"They know
we have only gas grenades and small arms."

He looked nervously from side to side. They couldn't bring the
copter in with that thing squatting out there.

A few feet away, sprawled behind a barricade of tables, lay a man
in advanced shock. His deadly white skin shone like ivory. They
wouldn't even look like that. One nuclear shell from that gun and
they'd be vaporized. Or perhaps the tank had sonic projectors;
then the skin would peel off their bones. Or they might be
burned, or cut up by shrapnel, or gassed with some new mist their
masks couldn't filter.

Read shut his eyes. All around him he heard heavy breathing,
mumbled comments, curses. Clothes rustled as men moved restlessly.

But already the voice of Sergeant Rashid resounded in the murky
room.

"We've got to knock that thing out before the copter comes.
Otherwise, he can't land. I have six Molotov cocktails here. Who
wants to go hunting with me?"

For two years Read had served under Sergeant Rashid. To him, the
sergeant was everything a UN inspector should be. Rashid's
devotion to peace had no limits.

Read's psych tests said pride alone drove him on. That was good
enough for the UN; they only rejected men whose loyalties might
conflict with their duties. But an assault on the tank required
something more than a hunger for self-respect.

Read had seen the inspector who covered their getaway. He had
watched their escort charge three-to-one odds. He had seen
another inspector stay behind at Miaka Station. And here, in this
building, lay battered men and dead men.

All UN inspectors. All part of his life.

And he was part of their life. Their blood, their sacrifice, and
pain, had become a part of him.

"I'll take a cocktail, Sarge."

"Is that Read?"

"Who else did you expect?"

"Nobody. Anybody else?"

"I'll go," the Frenchman said. "Three should be enough. Give us a
good smoke screen."

* * * * *

Rashid snapped orders. He put the German inspector in charge of
Umluana. Read, the Frenchman and himself, he stationed at
thirty-foot intervals along the floor.

"Remember," Rashid said. "We have to knock out that gun."

Read had given away his machine gun. He held a gas-filled bottle
in each hand. His automatic nestled in its shoulder holster.

Rashid whistled.

Dozens of smoke grenades tumbled through the air. Thick mist
engulfed the tank. Read stood up and ran forward. He crouched but
didn't zi