Hell's Gate

flashing obviousnesses. And there it was… looking big… mean… and slighty mad.
        Salsbury crouched a dozen feet from it, watching it carefully for the first indications of an impending attack. At the same time, his mind riffled through all that it contained; through what he seemed to know almost innately, looking for some piece of combatant's lore that would serve him now. How did you cripple a dog? This was not a dog, but a robot; still, it was dog-form and might be at least partially vulnerable to the same things a real dog would be vulnerable to. But those were few. A dog was compact and fast, vicious in a fight. Even if Salsbury had had a gun, it would have been almost useless against a trained killer dog-or a machine built to look and fight like one-for there would be no time to aim. There was only one moment when a dog was open to defeat: when it was in the air, after it had leaped. There might not be time to fire a well-placed shot, or pull a knife and sink it home, but there was time to do one thing.
        He began thinking again of the data buried in his mind. Here was a plan for handling a killer dog, something only a commando ought to know. Another mystery. Who had programmed him to know this? Who had foreseen the dangers? He stopped thinking about that and concentrated on the dog machine.
        When the beast was in the air, coming at him, it would be relatively defenseless. Its teeth would be out of range, its claws useless while in flight. Its front paws would be tucked weakly back and would not spring forward and unsheath their claws until the last second before contact. If Salsbury moved quickly enough, reaching forward to intercept it, he could grab one of those paws, twist it as he fell, and throw the machine over his head as hard as he could manage. Its own momentum would ensure that it would fall fairly far off and that it would hit the ground with great impact. The least he could do was stun it badly and break a leg. If he were lucky, it would break its neck or snap its spine.
        Then there was no time for contemplation as it rushed him head on. Its claws scrabbled on a bare patch in the lawn- clickity-click-click -and it jumped.
        He grabbed a paw, closed his hand around it, twisted, fell and threw, certain that his timing could not be right, though his body seemed pleased with the maneuver. A second or two later, there was a solid thump as the robot mongrel smashed into the earth fifteen feet behind him.
        He came to his feet, turned. He could see that the thing had been damaged by his trick, but that the wounds were not anything like he hoped for. It got to its feet and staggered, as if its gyros had been disturbed, then gained its balance and seemed as sure-footed as before. Its artificial fur was badly rumpled and did not smooth itself as real fur would. But its neck was still distressingly intact. Its legs had not been damaged. Of course, Salsbury told himself, he should have expected steel bones, should have known they would not snap as easily as calcium ones.
        He looked to the door, decided it would be suicide to attempt to reach that. The moment he turned his back and ran, the dog machine would be on him, on his neck with those nightmarish, over-sized fangs. There would be a great deal of brilliant blood, searing white pain. Then his throat would be gone and his brain would die as the blood ceased pumping to it. Maybe thirty seconds altogether.
        He confronted the dog and waited for its next move, hoping his luck would hold out and that he would be able to get the machine with the same combat device he had just used.
        He thought the chances of that were slim.
        It recovered in short order and charged again, taking quick little steps, then a long, gliding leap that would put it squarely on his shoulders, its fangs buried to the hilt in his neck. Unlike robot men, Salsbury would bleed, bleed like hell. Despite his fantastic capacity for recovery, his fast rate of healing, he would die, for he could never mend as swiftly as the machine could tear him open.
        He went under it, repeated the throwing trick, tossed it behind him. Surprisingly, he had gained another few moments of life.
        This time, the robot required longer to get up, but it was back on its feet at the end of a minute, looking as deadly as ever. Those blue, shining eyes were much more sinister in that canine face than they had been in the man-form