Warlock

the vibra-rifle destruction of the first four Oragonian soldiers. They caught the last six men as unaware as they had caught the first nine, and they were all thankfull for the ease with which they had attained their goal.
        
        The upper floors raged with battle for more than two hours as the war party met with stronger Oragonian opposition than they had anticipated. Or perhaps Berlarak had anticipated everything but had glossed it over to be certain the Darklanders would help with the task of driving the enemy from the city. Now and then, there were explosions above which shook the walls even down here, made hairline cracks in the plaster directly below the impact area. Twice, they thought they heard the cries of wounded men echoing down the escalator treads from farther up, though they could not be certain.
        
        Karstanul called them an hour after their own floor had been secured to warn them that a detachment of Oragonians was fleeing down the escalators (the elevators had been shut off from the police headquarters command board) and would soon be upon them if they were not stopped by other squads along the way. But fortunately, they never reached the sixth level.
        
        And then the call came through on the radio, announcing victory. The city had been taken from the invaders, with the help of the super-science of a long-dead society, and had been restored to the mutants. Not long after that, Berlarak, Richter, and all but a mop-up detachment returned to the police complex where One Squad went to wait celebration, or whatever was to come after the short-lived battle.
        
        “We did not have to kill all of them,” Berlarak said. “Though I would not have been against such a slaughter. I well remember what they did to our kind.”
        
        There was an arrow wound in his left shoulder, and crimson had dribbled down the white fur of that arm in an intricate and rather lovely pattern. He showed no sign that he was bothered by the torn flesh and waved that arm around to amplify his conversation as freely as he used the other.
        
        “Some escaped?” Shaker Sandow asked.
        
        “Aye,” Richter affirmed. “About fifty of the devils reached aircraft and scooted out of the city toward the west. They'll be spilling their tales to Jerry Matabain this evening-if not before then, with the help of those infernal radios of theirs. Another fifty escaped by foot, toward the stand of pines to the north of the city. They'll expect to wait salvation when the Oragonians send a counter-force to recapture this place. But I do believe they still underestimate our firing power, even though they've had a taste of it. We won't be routed easily now, I say!”
        
        “Not easily,” Berlarak agreed.
        
        “And what of us now?” Shaker Sandow asked. “What can we do about the Darklands? That was your purpose in coming here, Commander.”
        
        “True. And I haven't forgotten it. I have mentioned the matter to Berlarak, requesting any aid he can give us in mounting aircraft and other vehicles with the weapons we have used in this battle just passed. But he says he believes that he can deal us a device more potent than any fleet of aircraft.”
        
        “And what is that?” Shaker Sandow asked, turning to the giant, white-furred mutant. He had the curious feeling of talking to a snowman built by Perdune children. It was the first such thought he had had, in all the hours he had been around the mutants. Perhaps, he mused, my mind finds the burdens growing lighter and is responding. We have accomplished so much in these last days that there is now even time for amusement.
        
        “I would rather show you than tell you,” Berlarak said, “It will have more effect that way.”
        
        “Show us, then,” Sandow said.
        
        “We must go down again,” Berlarak said. “There are installations beneath the city, reachable only by stairs.”
        
        Mace, Gregor, Crowler, Richter and Shaker Sandow followed the shuffling mutant through various chambers of the police complex, until they came to a room that appeared to be no more than a storage chamber for reports and directives. There were tape-retaining banks along the walls and shelves of plastic spools that would speak of ancient robberies and murders. Along the far wall, there was a row of filing cabinets, great heavy things