"So we couldn't get in touch with the occupation base. Obviously one of the prisoners did it. They must have had--" The Captain licked his lips. "They must have had outside help." "What do we do now?" Tynia's voice was shrill with rising hysteria. "We can't radio for a rescue ship. How do we get away?" "It's up to us to find something else." She moved close to Sergeant Briggan, reaching for his hand. "The Earth people are outside somewhere, waiting to kill us. We can't escape, Captain! And you start talking nonsense--" Very deliberately Tchassen slapped the back of his hand against her cheek. The pillbox was abruptly very still. She stared at him, her eyes wide. Slowly she raised her hand and touched the reddening mark on her face. She shrank against Briggan and the Sergeant put his arm around her shoulders. "You didn't have to do that, Captain," he bristled. "Don't quarrel," Tynia whispered. "Not on my account." Tchassen's muscles tensed. This was the way Tynia had created tension on the post; he had seen it happen to her husband. Yet could he honestly blame her? It wasn't her fault; just the irony of circumstance. And Tchassen knew that his anger now was primarily envy, because she had turned to the Sergeant for protection and not to him. He made himself relax. "Hysteria," he said, "is a luxury none of us can afford." "You're right," Tynia answered. "Absolutely right. I was very foolish." She moved away and Briggan muttered, "Sorry, sir. I didn't think--" "We must get back to the coast," Tchassen said briskly, "through territory occupied by the enemy. We can scrape together all the weapons we'll need and the roads are supposed to be passable. Our only problem, then, is transportation." "Maybe we'd better stay here," Tynia suggested. "Sitting ducks for the Earthmen to attack?" "You said we have weapons." "Not enough to hold out indefinitely." "Sir," Corporal Drein intervened, "there's an old, enemy vehicle in the prison building. We used it sometimes for field inspections." "Let's look it over." Captain Tchassen had seen the instructional films which were made immediately after the occupation. He could identify the sedan--an inefficient, petroleum-burning machine, typical of a primitive people who had just reached the threshhold of the Power Age. The original beauty of design had long since disappeared. Only one window and the windshield were unbroken; the body paint was peeling away in spreading patches of rust; the pneumatic tires were in shreds and the vehicle moved noisily on bent, metal rims.