A thousand miles behind the firing line, the generals guided the mopping up operations.
“The battle is won,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered, turning away from the television screen. “I congratulate you, gentlemen.”
The generals smiled wearily.
They looked at each other, then broke into a spontaneous shout. Armageddon was won, and the forces of Satan had been vanquished.
But something was happening on their screens.
“Is that—is that—” General MacFee began, and then couldn’t speak.
For The Presence was upon the battlefield, walking among the piles of twisted, shattered metal.
The generals were silent.
The Presence touched a twisted robot.
Upon the smoking desert, the robots began to move. The twisted, scored, fused metals straightened.