"Yeah," Limpy agreed bitterly. "What a chance of getting through! Where's the queen 'pede, or the brain, or whatever it is?"
Mac squinted through a pair of binoculars. He gazed along that meandering tangle of disorganized vermin. Abruptly, he halted. A mile beyond the ravaged fence was a small patch of integrated activity, a regiment of centaurpedes that still functioned in unison.
"There's the truth," he muttered. "Or more likely, there are six of them, one from each undersea colony. They probably formed a council of war to attack us. That's why we almost lost."
"Almost?" Swede echoed. "But we can't fight them now!"
Mac shook his head. "We won't lose," he said grimly. "I'm going to kill the council of war."
"You're crazy!" Limpy cried. "You'd have to run through a mile of mud and 'pedes. Brain or no brain to direct them, they'll pull you down instinctively. Mac, you won't have a chance!"
MacAloon looked out at the wandering army. "I think I will," he said. He went to the door. "They won't attack together. Open the wall, Limpy. Don't mind if a few 'pedes get through. You can take care of them. Just keep that ultra-short-wave blanket clamped down over their minds. So long."
He ran down the metal steps and across the mud toward the smelter. Tearing open the door of the closed-cabin tractor, he jumped inside and slammed the port shut. He started the motor, drove past the blockade house. Swede and Limpy were at the window. Mac waved.
A door in the wall swung wide for him. He tooled through, the door closed and he was among the centaurpedes. Infinitely disgusting things, a few individuals attacked the tractor in blind rage, clamping their mandibles on the steel parts and clinging senselessly. Others gaped up in blank wonder as the machine bore down on them. He heard them crack and squish beneath the threads.