"Larsen, something wrong with your communications? You're coming in badly—didn't read your last. Say again please."
"He wrecked the robot-control," Doug repeated. His lips were dry across his teeth and it was hard to keep his voice even. "I had to break out the manual. He tried to take them over, too, so I had to kill him. He was like a maniac—you know how he hated me. Must have figured out the whole plan somehow, and went berserk. I'll file a complete report when this is finished. Over." He waited, sweat rolling in icy rivulets the length of his arms. The wound on his back stung, and his muscles were trembling with fatigue.
"What do you mean, when this is finished? Got to be immediate, man! There'll be hell to pay as it is. I was afraid something would go wrong—he was a smarter man than you thought, and I told you as much. Take care of whatever you're checking on down there immediately and then get back to headquarters and draw up a form 312-L-5. File for my office and the PG's. You should've done that at once. Out."
"Yes, sir, right away. Out."
There was a silent prayer on Doug's lips as he turned the knob to FIELD ADDRESS. It was worth a try....
There was a humming sound. However it functioned, it was ready.
"This is Senior Quadrate Blair. All units within range of this command will cease battle immediately...."
He twisted a control under the viewscreen, kept twisting until its scope had undergone a ninety degree shift. And then he saw them, waves of them, slowing, stopping, turning to face the ship. Unbelievably, the sound of his voice had somehow been carried for a radius of at least a mile, and thousands of them, their blood mingled with their muddied sweat, were suddenly still, listening. Some fell, untouched, as a last wound belatedly took its toll. But all that could remained standing. There could be no sitting rest, for none knew when the command to resume battle would come, and when it did, it would be death to be sitting.
Within a half minute, a great circle of them was still, battle continuing only at its periphery where his command was either being defended or had gone unheard.
"Attention, troops of Division Thirty, Second Regiment, First Battalion, A Company. If—" and he dared not hesitate, must say it quickly, and then wait, "—Ronal Blair and Kurt Blair are able, they will report to this ship on the double! Terry, Mike—" and there was a sudden catch in his voice that he could not help. Then, "Come running."