The recreation area was almost in view. Already they were able to hear the clash of metal on metal, as though a great tangled mass of scythes was being shaken by some huge, clumsy hand which could not break them apart.
"Jon...."
The section leader was quickening his pace. "Yes?"
"How in heck do they know about the quota? How do they know if they should pick you up if you're hurt, or just leave you there?"
"The tab ships take care of it. There's a whole fleet of 'em, and they cover each area where there's fighting. They tabulate everything that happens with things called telescanners, and they keep in constant communication with the Quadrate's ship. Any time during the fighting, they know if they're ahead of the quota rate or behind it in their own area. And all the time, the Quadrates are comparing the figures they get from the tab ships with each other so they can keep a running record of the quota rate for all four quadrants. As long as the rate's right, or high, the medical ships keep landing and picking up the wounded, and flying 'em back. When the tabulations show the rate's lagging, the medical ships take it easy until they get the word to get to work again."
"They wouldn't have so much work to do if we could use guns instead of these things," Terry said. "I think guns would be more fun, don't you?"
"That's what your father thinks, isn't it?"
"Gosh, no, he doesn't—"
"My father says that killing at a distance isn't much good, because you never get into close contact. And if you can't see what happens when you actually kill somebody, you can't get conditioned very well. You'd get bored just sitting around with a gun. And even in the short time of a week—"
"Is that how long it lasts?"