Michael saw Arlan eyeing his automatic and smiled. “Don’t worry—we’ll issue you one before you go out to work. You’ll probably want to get the folks at home to ship you your own, though.”
Michael was Milagso-born; it never occurred to him that people everywhere didn’t grow up carrying lasers and slugthrowers.
“Do you really need them?” Arlan asked.
“If we’re lucky, no. But you never can tell.”
“I thought the Xiala hadn’t attacked for fifty years!”
Michael nodded. “Doesn’t mean they won’t, though. They’re still out there, you know—and still attacking Terran planets, when they think they can get away with it.”
“Yeah.” Arlan frowned. “I’ve noticed it on the news, now and then.”
“Even if they didn’t,” Michael said, “carrying portable mayhem has become a tradition with us—and traditions always have their reasons, Arlan.”
Arlan was going to get sick of hearing about the good reasons for traditions, in the next few weeks—especially when he found out that half the reason for farming with Bolos, was because they had become traditional, too.
By the time they climbed aboard the hovertruck, Arlan had managed to convince himself that the Bolos were tame and peaceful—but it was a conviction that wavered as soon as he came in sight of one of the huge machines. “Uh—couldn’t we start with some other chore?”
“Scared of the Bolos?” Rita looked up, grinning. “They are kind of intimidating, at first. Took me three days before I was willing to go near them. When I did, I found out they were the best friends I could have—gentle as kittens, and strong as earthquakes. But come on—it’s plowing season, so steering this plow is what you need to learn.”
“If you say so,” Arlan said dubiously. “After all, their cannons aren’t loaded . . . ?”
“Not loaded?” Rita looked up, startled. “Arlan, my friend—an unloaded gun is a piece of scrap iron!”
“They are loaded?” Arlan drew back. “That machine, right there, that I’m supposed to work with, could blow up a major city?”
“Could, but it won’t,” Rita assured him. “Besides, even if you were an enemy and it did fire, you’d never know what hit you.”
That, Arlan decided, was rather cold comfort—but he followed Rita toward the gang-plow. Their lieutenant-mayor had known what he was doing, assigning him to Rita for the first day’s learning—he’d known Arlan would rather die than chicken out in front of a pretty girl.
“Morning, Miles,” Rita called out, waving.
“Good morning, Rita,” the huge machine returned. “Did you have a restful evening?”
“Well, not too restful. Who won the chess match?”
“Gloriosus was one game ahead of me by dawn,” Miles answered.
“Well, better luck tomorrow night. I’d better get hopping.”
“How can two machines play chess with each other?” Arlan whispered.
“In their computers. They can keep track of the moves perfectly, but I don’t know if they visualize the board or not.”
Arlan marvelled at the thought of engines of mayhem having a peaceful, stuffy game of chess to pass the time. He hoped Miles wasn’t a sore loser.
“You can’t think of them as machines,” Rita ~explained as they climbed up onto the plow. “They’re allies, friends. Just remember, each one of them is at least as smart as you, and most of them have just as much personality, even if it is artificial.”
“How about if one of them decides he doesn’t like me?”
“Can’t—it’s built into their programming.” Rita settled herself on the seat, swung it around to face the far ‘tractor,’ and laid her hands on the wheel.
“Why not just hitch the plows to them, and let them go out in the field to pull?”
“‘Cause they’d pack the earth down to concrete,” Rita said flatly. “These tractors are heavy.” She looked up over her shoulder. “Okay, Miles! Tell Gloriosus to start pulling, would you?”
“Certainly, Rita,” the huge machine boomed.
Arlan noted the courtesy, and decided to be very polite to these “tractors.”
The gang plow lurched into motion, and Rita spun the wheel, straightening out. “The tractor will pull, but you have to keep the furrows straight. . . .”
Arlan listened, trying to pay close attention—but he kept being distracted by the huge machine in front of them, looming closer and closer as they chewed their way across the field. They finished two round trips before he felt ready to try steering by himself.
They went back to the camp for lunch and stayed for an hour’s siesta—everyone insisted it was too hot to work. But when things cooled down in late afternoon, back they went for another four hours’ labor—and this time, Rita said good-bye as they were passing Miles.
“So soon?” Arlan stared, then caught himself and forced a smile. “You’re going to trust me to steer straight, all by myself?”
“It’s not that tough, once you get the hang of it,” Rita laughed, “and from what I saw this morning, you have. Finish the field, bravo. See you back at camp.”
And she was on her way, with a smile and a wave. Arlan stared up at the huge Bolo, towering overhead, and swallowed. He wondered if Miles could tell when a man was afraid of him.
Well, if he could, it was doubly important not to let on. Arlan forced a smile, waved cheerily, and called up to the turret, “Evening, Miles!”
“Good evening, Arlan,” the huge machine answered, in a calm, deep voice that seemed to be right next to Arlan’s ear. It almost made him jump, but he hid the reaction and smiled wider. “Do we just take up where we left off?”
“That is the usual procedure, yes, Arlan. There are no bandits or robbers on Milagso, so we just leave the plows at the end of the row, when it comes time to stop for the night.”
No wonder there were no bandits—not with a monster of a Bolo sitting right nearby. Arlan went to climb aboard his plow, thinking desperately of some sort of conversational topic. “Didn’t the Xiala try to steal equipment, when they were raiding?”
“Surprisingly, no,” Miles answered. At least his voice seemed a few feet away now. “The Xiala were warriors exclusively; they did not seek to dwell here, so they had no reason to steal. They were only concerned with destroying everything in sight.”
“Cheery blighters—but at least they were predictable.” Arlan only wished that the Bolo was—or that he could be sure of it. “Well, time to plow.”
“I shall tell Gloriosus to begin pulling, Arlan. Wave when you are ready.”
“Will do.” Arlan settled himself on the seat, took hold of the wheel, and waved. The plow jerked into motion, and he was off.
He couldn’t escape the feeling that he was at the mercy of the two huge killer machines.
After an hour or so, Arlan began to relax, but when Miles announced that it was quitting time, the volunteer shuddered at the thought of being alone with the giant. To cover his apprehension, he tried to strike up a conversation while he waited for the truck. “You ~remember the Xiala wars, don’t you?”
“The data is stored in my memory banks, yes, ~Arlan—including visual scans, if they are needed. However, I would caution you that the wars may not be over.”
Everybody always seemed to be reminding him of that. Well, let them come—Arlan was ready for his shot at glory. He shuddered at the thought, but he was ready. “Chances aren’t too high that the Xiala will attack again, are they?”
“We thought so before,” Gloriosus told him. “There was a twenty-year gap between incursions, and we had begun to think there might be peace. Then the Xiala came boiling up out of the irrigation ditches.”
“Out of the ditches?” Arlan looked up sharply. “How did they get there? They had to land, first!”
“So they did—but they had been landing secretly, at night, for a year, planting small groups of commandos.”
“A year?” Arlan looked up, startled. “What did they live off of?”
“They brought rations, but they supplemented them with local flora and fauna.”
“You mean they stole crops and livestock?”
“No. Xiala tastes have very little in common with those of humankind. They consider our livestock to be vermin, and vice versa.”
“So.” Arlan turned to gaze out over the countryside. “They just snacked on rats and snakes. Sure, nobody would miss them. Then they attacked, at a pre-arranged signal?”
“They did, in tens of thousands. The hidden bands, who had no landing craft to which they could retreat, attacked the most suddenly, and fought the hardest. They were very difficult to kill.”
Arlan nodded. “I can understand that. No chance they might do it again, is there?”
“Nearly none. We are very vigilant, now—at all hours.”
“You said, ‘nearly.”
“That is correct. One must never underestimate the enemy.”
“They might always have a new surprise in store.” Arlan gazed out over the quiet countryside, imagining detection-proof landing craft, invisible parachutes—any number of technological innovations.