The Compleat Bolo

"See them lights dim when he fired her up, Mick?" Dub inquired rhetorically. "Must be just about the powerfulest machine in the world."

"Except for old Jonah," Mick countered, pointing toward the partition with a tilt of his head. "If he was on full charge, I mean."

Dub picked up a strip of printout paper and showed it to Mick. "Must be the answer that Davis got," he commented.

" 'Deng incursion confirmed, grid 161/219,' " Mick read. " 'Estimate plus-ten hours offload and deploy, contingency plan 1-A, recommend evacuation scheme B instanter.. Mick's voice trailed off. "Boy," he said, "the war's on again. Says to get out, leave Spivey's to the spodders. Must be go

"Naw." Dub shook his head solemnly. "Jest outside the winders, that's close enough."

The boys exited by the back door after a quick look which showed the coast to be clear. They chose a route behind the warehouse next door to come up under a high, double-hung window set in the brick wall of Cy Kibbe's Feed and Grain Depot. Cautiously, they stole a quick look inside. They knew all the men sitting at the long table. Breathless, they listened:

"New Orchard ain't much, maybe," the plump, fussy, but hard-eyed little mayor, an ex-softrock miner, said dully to his colleagues sitting slumped in the mismatched chairs along the former banquet table salvaged from the Jake's Palace Hotel and only slightly charred on one leg by the fire which years ago had completed the destruction of the old frame resort to which few, alas, had ever resorted.

"Like I said, the Orchard ain't much," Kibbe continued, "but it's ours, and it's up to us to defend it."

"Defend it how, Cy?" someone called, a query seconded by a chorus of "yeah's," followed by muttering.

"Ain't got no army troops here, nor such as that," Cy conceded. "Got to do what we can our ownselfs."

A tall, rangy man with a bad complexion rose and said, "I say we put in a call to Sector, get a battle-wagon in here." He looked challengingly at Davis. "We got a right; we pay taxes same's anybody else."

"They'd never send it, Jason," a round-faced fellow named Cabot said, and thumped his pipe on a glass ashtray as if nailing the lid on the coffin of the idea.

"What we got to do," interjected Fred Frink, a small unshaven chap who tended to gobble rather than speak, "what we got to do, we got to put on a defense here'll get picked up on the SWIFT Network, get us some publicity; then we'll get them peace enforcers in here for sure."

"Put on a defense, Freddy?" the fat man echoed sarcastically. "What with?" He looked around for approval, rapped the ashtray again, and settled back like one who had done his duty.

"Got no weapons, nor such as that, nothing bigger'n a varmint gun," the mayor repeated aggrievedly, and looked at Frink.

"Got old Jonah," the whiskery man said and showed crooked teeth in a self-appreciative grin. "Might skeer 'em off," he added, netting snickers from along the table.

"Heard old Jonah can still kill anybody gets too close," Cabot muttered, and looked around defiantly, relieved to see that his comment had been ignored.

"Gentlemen," said Davis, who had been rapidly jotting notes, in a severe tone. He rose. "I must remind you that this is a serious matter, nothing to joke about. In less than ten hours from now, the Deng will have completed their off-loading and will be ready to advance in battle array from Deep Cut. Sector advises us to evacuate the town. We can expect no help from that quarter. Unless something effective is done at once, the Deng will have rolled over the settlement well before this time tomorrow." After a moment he added, "With reference to Mr. Frink's japes, I remind you that Unit JNA is the property of the War Monuments Commission, which I have the honor to represent." He sat, looking grim.

"Sure, sure, Mr. Davis, we know all that," the mayor hastened to affirm with an ingratiating smile. "But what we go

"Now, no offense, Mr. Davis, sir, and don't laugh, boys, but I got a idear," Frink put in quickly, in a furtive voice, as if he hoped he wasn't hearing himself.

"Treat it gentle, Freddy," the plump fellow said lazily, and mimed puffing at his empty pipe.

"Way I see it," Frink hurried on, stepping to the sketch map on the blackboard set up by the table. "They're in Deep Cut, like Mr. Davis said, and they got only the one way out. If we's to block the Cut-say about here-" he sketched quickly "-by Dry Run, they'd be bottled up."

"Just make 'em mad," the fat man commented. "Anyways, how are you going to block a canyon better'n a hundred yard wide, so's their big Yavacs can't climb out?"

"Easy part, Bub," Frink put in glibly. "We blast-got plenty smashite right here at Kibbe's. Plant it under the Rim, and the whole thing comes down. Time it right, we bury 'em."

"You got a battalion of Rangers volunteered to plant the charges?" Bub Peterson queried, looking around for the laugh; he was rewarded with compliant smirks.

Davis rose, less casually this time. "I say again," he started in a heavy tone. "As planetary representative of Concordiat authority, I will tolerate no ill-advised jocularity. I am obliged to report the developing position to Sector, and I have no intention of relaying assays at humor. Now, Mr. Frink's suggestion regarding blasting the cliff is not without merit. The method of accomplishment, as Mr. Peterson has so facetiously pointed out, is the problem." He resumed his seat, jotted again.

"Now, boys," Kibbe said soothingly into the silence that followed the pronouncement of officialdom, "boys, like Freddy said, I got over two hundred pound o' smashite here in my lock-up. Enough to blast half the Rim down into the Cut. Got detonators, got warr, even got the radio gear to set her off long-range. Need a dozen good men to pack everything up along the ridge. It'll be my privilege, o' course, to donate the stuff till Sector can get around to settlin' up."

"Where you going to get twelve fellas can climb the ridge totin' a hundred pound o' gear?" Bob inquired as if thoughtfully. "Let's see, there's Tom's boy Ted, likes to climb, and old Joe Peters, they say used to be a pretty fair climber-"

"Say, just a minute," Fred blurted. "Mr. Davis, I heard one time old Jonah's still got some charge on his plates; never had his core burned back in Ought-Six when the gubment was tryna pick up all the pieces after the Peace. So…" Fred's strained voice trailed off. He looked uncertainly along the table and sat down abruptly.

"Durn fools," a hoarse voice said immediately behind the two boys, who first went rigid, then turned to bolt. Their way was blocked by a forlorn-looking figure clad in patched overalls who stood weaving, bleary-eyed and smelling strongly of Doc Wilski's home brew.

"Guess I know what I seen," the intruder went on. "Wait a minute, boys. I ain't going to bother you none. You're young McClusky, ain't you? And you're Bill Dubose's boy. What you doing out of school? Ne'mind. I guess you're in the right place to get a education right now. Lissen them know-alls fu

"Can't hear as good as you young fellas," he said. "They said anything except it's true, and kidding around?"

"Naw sir," Mick replied, leaning away from the old fellow's goaty aroma.

"Sure, I'm hung over to here," Henry conceded. "But I'm not drunk no more. Wisht I was."

"Yessir, Mr. Henry," Dub said respectfully.

"Just 'Henry,' " Henry corrected. "I ain't one o' them Misters. Now, boys, what we going to do about this situation? Come on, I'll show you where I seen the spodder. Won't miss nothing here. They'll set and jaw is all."