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Updated: May 10, 2025
Or, if we beat off the geeks here, as we seem to be doing, he can bomb us out and then move in on Konkrook. I think that as long as we're fighting, here, he'll wait. The more damage we do to Konkrook, the easier it'll be for him." "Then we'd better start dragging our feet on the Konkrook front," Laviola said. "And get busy trying to build a bomb of our own."
"Half an hour ago, we were shooting geeks out the windows, here; now we have them contained between the spaceport and the native-troops and labor barracks, and down the east side of the island to the farms. We have the wire around the farms on the island electrified, and we're using almost all our combat contragravity to keep the farms on the mainland clear." He hesitated for a moment.
"How did they do it? They have no telecast equipment." "You have me stopped, Jules," Mordkovitz was replying. "I know a lot of rich geeks have receiving sets, but no sending sets." The pattern that had been tantalizing von Schlichten took visible shape in his mind. For a moment, he shelved the matter of the Aldebaran. "They didn't need sending equipment, Barney," he said. "They used ours.
None of it do we want the geeks getting hold of, and the equipment-park's outside our practical perimeter. I'll send people to help you move it." "No need to do that, sir; I have about a hundred and fifty loyal North Ullrans foremen, technicians, overseers who can handle it." "All right. Use your own judgment.
I'm afraid Pop Goode, at the city power-plant, is done for; nobody answers there, but the TV-pickup is still on in the load-dispatcher's room, and the place is full of geeks. Colonel Jarman's coming here with a lorry to get combat-car crews; he's short-handed.
And there are too few of us, and we're concentrated in too few places, to last long if that happened. What this planet needs, though, is a visit by a fifty-odd-ship task-force of the Space Navy, just to show the geeks what we have back of us. After a show like that, there'd be a lot less znidd suddabit around here." "General, I deplore that sort of talk," Keaveney said.
Von Schlichten got two bottles of beer from the refrigerated section of the lunch-hamper and opened one for Paula Quinton and one for himself. "What are we going to do with these geeks," she was using the nasty and derogatory word unconsciously and by custom, now "after this is all over?
I must say, Hildegarde has her biological data very well in hand, too." "I'll bet she'd have fun writing a novel about these geeks," von Schlichten said. "Well, how soon do you think you can have a bomb made up and all ready for us?" "Casting the cases is going to slow us down the most," Pickering said. "But, even with that, we ought to have one ready in three days, at the most.
So we'll have to lick these geeks before it runs out, because we can't lick them with gun-butts and bayonets." "Well, how about nuclear weapons?" Paula asked. "I hate to suggest it I know what they did on Mimir, and Fenris, and Midgard, and what they did on Terra, during the First Century. But it may be our only chance."
"The geeks were screaming it at you, over on Seventy-second Street, this afternoon. Znidd suddabit; kill the Terrans. That's Rakkeed the Prophet's whole gospel." "So you see," Eric Blount rammed home the moral, "this is just another case of nobody with any right to call anybody else's kettle black.... Cigarette?" "Thank you." She leaned toward the lighter-flame O'Leary had snapped into being.
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