It struck the ground with a deafening crash, a grating of torn metal and the screech of broken, twisted planks. Something exploded into a pillar of fire—and then, in the distance Matthews saw flashes of fire from the desert, heard rifles cracking. A soldier, running to the fence, saw him and raised his rifle, wild eyes reflecting the fire. Matthews dove for him, threw him back with a grunt as the rifle cracked into the air. And then the compound was wild with the sound of running, shouting men.
Matthews ran for a huge truck standing near the fallen ship. He threw himself up into the cab, gunning the motor to a roar. Then the gears grated and the truck started forward, straight for the crowd of soldiers lining up at the fence. Matt gripped the steering wheel, leaning as low as possible, throwing the huge truck at the fence with all its power. The impact nearly threw him through the windshield; he heard a grating as the wire bunged out and the fence-posts snapped. Shifting into compound low, he drove the truck through the fence like a bulldozer.
And then, all around him, the men from outside were pouring through the break, screaming in triumph, rifles cracking. A horde of them came, and the soldiers fell back, bewildered, shooting wildly, running in circles of panic as the angry mob poured through. And then Matt felt the first wave of shock pass through him. Wearily he dropped his head against the dash-board, gasping for breath. He knew that the ship was taken.
He did not know how long he was unconscious. Fires were burning in a dozen buildings around him, and he could hear the screams and shouts of the raiders. Dark figures rushed wildly by, silhouetted against the orange flames. Matt crawled down from the truck as four men ran by with crowbars, shouting at the top of their lungs. Matt stared at the crowd surrounding the fallen ship, shouting, raising torches high in the dark night—
He watched for a long moment, but something flickered in his mind. It was a picture of mad, frantic destruction on all sides of him, but something was whispering softly in his ear. Loevy's words. Loevy's intense face. There is something far more precious than any one Rocket ship here—
Staring at the screaming mob, Matthews suddenly knew what Loevy had meant. A wrecking crew was at work on the ship, savagely venting their pent-up rage and fear and frustration on the inanimate metal, wrenching hull plates off with violent screeches, ripping and slicing stanchions with blow-torches hissing. A dozen people were streaming in and out of the air-lock, dragging couches, springs, chunks of instrument panel, hoards of supplies, oxygen tanks. The crowd was exultant, the fire-light shining on a thousand wild faces, maddened by the lust of destruction. But Matthews stared, and the feeling of sickness and revulsion grew hard in the pit of his stomach.
He turned and started over toward the buildings. The deed was done, but horror was still at large in the world. He didn't know what the future held—and yet, somehow now he didn't want to join the insane fury at work ripping the Rocket to shreds. Loevy's words nagged at his mind, and he made his way between the burning buildings, feeling the desert breeze turned hot in his face, until he saw the concrete and stone administration building up ahead.
We hope maybe we can still salvage something....
As Matt walked through the doorway of the headquarters office he stopped short, stiffening to the sound of a forty-five booming in the room before him.