"We know, Curt. The whole world knows. The telecasts have been bombarding the world with it ever since the first shadow came out and hurled our own destruction back at us a hundred-fold."
George Packer added, "I was recruited to pull our biggest space guns out and hook them up on land rockets. The ships can't rise, somehow, and when we've called for ships from other points, they get so close and then their power gives out."
"But, gee," put in Dead-Eye, "this car's running. How come?"
"Don't know why, Dead-Eye," Packer added. "These, of course, don't have the new cyc motors; still run on the old combustion principle. The force field probably neutralizes the cycs, but doesn't faze the firing gas in the cars."
"The space guns didn't help, I suppose?" Wing asked.
"No," Packer said, twisted his face ruefully. "The shadows thrived on it and threw our bolts back ten times as hard. It wasn't nice to see."
"Sometimes," he said, wistfully, "I wish we were back in your beef-striker—sorry, Dead-Eye—cow-puncher days. It was man to man then, and you knew that it wasn't the weapon but the wielder." He ran his hands through his tousled blond hair.
"Yep," said Dead-Eye. "Elizabeth and me'd fix 'em if we could see 'em."
The bucketing car began to have smoother going; the darkness outside was lifting, and the beat of the rain seemed to decelerate.