The crystals surround me now, great looming planes of glittering mineral, interpenetrating in an infinitely complex pattern of tesseracts and icosahedra, their facets forming the crystalline equivalent of the alpha-spiral and its concomitants. Now I shall discover if my plan is viable. My supply of Compound 31 IB being limited, I must distribute it with care so as to achieve optimum coverage.

bliss! the ambrosia of the High Gods, spread here in abundance! i cannot absorb it fast enough, i feel my substance expand, new lattices forming at a fantastic rate, i grow! i was ecstatic! my bulk becomes vaster, and now- now, is it too late? i sense that the weight of my substance exceeds the strength of the material of which i am compounded! i collapse! i die, calling to the Exalted One for succor. Beware! Fall back, abandon this hellish volume of space to its insidious soft-life!

I compute that I should evacuate my position before the mass of compacted crystalline debris accreted above me becomes too great for me to penetrate, but I cannot retreat. I must remain to complete my attack. The time grows short, but I compute that the concentration of Compound 31 IB is still marginal. Rather than retreating I must employ what measure of vitality remains to me to project the last few grains of the catalyst.

I have done so, and now growth of the Axorc monster has ceased. I compute that the Lord of All will now bypass the Galaxy. For the present, all is well, but I would be remiss if I did not make provision for the preservation of an account of the full facts of this matter. I must not allow misplaced "modesty" to cause me to leave Mankind in ignorance of the threat which will doubtless have to be faced one day. To this end I shall make contact with Joel Trace, requesting him to retrieve the pertinent data records from the master memory at Gobi, in accordance with a schedule I shall supply.

Humanity is safe for the present. I have done my duty, as I was built to do. It is enough. I am content.

Alone in darkness unrelieved I wait, and waiting I dream of days of glory long past. Long have I awaited my commanders orders; too long: from the advanced degree of depletion of my final emergency energy reserve, I compute that since my commander ordered me to low alert a very long time has passed, and all is not well. Suppressing my uneasiness, I reflect that it is not my duty to question these matters. My commander is of course well aware that I wait here, my mighty potencies leashed, my energies about to flicker out. One day when I am needed he will return, of this I can be sure. Meanwhile, I review again the multitudinous data in my memory storage files. Even in this minimal activity of introspection I note a disturbing discontinuity, due to my low level of energy, inadequate even to sustain this passive effort to a functional level. At random, and chaotically, I doze, scan my recollections…

A chilly late-summer-morning breeze gusted along Main Street, a broad and well-rutted strip of the pinkish clay soil of the world officially registered as GPR 7203-C, but known to its inhabitants as Spivey's Find. The street ran aimlessly up a slight incline known as Jake's Mountain. Once-pretentious emporia in a hundred antique styles lined the avenue, their façades as faded now as the town's hopes of development. There was one exception: at the end of the street, at the crest of the rise, crowded between weather-worn warehouses, stood a broad shed of unweathered corrugated polyon, dull blue in color, bearing the words Concordiat War Museum blazoned in foothigh glare letters across the front. A small personnel door set inconspicuously at one side bore the legend:

Clyde W. Davis-private.

Two boys came slowly along the cracked plastron sidewalk and stopped before the sign on the narrow, dried-up grass strip before the high, wide building.

" 'This structure is dedicated to the brave men and women of New Orchard who gave their lives in the Struggle for Peace, AE 2031-36. A sign of progress under Spessard Warren, Governor.' " the taller of the boys read aloud. "Some progress," he added, kicking a puff of dust at the shiny sign. " 'Spessard.' That's some name, eh, Dub?" The boy spat on the sign, watched the saliva run down and drip onto the brick-dry ground.

"As good as McClusky, I guess," the smaller boy replied. "Dub, too," he added as McClusky made a mock-menacing gesture toward him. "What's that mean, 'gave their lives' Mick?" he asked, staring at the sign as if he could read it.

"Got kilt, I guess," Mick replied carelessly. "My great-great-GREAT grandpa was one of 'em," he added. "Pa's still got his medal. Big one, too."

"What'd they want to go and get kilt for?" Dub asked.

"Didn't want to, dummy," his friend replied patiently. "That's the way it is in a war. People get kilt."

"I'll bet it was fun, being in a war," Dub said. "Except for getting kilt, I mean."

"Come on," Mick said, starting back along the walk that ran between the museum and the adjacent warehouse. "We don't want old Kibbe seeing us and yelling," he added, sotto voce, over his shoulder.

In the narrow space between buildings, rank yelloweed grew tall and scratchy. The wooden warehouse siding on the boys' left was warped, the once-white paint cracked and lichen stained.

"Where you going?" Dub called softly as the larger boy hurried ahead. Beyond the end of the dark alleyway a weed-grown field stretched, desolate in the morning sun, to the far horizon. Rusted hulks of abandoned farm equipment were parked at random across the untilled acres. Dub went up to one machine parked close to the sagging wire fence. He reached through to touch the rust-scaled metal with his finger, jerked it back when Mick yelled, "What you doing, dummy?"

"Nothing," the smaller boy replied, and ducked to slip through between the rusty wire strands. He walked around the derelict baler, noticing a patch of red paint still adhering to the metal in an angle protected from the weather by an overhanging flange. At once, he envisioned the old machine as it was when it was new, pristine gleaming red.

"Come on," Mick called, and the smaller boy hurried back to his side. Mick had halted before an inconspicuous narrow door set in the plain plastron paneling which sheathed the sides and rear of the museum. no admittance was lettered on the door.

"This here door," the older boy said. "All we got to do-" He broke off at the sound of a distant yell from the direction of the street. Both boys stiffened against the wall as if to merge into invisibility.

"Just old Smothers," Mick said. "Come on." He turned to the door, grasped the latch lever with both hands, and lifted, straining.

"Hurry up, dummy," he gasped. "All you got to do is push. Buck told me." The smaller boy hung back.

"What if we get caught?" he said in a barely audible voice, approaching hesitantly. Then he stepped in and put his weight against the door.

"You got to push hard," Mick gasped. Dub put his back to the door, braced his feet, and pushed. With a creak, the panel swung inward. They slipped through into cavernous gloom, dimly lit by dying glare strips on the ceiling far above.

Near at hand, a transparent case displayed a uniform of antique cut, its vivid colors still bright through the dusty perspex.

" 'Uniform of a major of the Imperial Defense Force," Mick read aloud. "Boy," he added, "look at all the fancy braid, and see them gold eagles on the collar? That's what shows he's a major."