Captain Staley straightened, and his eyes were steely as he turned to Hallihan. He waited while Hallihan let the soldier gently to the ground and assigned a man to watch over him.
"It was a gross mistake to leave such a small complement of men at the garrison," Captain Staley said bitterly. "I seriously doubt that we can recapture it. If those creatures have enough intelligence to load and fire the four atomic cannons, our sidearms will be of little use. They'll slaughter us to the last man. But we've got to try, Sergeant. Understand? We've got to try."
"Yes, Sir." Hallihan saluted and turned, grim-lipped, to the waiting men. "We're returning to the garrison, men," he said simply. "'Bout face!"
The B.D.s scattered as the I.P. men plowed through them, but reformed behind the swift-moving columns and scurried anxiously after them. Another group of the curious creatures joined their fellows, swelling the ranks to fifty. They made a strange sight as they hustled along over the rocky ground, the dire-eyed sergeant belching out his eternal, "Ung! Ung, ungh, ugh. Ungh! Ungh, ungh—"
"If only those crazy bucket-heads would help us fight the Squeakers," Hallihan thought unhappily. "But they can't. They're just dumb mimics. They wouldn't know one end of a heat-ray from the other." Then he forgot about the B.D.s and started thinking about his shrieking feet.
They reached the garrison late in the afternoon, and Hallihan began displacing his men about the front of the structure, taking care they didn't expose themselves to the Squeakers' fire. In spite of their caution, five men were torn to shreds as an atomic cannon let go, catching them in the open. Hallihan swore harshly and ducked behind a huge boulder. Those dirty sons meant business.
The B.D.s followed suit, gliding behind upjuttings of rock and yelling one-syllable curses at the embattled garrison. They watched the proceedings with casually-interested eyes, emitting sympathetic "Unghs" whenever a patrolman fell. One of the creatures got his top blown off when he let it stick out too far from behind a rock, but he immediately grew a new one.
The I.P. men weren't faring so well. Most of the Squeakers' shots went wild, but the very intensity of their fire took its toll of the outnumbered patrolmen. Hallihan rushed about from rock to rock, patting his soldiers on the back and shouting words of encouragement in their ears. The B.D. sergeant hurried along behind him, whacking his tentacle across the furry bodies of his compatriots and keeping up a steady flow of loud, well-pleased "Unghs."
Captain Staley was doing his share of the fighting. He crouched behind a round boulder, snapping quick shots at the garrison and drawing back before the Squeakers could locate him. Sergeant Hallihan flopped down beside him and lay staring questioningly at his superior.
"We can't win," Staley said, matter-of-factly. "The garrison was built to withstand just such a siege as this. We have to hit those loopholes in the wall dead-center to bring down a Squeaker. We couldn't have nailed more than half a dozen or so; half a dozen, out of a thousand. Attack from the rear is impossible, because of the steep canyon walls protecting the garrison on three sides. If we could rout them into the open, we could blast them down like cattle. There would be no escape, except through our ranks, and our sharpshooters would take care of any who broke through. But that's just wishful thinking, Sergeant. The Squeakers aren't stupid enough to try charging us. They'll stay holed up in the garrison, picking us off one by one. There's no place to run to. All of our food and water is in the hands of those devils, so we have our choice of fighting it out to the last man or retreating to the mine and wait for thirst and starvation to end our worries. What will it be, Sergeant?"