His telescope swiveled, found the scarp of an ancient bomb, ringed with what was probably fission produced obsidian, and rested on the bodies of the machines who had beaten his detachment to the scene and now came streaming out to join them. The two detachments merged, hesitated as each warrior assumed his position and began the attack. They would charge straight at the guns, so much a warrior cared for the marksmanship of former slaves--so much a warrior cared for the power of native shells. * * * * * Ar eight miles the snouts of the cannons began to belch. The gunnery was high. The barrage passed harmlessly overhead. The first strike was for him. The armor-piercing shell clanged and flattened out against his chest, staggering him back. He rallied, caught his balance, sped on. He almost pitied the limited inventiveness of the natives, whose genius ended when they drove man into the fortresses. Another shell. A warrior whirled and stumbled. Jord crashed into him, steadied him. The explosions blended into an endless sound. He felt a shell bounce from his shoulder, taking six optics with it and leaving the smell of scorched steel. They were too thick now to dodge, too close to bear. Earth and stone sprayed up from a sudden crater before him. He wheeled. Now they were in a range where the shells could disable an arm or leg. An arm! A stiff-hung, motionless limb of steel. The rush had brought them to the artillery. Their feet trampled the ancient guns. They smashed at belching muzzles with hammer fists. They had breached the defenses. The natives had fled. In minutes they would be trampling the fleeing enemy. Then the earth erupted.... Jord had only one leg still functioning when he regained consciousness. One leg and perhaps eight of his optics. His audio was dead and there was something wrong with his respirator. He had to fight to keep down the panic. A warrior who had been trapped inside his machine once told him what it was like inside a Galbth II when you couldn't move, or help yourself. If you but closed your eyes you imagined yourself inside a shell, and that shell inside a larger shell, and that inside a still larger shell until, after a hundred shells, you could imagine your machine, still true to your form, lying helpless and twisted on the ground. There was no way you could get out of your machine without the help of the mechanics. Even if there were it was impossible to exist on the surface. You had to lie where you fell. Or, if possible, make your way back as best you could to your lock.