In the white glare of the moonlight, a loading cover swung open at the stern of the ship, dropped down and formed a sloping ramp. A squat and massive shape appeared in the opening, trundled down onto the snow-swept tarmac. Chip whistled. "I told you the Captain was slippery," he muttered. "Where the devil'd he git that at?" "What is it?" Tove asked. "A tank," Retief said. "A museum piece, by the look of it." "I'll say," Chip said. "That's a Bolo _Resartus_, Model M. Built mebbe two hunderd years ago in Concordiat times. Packs a wallop, too, I'll tell ye." The tank wheeled, brought a gun muzzle to bear in the base of the tower. "Send 'em out," the speaker growled. "Or I blast 'em out." "One round in here, and I've had a wasted trip," Retief said. "I'd better go out." "Wait a minute, Mister," Chip said. "I got the glimmerin's of a idear." "I'll stall them," Tove said. He keyed the mike. "ACI 228, what's your authority for this demand?" "I know that machine," Chip said. "My hobby, old-time fightin' machines. Built a model of a _Resartus_ once, inch to the foot. A beauty. Now, lessee...." VII The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief's face. "Keep your hands in your pockets, Chip," he said. "Numb hands won't hack the program." "Yeah." Chip looked across at the tank. "Useta think that was a perty thing, that _Resartus_," he said. "Looks mean, now." "You're getting the target's-eye view," Retief said. "Sorry you had to get mixed up in this, Old Timer." "Mixed myself in. Durn good thing, too." Chip sighed. "I like these folks," he said. "Them boys didn't like lettin' us come out here, but I'll give 'em credit. They seen it had to be this way, and they didn't set to moanin' about it." "They're tough people, Chip." "Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain't it, Mister? Few minutes ago we was eatin' high on the hog. Now we're right close to bein' dead men." "They want us alive, Chip." "It'll be a hairy deal, Mister," Chip said. "But t'hell with it. If it works, it works." "That's the spirit." "I hope I got them fields o' fire right--" "Don't worry. I'll bet a barrel of beer we make it." "We'll find out in about ten seconds," Chip said. As they reached the tank, the two men broke stride and jumped. Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. The chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an angry _whuff!_ anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull. "Okay, Mister," Chip called. "I'm going under." He slipped down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar eyes searching for its tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed, stopped, moved forward, pivoted.