couldn’t talk to him about it, he didn’t figure he could talk to anybody else.
The company rode into Kendall, twelve miles east of Syracuse, a couple of hours before noon. If Syracuse had been a small town, Kendall was a dusty hamlet dozing by the Arkansas River. Auerbach let the horses rest, crop some grass, and drink from the river. He walked into the general store to see if it had anything worth getting, but the 150 Kendallians had pretty much picked it clean over the past year. They were living on whatever they got from their farms, the way their grandparents and great-grandparents had just after the War Between the States.
When the company left Kendall, Auerbach ordered a couple of scouts with radios well forward. He knew the Lizards were in Garden City, forty miles east. He didn’t think they were in Lakin, fifteen miles east. He didn’t want to find out he was wrong the hard way.
He also ordered the men to spread out wide. Even if the worst happened—the worst being attack from the air—some of them should escape.
One minute, one hour, melted into another. Sweat dripped from the end of Auerbach’s pointed nose, soaked the armpits of his khaki jacket. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. It didn’t help much.
Just as if the world remained at peace, windmills spun, pumping water up from underground to nourish wheat and corn and sugar beets. Almost every farm had a big brooder house; every so often, Auerbach would hear chickens clucking. Cows and sheep cropped grass, while pigs wandered around eating anything that wasn’t nailed down. Even though shipping had gone to the devil here no less than anywhere else, people still ate pretty well.
The company approached Lakin in the late afternoon. Auerbach didn’t mind that at all: if the town did hold Lizards, they’d have the sun in their eyes when fighting started. “Sir!” The radioman brought his horse up next to Auerbach’s. “Henry and Red, they say they’ve spotted razor wire like the Lizards use. They’re dismounting and they’ll wait for us.”
“Right.” Auerbach reined in and got out a pair of binoculars. He didn’t see any razor wire, but the scouts were a lot closer than he was. Far and away the biggest set of buildings ahead looked at first distant glance like military barracks. Auerbach turned the binoculars on them, whereupon he laughed at himself—they let him read the words painted in big letters on the side of one building, which said KEARNY COUNTY CONSOLIDATED HIGH SCHOOL . He turned back to the radioman. “Tell ’em we’re on our way.”
“Yes, sir.” The radioman spoke into the microphone.
“Horse holders!” Auerbach called, hoping the sun
would
keep the Lizards in Lakin from noticing him and his men. If it didn’t, that could prove embarrassing—maybe fatally embarrassing.
In the States War, one man in four had held horses while the others went up to fight on foot. Auerbach’s company was already about ten men understrength; he couldn’t afford to lose any more effectives than he could help. Letting one man hold five horses also let the company bring four or five extra weapons to the front.
Some of the horse holders resented the duty; he had to rotate it through all the troopers to make it seem fair. Some, though, looked just as well pleased not to be going
“I sure hope so,” Auerbach answered. He thought back to the knapsack that colonel—what was his name? Groves, that was it—had toted from Boston all the way to Denver, complete with a detour into Canada. He’d commanded the company that had escorted Groves on the cross-country jaunt. He didn’t know for sure what was in that knapsack; Groves had been mighty tight-lipped about the whole business, like any good officer. But if it wasn’t something to do with one of those fancy bombs, Auerbach figured his guesser needed repairing.
He didn’t say anything about that to Magruder, who hadn’t been with the company then. If Groves couldn’t talk to him about it, he didn’t figure he could talk to anybody else.
The company rode into Kendall, twelve miles east of Syracuse, a couple of hours before noon. If Syracuse had been a small town, Kendall was a dusty hamlet dozing by the Arkansas River. Auerbach let the horses rest, crop some grass, and drink from the river. He walked into the general store to see if it had anything worth getting, but the 150 Kendallians had pretty much picked it clean over the past year. They were living on whatever they got from their farms, the way their grandparents and great-grandparents had just after the War Between the States.
When the company left Kendall, Auerbach ordered a couple of scouts with radios well forward. He knew the Lizards were in Garden City, forty miles east. He didn’t think they were in Lakin, fifteen miles east. He didn’t want to find out he was wrong the hard way.
He also ordered the men to spread out wide. Even if the worst happened—the worst being attack from the air—some of them should escape.
One minute, one hour, melted into another. Sweat dripped from the end of Auerbach’s pointed nose, soaked the armpits of his khaki jacket. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. It didn’t help much.
Just as if the world remained at peace, windmills spun, pumping water up from underground to nourish wheat and corn and sugar beets. Almost every farm had a big brooder house; every so often, Auerbach would hear chickens clucking. Cows and sheep cropped grass, while pigs wandered around eating anything that wasn’t nailed down. Even though shipping had gone to the devil here no less than anywhere else, people still ate pretty well.
The company approached Lakin in the late afternoon. Auerbach didn’t mind that at all: if the town did hold Lizards, they’d have the sun in their eyes when fighting started. “Sir!” The radioman brought his horse up next to Auerbach’s. “Henry and Red, they say they’ve spotted razor wire like the Lizards use. They’re dismounting and they’ll wait for us.”
“Right.” Auerbach reined in and got out a pair of binoculars. He didn’t see any razor wire, but the scouts were a lot closer than he was. Far and away the biggest set of buildings ahead looked at first distant glance like military barracks. Auerbach turned the binoculars on them, whereupon he laughed at himself—they let him read the words painted in big letters on the side of one building, which said KEARNY COUNTY CONSOLIDATED HIGH SCHOOL . He turned back to the radioman. “Tell ’em we’re on our way.”
“Yes, sir.” The radioman spoke into the microphone.
“Horse holders!” Auerbach called, hoping the sun
would
keep the Lizards in Lakin from noticing him and his men. If it didn’t, that could prove embarrassing—maybe fatally embarrassing.
In the States War, one man in four had held horses while the others went up to fight on foot. Auerbach’s company was already about ten men understrength; he couldn’t afford to lose any more effectives than he could help. Letting one man hold five horses also let the company bring four or five extra weapons to the front.
Some of the horse holders resented the duty; he had to rotate it through all the troopers to make it seem fair. Some, though, looked just as well pleased not to be going
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