Not poaching on his countryman's turf wasn't what made Bagnall shy about taking advantage of Tatiana's abundant charms. The Moisin-Nagant rifle with telescopic sight she wore slung over her right shoulder had a lot more to do with it. She was a sniper by trade, and a d.a.m.n good one. Bagnall wasn't in the least ashamed to admit she scared the whey out of him.

He pointed to the church and said, "Schon." "Schon." Tatiana understood a little German, though she didn't speak it. Tatiana understood a little German, though she didn't speak it.

That luscious lip curled. She let loose with a spate of Russian he had no hope of following in detail. She repeated herself often enough, though, that after a while he got the gist: the church and everything it stood for were primitive, uncultured (an insult to conjure with, in Russian), superst.i.tious rubbish, and too bad neither the n.a.z.is nor the Yashcheritsi Yashcheritsi-Lizards-had managed to blow it to kingdom come.

Then she pointed to the church herself, mimed opening the door, and asked him a question so bluntly coa.r.s.e that the bad language he'd picked up from Red Army officers and men let him understand it perfectly: did he want to go in there for a quick poke?

He coughed and choked and felt himself turn red. Not even English tarts were so bold, and Tatiana, maneater though she might have been, was no tart. He wished to G.o.d she'd been content with Jones instead of setting her sights on him. Stuttering a little, he said, "Nyet. Spasebo, aber nyet. "Nyet. Spasebo, aber nyet. No-thanks, but no." He knew he was mixing his languages, but he was too rattled to care. No-thanks, but no." He knew he was mixing his languages, but he was too rattled to care.

"Bourgeois," Tatiana said scornfully. She turned on her heel and strode off, rolling her hips to show him what he was missing.

He was perfectly willing to believe there'd be never a dull moment in the kip with her. All the same, he'd sooner have bedded down with a lioness; a lioness couldn't put one between your eyes at fifteen hundred yards. He hurried back over the Sovietsky Bridge toward the Krom. Krom. After an encounter with Tatiana, trying to figure out what the Lizards would do next struck him as a walk in the park. After an encounter with Tatiana, trying to figure out what the Lizards would do next struck him as a walk in the park.

Mutt Daniels hunkered down in the Swift and Company meat-processing plant behind an overturned machine whose gleaming blades suggested a purpose he'd sooner not have thought about. Was that something moving toward him in the gloom? In case it was, he fired a burst at it from his tommy gun. If it had been moving before, it didn't afterwards, which was what he'd had in mind.

"Meat-processing plant, my a.s.s," he muttered. "This here's a slaughterhouse, nothin' else but."

His thick Mississippi drawl didn't sound too out of place, not when summer heat and humidity turned Chicago's South Side Southern indeed. He wished he had a gas mask like the one he'd worn in France in 1918; the heat and humidity were also bringing out the stink of the slaughterhouse and the adjacent Union Stockyards, even though no animals had gone through the yards or the plant in the past few months. That smell would hang around near enough forever as to make no difference.

The huge bulks of the Swift meat factory, the Armour plant beside it on Racine Avenue, and the Wilson packing plant not far away formed the keystone to the American position in the south side of Chicago. The Lizards had bombed them from the air and sh.e.l.led them to a fare-thee-well, but GIs still clung to the ruins. The ruins were too ruinous for tanks, too; if the Lizards wanted the Americans out, they'd have to get them out the hard way.

"Lieutenant Daniels!" That was Hank York, the radioman, who habitually talked in an excited squeak.

"What's up, Hank?" Mutt asked without taking his eyes off the place where he thought he'd seen movement. He wasn't used to being called "Lieutenant"; he'd joined up as soon as the Lizards invaded, and went in with two stripes because he was a First World War vet. He'd added the third one pretty d.a.m.n quick, but he'd only gotten a platoon when the company commander, Captain Maczek, went down with a bad wound.

He didn't much blame the Army for being slow to promote him. When the Lizards came, he'd been managing the Decatur Commodores, but in normal times who'd want a platoon leader nearer sixty than fifty? h.e.l.l, he'd been a backup catcher for the Cardinals before most of the guys he led were born.

But times weren't normal, no way. He'd stayed alive in spite of everything the Lizards had thrown at him, and so he was a lieutenant.

Hank York said, "Sir, word from HQ is that the Lizards have asked to send somebody forward under a white flag to set up a truce to get the wounded out. He'll be coming from that direction"-York pointed past a ruined conveyor belt-"in about ten minutes. They say you can agree to up to three hours."

"Hold fire!" Mutt yelled, loud as he would have shouted for a runner to slide going into third. "Spread the word-hold fire. We may get ourselves a truce."

Gunfire slowly died away. In the relative quiet, Bela Szabo, one of the fellows in the platoon who toted a Browning Automatic Rifle, let out a yip of glee and said, "Hot d.a.m.n, a chance to smoke a b.u.t.t without worryin' about whether those scaly b.a.s.t.a.r.ds can spot the coal."

"You got that one right, Dracula," Daniels answered the BAR man. Szabo's nickname was used as universally as his own; n.o.body ever called him Pete, the handle he'd been born with. The cigarettes were also courtesy of Dracula, the most inspired scrounger Mutt had ever known.

The limit of vision in the ruined packing plant was about fifty feet; past that, girders, walls, and rubble obscured sight as effectively as leaves, branches, and vines in a jungle. Daniels jumped when a white rag on a stick poked out of a bullet-pocked doorway. He swore at himself, realizing he should have made a flag of truce, too. He jammed a hand in a pants pocket, pulled out a handkerchief he hadn't been sure he still owned, and waved it over his head. It wasn't very white, but it would have to do.

When n.o.body shot at him, he cautiously stood up. Just as cautiously, a Lizard came out of the doorway. They walked toward each other, both of them picking their way around and over chunks of concrete, pieces of pipe, and, in Mutt's case, an overturned, half-burned file cabinet. The Lizard's eyes swiveled this way and that, watching not only the floor but also for any sign of danger. That looked weird, but Mutt wished he could pull the same stunt.

He saluted and said, "Lieutenant Daniels, U.S. Army. I hear tell you want a truce." He hoped the Lizards were smart enough to send out somebody who spoke English, because he sure as h.e.l.l didn't know their lingo. Sam Yeager might understand it by now, if he's still alive, Sam Yeager might understand it by now, if he's still alive, Mutt thought. He hadn't seen Yeager since his ex-outfielder took some Lizard prisoners into Chicago a year before. Mutt thought. He hadn't seen Yeager since his ex-outfielder took some Lizard prisoners into Chicago a year before.

However strange the Lizards were, they weren't stupid. The one in front of Mutt drew himself up to his full diminutive height and said, "I am Wuppah"-he p.r.o.nounced each p p separately-"smallgroup commander of the Race." His English was strange to the ear, but Mutt had no trouble following it. "It is as you say. We would like to arrange to be able to gather up our wounded in this building without your males shooting at us. We will let you do the same and not shoot at your males." separately-"smallgroup commander of the Race." His English was strange to the ear, but Mutt had no trouble following it. "It is as you say. We would like to arrange to be able to gather up our wounded in this building without your males shooting at us. We will let you do the same and not shoot at your males."

"No spying out the other side's positions, now," Daniels said, "and no moving up your troops to new ones under cover of the truce." He'd never arranged a truce before, but he'd gathered up wounded in France under terms like those.

"It is agreed," Wuppah said at once. "Your males also will not take new positions while we are not shooting at each other."

Mutt started to answer that that went without saying, but shut his mouth with a snap. Nothing went without saying when the fellow on the other side had claws and scales and eyes like a chameleon's (just for a moment, Mutt wondered how funny he looked to Wuppah). If the Lizards wanted everything spelled out, that was probably a good idea. "We agree," Daniels said.

"I am to propose that this time of not shooting will last for one tenth of a day of Tosev 3," Wuppah said.

"I'm authorized to agree to anything up to three hours," Daniels answered.

They looked at each other in some confusion. "How many of these 'hours' have you in your day?" Wuppah asked. "Twenty-six?"

"Twenty-four," Mutt answered. Everybody knew that-everybody human, anyhow, which left Wuppah out.

The Lizard made hissing and popping noises. "This three hours is an eighth part of the day," he said. "It is acceptable to us that this be so: my superiors have given me so much discretion. For an eighth part of a day we and you will do no shooting in this big and ruined building, but will recover our hurt males and take them back inside our lines. By the Emperor I swear the Race will keep these terms." He looked down at the ground with both eyes when he said that.

Truces with the Boches Boches hadn't required anybody to do any swearing, but the Germans and Americans had had a lot more in common than the Lizards and Americans did. "We'll keep 'em, too, so help me G.o.d," he said formally. hadn't required anybody to do any swearing, but the Germans and Americans had had a lot more in common than the Lizards and Americans did. "We'll keep 'em, too, so help me G.o.d," he said formally.

"It is agreed, then," Wuppah said. He drew himself up straight again, though the rounded crown of his head didn't even come up to Mutt's Adam's apple. "I have dealt with you as I would with a male of the Race."

That sounded as if it was meant to be a compliment. Mutt decided to take it as one. "I've treated you like a human being, too, Wuppah," he said, and impulsively stuck out his right hand.

Wuppah took it. His grip was warm, almost hot, and, though his hand was small and bony, surprisingly strong. As they broke the clasp, the Lizard asked, "You have been injured in your hand?"

Mutt looked down at the member in question. He'd forgotten how battered and gnarled it was: a catcher's meat hand took a lot of abuse from foul tips and other mischances of the game. How many split fingers, dislocated fingers, broken fingers had he had? More than he could remember. Wuppah was still waiting for an answer. Daniels said, "A long time ago, before you folks got here."

"Ah," the Lizard said, "I go to tell my superiors the truce is made."

"Okay." Mutt turned and shouted, "Three-hour ceasefire! No shootin' till"-he glanced at his watch-"quarter of five."

Warily, men and Lizards emerged from cover and went through the ruins, sometimes guided by the cries of their wounded, sometimes just searching through wreckage to see if soldiers lay unconscious behind or beneath it. Searchers from both sides still carried their weapons; one gunshot would have turned the Swift plant back into a slaughterhouse. But the shot did not come.

The terms of the truce forbade either side from moving troops forward. Mutt had every intention of abiding by that: if you broke the terms of an agreement, you'd have-and you'd deserve to have-a devil of a time getting another one. All the same, he carefully noted the hiding places from which the Lizards came. If Wuppah wasn't doing the same with the Americans, he was dumber than Mutt figured.

Here and there, Lizards and Americans who came across one another in their searches cautiously fraternized. Some officers would have stopped it Mutt had grown up listening to his grandfathers' stories of swapping tobacco for coffee during the War Between the States. He kept an eye on things, but didn't speak up.

He was anything but surprised to see Dracula Szabo head-to-head with a couple of Lizards. Dracula was grinning as he came back to the American lines. "What you got?" Mutt asked.

"Don't quite know, Lieutenant," Szabo answered, "but the bra.s.s is always after us to bring in Lizard gadgets, and the scaly boys, they traded me some."

He showed them to Mutt, who didn't know what they were good for, either. But maybe some of the boys with the thick gla.s.ses would, or could find out. "What did you give for 'em?"

Dracula's smile was somewhere between mysterious and predatory. "Ginger snaps."

A blast of chatter greeted David Goldfarb when he walked into A Friend In Need. The air in the pub was thick with smoke. The only trouble was, it all came from the fireplace, not from cigarettes and pipes. Goldfarb couldn't remember the last time he'd had a smoke.

He worked his way toward the bar. A Friend In Need was full of dark blue RAF uniforms, most of them with officers' braid on the cuffs of their jacket sleeves. Just a radarman himself, Goldfarb had to be circ.u.mspect in his quest for bitter.

If it hadn't been for the RAF uniforms, A Friend In Need couldn't have stayed in business. Bruntingthorpe was a tiny village a few miles south of Leicester a greengrocer's shop, a chemist's, a few houses, the pub, and d.a.m.n little else. But the RAF experimental station just outside the place brought hundreds of thirsty men almost to the door of A Friend In Need. The place not only survived, it flourished.

"Goldfarb!" somebody bawled in a loud, beery voice.

The radarman's head whipped around. There at a table, waving enthusiastically, sat Flight Officer Basil Roundbush, who, along with Goldfarb, was part of Group Captain Fred Hipple's team that labored to incorporate Lizard knowledge into British jet engines and radars. Goldfarb often thought that was the equivalent of trying to incorporate the technology of smokeless powder into the Duke of Wellington's infantry squares, but carried on regardless.

Roundbush, by some miracle, had an empty chair next to him. Goldfarb made for it with mixed feelings. On the one hand, sitting down would be nice. On the other, if he sat next to the flight lieutenant, not a barmaid in the world, let alone the ones in Bruntingthorpe, would look at him. Besides being an officer, Roundbush was tall and blond and ruddy and handsome, with a soup-strainer mustache, a winning att.i.tude, and a chestful of medals.

Goldfarb had a Military Medal himself, but it didn't match up. Nor did he: other rank, medium-sized, lean, with the features and dark, curly hair of an Eastern European Jew. Sitting down next to Roundbush reminded him of how un-English he looked. His parents had got out of Poland a little before the First World War. A lot of people hadn't been so lucky. He knew that very well.

"Stella, darling!" Roundbush called, waving. Because it was he, the barmaid came right away, with a broad smile on her face. "Pint of best bitter for my friend here, and another for me as well."

"Right y'are, dearie," Stella said, and swayed away.

Roundbush stared after her. "By G.o.d, I'd like to take a bite out of that a.r.s.e," he declared. His upper-cla.s.s accent made the sentiment sound a trifle odd, but no less sincere for that.

"As a matter of fact, so would I," Goldfarb said. He sighed. He didn't have very much chance of that, not just with Roundbush next to him but with the pub-with the whole experimental station-full of officers.

Stella came back with the tall gla.s.ses of beer. Roundbush banged his teeth together. If Goldfarb had done that, he'd have got his face slapped. For the mustachioed fighter pilot, Stella giggled. Where is justice? Where is justice? Goldfarb wondered, a thought that would have been more Talmudic had it been directed to something other than trying to end up in bed with a barmaid. Goldfarb wondered, a thought that would have been more Talmudic had it been directed to something other than trying to end up in bed with a barmaid.

Basil Roundbush raised his gla.s.s on high. Goldfarb dutifully followed suit. Instead of proposing a toast to Stella's hindquarters, as the radarman had expected, Roundbush said, "To the Meteor!" and drank.

"To the Meteor!" Goldfarb drank, too. When you got right down to it, a jet fighter was more toastworthy than a barmaid's backside, and less likely to cause fights, too.

"On account of the Meteor, we're going to be good chaps and pedal on back to barracks at closing time," Roundbush said. "We're going up tomorrow afternoon, and the powers that be take a dim view of improving one's outlook, even with such camel p.i.s.s as this allegedly best bitter, within twelve hours of a flight."

The thin, sour beer did leave a good deal to be desired, even by wartime standards. Goldfarb was about to agree to that, with the usual profane embellishments, when he really heard what the flight officer had said. "We're going up?" he said. "They've installed a radar in a Meteor at last, then?" going up?" he said. "They've installed a radar in a Meteor at last, then?"

"That they have," Roundbush said. "It will give us rather better odds against the Lizards, wouldn't you say?"

He spoke lightly. He'd flown a Spitfire in the Battle of Britain when a fighter pilot's life expectancy was commonly measured in days. But a Spitfire had had an even chance against a Messerschmitt Bf-109. Against Lizard aircraft, you had to be lucky just to come back from a combat mission. Actually shooting the enemy down was about as likely as winning the Irish Sweepstakes.

"D'you think we'll actually be able to accomplish something against them now?" Goldfarb asked.

"We add the radar, which is your wicket, and we add a good deal of speed, which is always an a.s.set," Roundbush said. "Put them together and I'd say they improve our chances all the way up to b.l.o.o.d.y poor."

As a joke, that wouldn't have been bad. The trouble was, Roundbush wasn't joking. Goldfarb had tracked Lizard aircraft on ground-based radar down at Dover before the aliens openly revealed their presence. They'd gone so high and fast, he and everybody else had wondered if they were real or defects in the mechanism. He and everybody else knew the answer to that now.

Roundbush said, "You've flown airborne radar before, haven't you? Yes, of course you have; that's why Group Captain Hipple wanted you as part of the group. Don't mind me. I'm a silly a.s.s tonight."

"That's right." Goldfarb hoped the pilot would realize he was agreeing about his experience, not the later parenthetical comment. He'd been in charge of a set flown in a Lancaster to see if the thing could be done. "Rather more room to fit the set in a bomber fuselage than in the Meteor."

"Rather," Roundbush said, and drained his gla.s.s.

Goldfarb finished his bitter, too, then held up a hand to buy a round in turn. That was inviolable pub custom: two men together, two rounds; four men together, four rounds; eight men together and they'd all go home half blind.

Stella took her time about noticing a mere radarman, but Goldfarb's half-a-crown spent as well as anyone else's. When she went off to get change, though, she didn't put as much into her walk for him as she had for Roundbush.

The pilot said, "We'd be better off still if we had guided rockets like the Lizards'. Then we'd knock their planes out of the sky at twenty miles, as they can with us. Once we're inside gun range, we have an almost decent chance, but getting there, as the saying goes, is half the fun."

"Yes, I know about that," Goldfarb said. The Lizards had fired radar-homing rockets at his Lanc. Turning off the radar made them miss, but a turned-off radar was of even less use than no radar at all, because it added weight and made the aircraft that carried it slower and less maneuverable.

"Good. One less thing to have to brief you about." Roundbush poured down his pint, apparently in one long swallow, then waved to get Stella's attention. "We'll just have ourselves another one before we toddle on back to base."

Another one turned into another two: Goldfarb insisted on buying a matching round. Part of that was pub custom. Another part was a conscious effort on his part to give the lie to Jews' reputation for stinginess. His parents, products of a harsher world than England, had drilled into him that he should never let himself become a spectacle for the gentiles.

Pedaling back to the airbase with four pints of best bitter in him gave a whole new meaning to Roundbush's mock-aristocratic "toddling." He was glad he wasn't trying to drive a car. He expected to have a thick head come morning, but nothing that would keep him from doing his work, and certainly nothing that would keep him from flying the next afternoon.

The headache with which he did wake up wasn't what left him abstracted when he headed for the Nissen hut Hipple's team shared with the meteorological staff. He had his mind too focused on the flight ahead to be as efficient as he might have been in trying to decipher the secrets of a captured Lizard radar, though.

Basil Roundbush had had more than four pints the night before-how many more, Goldfarb didn't know-but seemed fresh as a daisy. He was whistling a tune the radarman hadn't heard. Flight Lieutenant Maurice Kennan looked up from a sheaf of three-view drawings and said, "That's as off-key as it is off-color, which is saying something."

"Thank you, sir," Roundbush said cheerfully, which made Kennan return to his drawings in a hurry. If Roundbush hadn't been a flier, he would have made a masterful psychological warfare officer.

Goldfarb's pretense of its being a normal day broke down about ten o'clock, when Leo Horton, a fellow radarman, nudged him in the ribs and whispered, "You lucky sod." After that, he was only pretending to work.

An hour or so later, Roundbush walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. "What say we go don our shining armor and make sure our steed is ready to ride?" From another man, the Arthurian language would have sounded asinine. He was not only a spirit blithe enough to carry it off without self-consciousness, he'd fought a great many aerial jousts already. Goldfarb nodded and got up from his desk.

The flight suit of leather and fur was swelteringly hot in the bright sunshine of an English summer's day, but Goldfarb zipped zippers and fastened catches without complaint. Three or four miles straight up and it wouldn't be summery any more. For that matter, the Meteor surely had a higher ceiling than the trudging Lanc in which he'd flown before.

In the Lancaster, he'd tended the radar in the cavernous s.p.a.ce of the bomb bay. In the new two-seater version of the Meteor, he sat behind the pilot in a stretched c.o.c.kpit. The radar set itself was mounted behind and below him in the fuselage; only the controls and the screens were where he could get at them. If something went wrong with the unit, he'd have to wait till he was back on the ground to fiddle with it.

Groundcrew men pulled the plane out of its sandbagged, camouflaged revetment and onto the runway. Goldfarb had heard jet engines a great number of times, but being in an aircraft whose engines were being started was a new experience, and one he could have done without: it reminded him of nothing so much as taking up residence inside a dentist's drill. "Bit noisy, what?" Roundbush bawled through the interphone.

The moment the Meteor began to taxi, Goldfarb realized he'd traded a brewery horse for a thoroughbred. The engine noise grew even more appalling, but the fighter sprang into the air and climbed as if it were shot from a boy's catapult.

So Goldfarb thought, at any rate, till Basil Roundbush said, "This Mark is on the underpowered side, but they're working on new engines that should really pep up the performance."

"Overwhelming enough for me already, thanks," the radarman said. 'What's our ceiling in this aircraft?"

"Just over forty thousand feet," Roundbush replied. "We'll be there in less than half an hour, and we'll be able to see quite a long ways, I expect."

"I expect you're right," Goldfarb said, breathing rubbery air through his oxygen mask. The Lancaster in which he'd flown before had taken almost twice as long to climb a little more than half as high, and Roundbush was complaining about this machine's anemia! In a way, that struck Goldfarb as absurd. In another way, given what the pilot would have to face, it seemed only reasonable.

The Meteor banked gently. Through puffs of fluffy white cloud, Goldfarb peered out through the Perspex of the c.o.c.kpit at the green patchwork quilt of the English countryside. "Good show this isn't a few months ago," Roundbush remarked casually. "Time was when the ack-ack crews would start shooting at the mere sound of a jet engine, thinking it had to belong to the Lizards. Some of our Pioneers and Meteors took shrapnel damage on that account, though none of them was shot down."

"Urk," Goldfarb said; perhaps luckily, that hadn't occurred to him. Down in Dover, the antiaircraft crew had opened up at the roar of jets without a second thought.

"How's the radar performing?" Roundbush asked, reminding him of why they were flying the mission.

He checked the cathode-ray tubes. Strange to think he could see farther and in greater detail with them than with his eyes, especially when, from this airy eyrie, he seemed to be the king of infinite s.p.a.ce, with the whole world set out below for his inspection. "Everything seems to be performing as it should," he said cautiously. "I have a couple of blips that, by their height and speed, are our own aircraft. Could you fly a southerly course, to let me search for Lizard machines?"

"Changing course to one-eight-zero," Roundbush said, obliging as a Victorian carriage driver acknowledging his toff of a master's request to convey him to Boodle's. Like a proper fighter pilot, he peered ahead and in all directions as the Meteor swung through its turn. "I don't see anything."

Goldfarb didn't see anything, either; his screens remained serenely blank. In a way, that was disappointing. In another way, it was a relief: if he could see the Lizards, they a.s.suredly could also see him-and Roundbush had made no bones about their planes' remaining far superior to the Meteor.

Then, off in the electronic distance, he thought he detected something-and then, an instant later, the radar screens went crazy with noise, as if the aurora borealis had decided to dance on them. "I'm getting interference," Goldfarb said urgently. "I spied what seemed to be a Lizard plane, right at the edge of where the set could reach, and then everything turned to hash-which means he likely detected me, too."