At least, Ross thought, some sort of a pattern was beginning to shape up. The planets were going out of communication each for its own reason; but wasn’t there a basic reason-for-the-reasons that was the same in each case? Wasn’t there some overall design—some explanation that covered all the facts, pointed to a way out?
He sat up straight as they approached a string of little signs. He scanned them worriedly as they rolled past.
“Workers, Peasants, Joneses all——”
“By these presents know ye——”
“If you don’t stop in spite of all——”
“THIS to hell will blow ye!”
“Duck!” the doctor yelled, crouching down in the seat and guiding the careening car with one hand. Ross, startled, followed his example, but not before he saw that “THIS” was an automatic, radar-actuated rapid-fire gun mounted a few yards past the last sign. There was a stuttering roar from the gun and a splatter of metal against the armored sides of the car. The doctor sat up again as soon as the burst had hit; evidently only one was to be feared. “Yah, yah,” he jeered at the absent builders of the gun. “Lousy fifty-millimeters can’t punch their way through a tin can!”
Ross, gasping, got up just in time to see the last sign in the series:
“By order of People’s Democratic Council
Of Arts & Sciences, Small Arms Division.”