Key to Survival

Chapter 23 Lobster

Flame reappeared in their apartment. "Apology," she said. "Where were we?"

"We were about to make love,"

Fifth said, indicating the spot on their bed she had vacated. "An hour ago. Then you vanished. Was it something I said?"

She smiled. "Negation. Spot mission of an urgent nature." She efficiently stripped her clothing.

"Question?"

"Saving Earth from destruction."

He smiled, then realized that she wasn't joking. "Question, repeated?"

"Mother, Idyll, Chrome, and Shee discovered an antimatter missile hurtling toward Earth. They set out to stop it. They made a wormhole to Andromeda in front of it. That worked, and saved Earth, but they were getting sucked through also. So we had to rescue them. I caught Idyll."

"You're a stronger Glamor than Idyll Ifrit?"

She put her finger to her lips. "Don't tell. We four siblings are stronger than any of the prior ones, but we don't like to show it. Except for Voila; she has no choice."

"Silence," he agreed. "Are you sure you still want to—" He gestured at the bed.

"Affirmation." Naked, she joined him. "You are such a comfort to me, Fifth. I would be lonely without you."

"Appreciation." He kissed her mouth, then her small breasts, not ashamed to demonstrate how they turned him on. "I love you."

"And I you."

"Only one thing bothers me: I'm a nexus, and don't know in what manner. I fear I could cause you mischief."

"I fear that also," she said, spreading her legs in invitation. "But I know that you will never knowingly do me harm."

"I wouldn't if I could," he agreed, nudging his erect member into her. Sometimes he liked sex fast, but now he preferred to savor it.

"Tonight we relax," she said, putting her hands on his buttocks to pull him deeper into her. "Tomorrow there's a mission. I will need you to bear my ikon."

"Of course." He normally set her ikon aside during sex so that it wouldn't interfere with full contact, but it was never far from him. It seemed to know that he was not giving it up when he separated from it, and did not resist the way other ikons had been known to. Now he was fully embedded, loving the feel of her warm flesh surrounding his member.

"It is dangerous."

"We are at war," he said. "Danger is inherent."

"And probably unpleasant."

"I want to be with you in pleasure and displeasure."

She grasped his buttocks again and forced his hips to move, making him thrust until he climaxed.

"Appreciation."

He had to laugh. Then he held on as she reached her own climax, pulsing around him, savagely kissing him. She lacked the sexual expertise of Weft, but her joy in fulfillment was just as strong.

Thereafter they relaxed, and she filled him in on the details of the mission. She was right: it was dangerous.

In the morning she conjured him to what she termed planet Lobster. The dominant inhabitants looked much like earth lobsters, but were larger. They had eight legs, large flat tails, two front pincers, and eye stalks. But they were sapient and equivalent to humans in their society.

They gathered in a dome shaped like a lobster torso, with several segments. Flame stood where the head might be, facing back to the gathered crustaceans. She wore a translator that rendered her words into the complicated clicks of the lobster language. Fifth had one too.

"Summary," Flame said. "The machines fleet invaded Lobster space. Your fleet opposed them and was destroyed.

Now they are coming to exploit your planet before destroying it. Your leaders were killed with the fleet. You need competent guidance for your defense. You appealed to the Living Cultures Coalition for help. But it is thinly spread, and able to spare only one competent Glamor. I am she: Flame of Charm, of the Human Culture, a martial artist. I will guide you. This is my assistant, Five, who is mortal. I believe this planet is salvageable, but the defense will be difficult and some lives will be lost. Even victory will be at best temporary, because the machines will organize another invasion. Our best hope is that we can repel the machines this time, and that the Coalition can defeat them before they come here again."

She paused. "Questions?"

There was a clicking as one large Lobster snapped his claws in intricate cadences. "I am Old Tail, retired settlement elder. We have largely housewives and children left, not battle trained. We lack high power weapons. Can you work with these?"

"Yes. But you will need to follow my directions precisely. This will require courage."

"We are not courageous. We are desperate."

"That will do. You are people. You know you will die, and your planet will die, if you don't do what is necessary."

There was a general affirmative clicking.

"How will you save us?" Old Tail asked.

"I will acquaint you with the necessary strategy, and guide you in its application. I am able to see the near future, so can select the most promising strategy."

Old Tail clicked. "We wish to give no offense, Glamor Flame, but we do not understand this."

"Demonstration: I will tell some of your number which motion you will make next. You will seek to surprise us." Flame walked to a group of three Lobsters and whispered. They clicked understanding. Then she turned to face Old Tail. "Do something unexpected."

Old Tail turned around in place.

There was a chorus of clicks from the three: Flame had told them he would do that.

She whispered to them again. "Now someone else do something surprising."

There was a pause. Then a young Lobster scuttled out to the front and did a somersault.

The three clicked again: they had known it.

Finally Flame walked to Old Tail and lifted her right arm, setting it within his open large claw. "Sheer off my limb," she said.

"I would not do that!" he protested, clicking with his other claw.

"Make the attempt. My flesh is invulnerable; you can't hurt it. But you can try to close on it."

Reassured, he tried. But as the pincer closed, she moved her arm just clear. He tried again, snapping at at, but missed. He tried a third time, snapping at her leg, but that leg drew back. He was grudgingly satisfied. "I can't touch you."

"However, my ability is limited to the near future, and the machines invasion is beyond my range. So I must depend on sound military strategy, then use my near-future seeing to implement specifics. Questions?"

"We can not see the future," Old Tail clicked. "How can we prevail?"

"You do not need this ability. I will pass among you and assess your specific near future prospects and tell you what to do. You must do it without hesitation. I will not be able to remain in any one place; I must constantly circulate, as the machines will be attacking all sites simultaneously. In this manner you will all have the benefit of my ability."

"Question: the region is broad. How can you travel quickly enough?"

Flame rose from the floor, flying. Then she conjured herself to another side of the stage, demonstrating her Glamor powers. That sufficed. This planet lacked magic zones, but magic existed, and her ikon was transmitting.

"Agreement," Old Tail said, impressed, as were the others.

Flame settled back to her original location. "Situation: You are the denizens of residences surrounding the prime and only feasible landing site for the machines. Their cargo ship is massive; if it lands in a swamp or on uneven terrain it will founder. This is a mesa with space and solidity for the landing. We must prevent the landing. We will do this by preventing the machines from securing the landing site. They will first send a scout boat with perhaps a dozen units. It will disgorge machines shaped like lobsters that will fan out along the access roads to destroy all residences and people there. Then they will clear it, making one big landing field for the cargo ship. It will loose thousands of specialized lesser machines. At that point the planet will be lost."

She paused again, then resumed. "We need to hold those residences, destroying the machines that attack them.

When they are gone, the scout ship will be vulnerable, and we will be able to take it out by knocking it over and burying it in rubble. That, too, will not be easy, but it will be possible. Provided we are unified, and act correctly."

They were silent, accepting her expertise.

"You must have two or more people in each of the assigned residences," Flame said. "One must always be awake and alert. The scout will probably come silently, masked; we won't see it or be able to stop it. We will have to stop the machine units as they approach the residences. At present I don't know how to do that; I will inspect a unit when it comes and discover its weakness, then spread the word. Be ready."

One Lobster clicked for attention. "I am Click-toe, widowed by the loss of my husband on the fleet. I have no partner."

"My assistant will join you," Flame said.

Fifth walked across to stand beside the widow.

Flame wrapped up her instructions. Then Fifth and Click-toe walked to her residence. She moved along swiftly enough on her multiple legs, clicking as she went.

"I regret inflicting this chore on you, Fifty."

"Fifth," he said, realizing that there had been an error in translation. "I am here to help, and this is where I am needed. I am sorry you lost your husband."

"Needless. It was not a great marriage, but I did not wish death on him. Fortunately we have no offspring."

"Regret, regardless," he said politely.

"You are the Glamor's mate?"

"We expect to marry after the war is won."

"Are you not afraid of her powers?"

"Her powers protect me. I love her."

"I loved my husband, but he turned out to be wrong for me. Friends had tried to warn me, but I was young."

"You Lobsters are just like us humans!" he exclaimed.

"Except in form," she agreed.

They reached her residence. This was a low, igloo-like structure situated at the water table, with one entrance above the water line, the other below. "We utilize both land and water," Click-toe explained. "When there is an air storm, we go below. When there is an aquatic predator, we go above."

"You still suffer from predators?" he asked, surprised.

"Negation. But we evolved vulnerable, and our reflexes remained when we became dominant. We are comfortable only at the edge zone." She scuttled into the structure.

"Understanding." He followed her, getting down on hands and knees to navigate the upper entrance.

Inside it was surprisingly pleasant. The temperature was in his range, and there was a cushioned region he could sit on. There was a skylight that let in a ray of sun. When he stood, he could poke his head out of it and see the surrounding landscape.

"I will fetch food," Click-toe said. She slid splashlessly into the water and disappeared below. In a moment she surfaced, with a tuber in her pincers. She presented it to him. "Eat. You will need your strength."

Fifth did not want to offend her, so he accepted the tuber and tried a bite from its end. It was excellently tasty, like a cross between a sweet roll and a banana.

Then, remembering his manners, he offered it back to her. She lifted her smaller pincers and neatly cut off half for herself.

They talked further, compatibly. He learned that her large pincers was used for crushing, and the smaller one for cutting. She was interested in philosophy and the arts, and once aspired to carve statues in soapstone, but marriage and then the war had left her no time for that. Now she was alone. She would like to remarry, and perhaps find some leisure for carving, but she was no longer young. What male would want her, let alone a rich male?

Fifth told her of his own life on Charm, generally dull, until he had joined the training group, encountered Glamors, and finally Flame, his ultimate woman.

"You worship her," Click-toe said.

"Affirmation, and not just because she is a Glamor or because she is lean. I think I would have loved her regardless, had I known her. There's something about her."

"I envy you that relationship."

He wasn't sure what to say, as her prospects for any such thing seemed slight. But already he knew her well enough to know that she was worthy.

Then Fifth had a call of nature, and wasn't sure where to go. But Click-toe anticipated his need. "The refuse sump is there." Her antenna pointed to a curtained section.

He went there, and found a hole over a slowly flowing underground stream. He did his business and watched it carried away. This would do.

"We will need to take turns sleeping," Fifth said. "So that one of us is always alert."

"You may sleep," Click-toe agreed. "I will watch." She lifted her fore section and poked her eye stalks out through the skylight.

Fifth slept. He had learned discipline in such things from his association with Flame.

"Fifth." He woke to Flame's voice.

She was there in the house, beside Click-toe. "Yes."

"The scout has landed. I waylaid and fathomed a machine. It resembles a lobster, with built-in guns. That is, small projectile weapons, and its pincers can crush rock. Do not try direct physical combat."

"How can we stop it?"

"You can short out its system by poking a wire between its scales behind its head, into its brain unit. That will render it inert, and you can then dismember it. Lobster pincers are not effective for this; you will have to do it." She gave him a thick piece of wire. "I will find another way for the other defenders. There will be one or two machines, possibly a third, so stay on guard." She kissed him and vanished.

"She loves you," Click-toe remarked. "That is good."

She was like a mother. "Affirmation. It must be my turn to watch."

"I will watch longer, as you will need to poke the machine. That will be dangerous, and you will need all your strength."

He could not argue with that. He returned to sleep, holding the wire.

It was dusk when a commotion woke him again. There was a series of pops or bangs. Click-toe was on the floor, desperately clicking. "My eye! My eye!" He rushed to her. Her right eye stalk was gone, and green ichor was willing from the stump.

"What happened? How can I help you?"

"The machines! They're here! They shot my eye!"

He grabbed the wire Flame had given him and dived for the higher exit. He scrambled out.

There was a lobster coming toward the house. He knew it was a machine.

He lurched to his feet, and ran toward the machine. It spied him. The forepart turned to orient on him. A bullet plowed into the ground just behind him. The machine had expected him to flee, not come toward it. It was having trouble orienting on him, in part because it was geared to fire parallel to the ground, while he was mostly well above ground. But it would not miss many times.

Indeed, the next shot creased his chest. Something fragmented, but he didn't seem to be badly wounded.

He leaped onto the machine, grabbing it behind the pincers. It heaved, trying to throw him off, but he clung to it. Its pincers couldn't get at him from this position.

He lifted the wire and put it to the carapace. There was a seam there, behind the head, as there had to be so the head could swivel. He poked the wire in.

The machine turned in a circle, trying to reach him, but he clung, still jamming in the wire. Did he have the right angle?

Then the wire connected. The machine made a hissing sound and collapsed as acrid smoke emerged. He had gotten it!

He pulled out the wire, got up and ran back to the house. He had known that he couldn't try to help Click-toe as long a an active machine was out there; they would both be dead in seconds. But now he had to see to her.

He crawled in. "I got it!" he exclaimed. "I stopped the machine!"

She clicked in response, but there was no translation. He looked at the translator. It was in tatters.

That was what the machine's bullet had struck. It might have saved him from injury or even death. But he could no longer talk to Click-toe.

He removed it. "I'm sorry. My translator—" He set it aside. "We can't talk."

She clicked, understanding. She had put something on her eye stalk so that it no longer bled. But she still had to be in pain.

"I got the machine," he said. "I used the wire." He held it up, then pantomimed jamming it into the machine. "It's dead. As it were."

She clicked. Did she understand?

"Your eye. I'm sorry. I guess it saw you looking and fired a barrage, and got that before you could get down."

He put his hand over his own eye. "I'm sorry."

She walked by him, and out the doorway. He followed. She went to the defunct machine. She caught its tail in her pincers and tried to drag it.

"Oh—to hide it," he said. "So the next one won't know what happened and be warned. Smart girl! I'll help."

He took hold of a pincer and hauled. Together they dragged the heavy body into the brush, and covered it over, then scuffed the place where it had been so there was no sign. Then they went back inside the house.

"How badly are you hurting?" he asked Click-toe. "I mean, the eye?" He put his finger near, without touching.

She winced. She was like a lobster, but this reaction was familiar.

"You're hurting. Physically and emotionally. I don't know how to help you. I can't even ask you how."

Then it occurred to him that if she winced in the manner a human person would have, she might have other similar reactions. Maybe he could help after all.

"I want to give you comfort," he said. "Just reassurance that someone else cares. May I do that?"

She just gazed at him with her single eye stalk, not understanding.

"Comfort," he repeated. "I trust you. I want you to trust me." He put his hand in her large right pincer. She could cut it off or severely mangle it, if she chose. "Trust."

She clicked with her free pincer, and did not close on his hand. She had to understand.

"Now I want to hold you," he said. He sat beside her, then drew her toward him. He put his arms around her. "I know I'm not a Lobster, but I am a living, feeling person, as are you. We are in this together."

She stiffened, then relaxed, perhaps understanding. Then she rested her head against his shoulder. She was accepting his comfort.

They remained that way for a time. Then she moved, and he let her go. He had made his gesture, and she had accepted it; that was what counted.

He got up and went to the skylight. She clicked urgently, concerned.

"But I have to look. There might be another machine coming."

Still she clicked, and drew on his hand with a pincer, not pinching at all.

He sighed. "Okay. Don't make a target of myself. I'll go out and watch."

She went out with him. They went to the brush beside the house and hid themselves, and watched. After a time she touched his arm, and when he looked, she laid her head on the ground and retracted her eye stalk. She would sleep while he watched; it was her turn. "Okay," he repeated.

Time passed. It got dark, but he could still see some, and hear. He remained alert.

Then he heard something. It was a rustling, as of something coming down the path. He tapped Click-toe on the shell of her large pincers. She woke. Her eye stalk rotated to orient on him.

He touched his ear to show it was something he heard, and pointed to the path. She nodded.

He held up his stiff wire. He pantomimed jamming it into something. She nodded again.

He saw it. A lobster scuttling toward the house. Was it a machine? He wasn't sure. The prior one had been crafted to resemble a lobster.

Then there was a bang and a flash of light as the lobster fired toward the house. That settled it. Real lobsters did not have built-in guns.

Fifth waited until the machine was parallel to their spot. Then he jumped up and charged it from the side, hoping he could reach it before it oriented on him.

The machine turned and fired, missing. He ran on toward it. It was five paces away, four, three, two.

It fired again. The bullet caught his leg. There was a flash of pain and he went down just clear of the machine. He tried to scramble toward it, but it was reacting faster. He saw the muzzle of the gun set in its big pincer, pointing at his head.

Then something landed on that pincer, crushing it to the ground. It was another lobster. It was Click-toe! She was holding the machine down so it couldn't fire at him.

He dragged himself to them, holding the wire. But he couldn't get into the correct position; it was too painful to heave himself up. Meanwhile the machine was heaving, trying to free its pincers, trying to throw Click-toe off. She was moving to stay on top, while she could.

He had to act immediately. But still the angle was wrong. He needed to get up high enough to poke from directly behind the head. His arm was flailing uselessly.

Click-toe put her pincers on his extended arm, closing just enough to hold him without hurting him, and hauled, bringing him up. Now he was in position. He jammed the wire in—and was rewarded by the pop and smoke as it connected. The machine had been shorted out.

"Thanks, Click-toe!" he gasped. Then he passed out.

When he came to, he was back inside the house, lying on the soft mat. Click-toe had to have dragged him here.

The lobster wasn't in view, and he realized she must be back outside dragging the dead machine out of sight. There should not be a third one coming, but it was best to play safe.

His leg was burning. The bullet had passed through the calf, surely taking out a tendon and maybe some bone.

Obviously he would be unable to walk for some time. He hoped there wasn't an infection. He saw that it was bandaged; Click-toe's ministrations again.

He faded out. Next time he woke, he found his head supported by Click-toe's large pincers. She was trying to give him a drink from a gourd. He sipped the liquid, and it was pleasant and slightly effervescent, invigorating his mouth and throat. Then she fed him more of the tasty tuber, and settled down beside him, supporting and comforting him as he had done with her before.

"You are taking good care of me," he said, and faded again as she clicked in response.

Then a call of nature woke him. Click-toe was there solicitously the moment he stirred.

"You can't help me in this," he said. "I have to do it myself."

He tried to get up and crawl to the privy section, but immediately his leg radiated such intense pain that he couldn't. Here he had no magic to dull pain or promote healing, and he wasn't used to it. What was he to do?

But Click-toe knew something about this too. She brought a large empty tubular gourd and touched his covered groin with it. She was proffering him a collection bottle.

Well, that was the way it had to be. He tried to take it—and the slight motion of his body made the pain stab him again. He had to use one arm to support himself without moving, because any motion of his trunk translated to some leg motion. His leg was worse; there must be some infection. How far would that go?

Click-toe took the gourd back and held it in place. He opened his trousers one-handed and brought out his penis. Now he had to have both hands, and couldn't. "Obscenity!" he muttered. He couldn't even do it this way; he was half supine and the gourd was above him. The urine would pour out onto him as fast as it entered. He would have to shift position, to the side, and that would be intolerably painful.

Click-toe brought the gourd close, holding it with her large pincers, angling down between his spread legs. Then she took his penis with her small pincers, and guided it into the mouth of the gourd, and held it there, curved in a right angle turn, as was necessary in this position. She could readily cut it in half, but her touch was gentle. The position was awkward, but feasible. She must have had experience.

He let go and let the urine course into the gourd. It was a great relief; his bladder had filled uncomfortably.

When it finished, she removed his penis, wiped it with a bit of cloth, and took the gourd away for emptying. Fifth managed to close up his trousers.

He had just let a woman hold his member while it urinated. That was a first for him. Weft surely would have done it if she had thought of it, but she would have had a sexual motive. Click-toe was simply helping as necessary.

He was soon distracted as the pain of his leg became chronic, traveling up his thigh to his torso. His arms began to tingle. The infection was taking over his body. Click-toe clearly wanted to help, but did not know how. He was an alien; her remedies were unlikely to work.

She tried. She brought him a thick, foul-tasting syrup: medicine. He swallowed a mouthful—and immediately vomited. She retreated, clicking apology.

"Needless," he said. She was doing all she could.

He slept again. There was not much else to do.

But now the infection reached his brain, and he dreamed. He was walking across an alien landscape with Flame, speaking of love. It was not Charm, but somewhere else. Bands of colored magic floated in ribbons, forming random patterns. Most were Chroma zones, and the spaces between were nonChroma.

They paused at the margin of a swamp. There on a tree growing on a tiny island in the muck was a bright golden apple. "I will fetch you that apple," she said.

"Needless. Your presence is all I desire."

But she lifted from the ground and floated across to the islet. She landed beside the tree and lifted her hand to pick the apple. Her fingers touched it—and the tree became a monster with huge glowing eyes and a gaping maw.

The apple was the tip of its tongue. It was a trap with a lure, and they had fallen for it, like innocent fish.

"Flame!" he cried. "Get out of there!"

But before she could react, the awful wooden teeth closed on her lifted arm, holding it fast. "Fifth! My ikon! Put it in magic!"

He realized that he was standing in a Blue Chroma zone, stifling her ikon. He scrambled to get out of it, but it was encompassing him, clinging to him. Maybe this was part of the trap: a way to nullify a Glamor. He drew out the ikon, trying to extend his hand so that it was in nonChroma. But he fumbled it, and it dropped into the swamp.

"Chagrin!" How could he be so clumsy at this critical pass?

He got down and grabbed for it in the muck, but couldn't find it amidst the twigs and stems. Meanwhile Flame was screaming as the monster sank slowly down, submerging with its prey. It was carrying her with it.

Fifth spread his fingers and seined through the glop, but all he came up with was handfuls of weeds. The ikon was gone.

Flame gave one more cry as her head was drawn under the surface. Then there were only bubbles as the swamp filled in where the seeming isle had been.

"Flame! Flame!" he cried. "I love you!" As if that could bring her back. He woke, gasping and sweating. The pain of his leg was now matched by the pain of his dream.

A cool cloth wiped his face. Click-toe was holding him, tending to him, helping in the only way she could.

"Appreciation," he said, and drifted uneasily back to sleep.

It was full morning when he woke again. Click-toe brought him water and food, and he was able to drink and eat a little. The pain in his leg had declined to numbness. That was not completely reassuring.

There was a sound. Oh, no! Was another machine coming? They were in no condition to stop it.

Click-toe scuttled toward the entrance. "No!" Fifth cried. "You can't do it alone! You'll be killed."

"No she won't."

Fifth looked, startled. Flame had appeared. "Relief!" he exclaimed.

"Not yet. Most of the invading machines have been taken out, but a few remain, determined to do their jobs.

They are hiding, pouncing by surprise. I must continue circulating."

"We can't fend off another. We stopped two, but my leg is shot and Click-toe can't use the wire."

She got down to examine his leg. She put her hands on it, and he felt the pain diminish with her healing touch.

"We found another way. Hot water. Dump it on their heads, and it overheats their brain units, spoiling them." Her grip tightened, and he felt intense currents there. "You will be able to use it now, but don't overdo it."

"Flame—I think I was hallucinating. I dreamed you died through my neglect. I feel guilty."

"Let me read your mind."

He opened it to her, letting her explore everything in it. This was an act of exposure greater than any of the body.

All his most secret shames were revealed.

"Needless," she said after a moment. "You were afraid your injury would betray me by compromising our mission. In your fever you made it literal, with my dying because of your neglect. It is understandable. I know you love me; that is what counts. I have abated the infection. I must move on." She kissed him and disappeared.

He looked at the leg. The wound had largely healed, leaving a scar. He knew she would have eliminated that too, had she not been rushed. The general malaise was gone, and with it much of his horror of the dream. Her analysis was immensely reassuring.

"She healed me," he told Click-toe. "Maybe I can walk now."

She came to stand beside him, lifting her pincers for him to use as support. He tried to stand, and discovered to his half surprise that he could. The bone was solid, and though the flesh tweaked a little, it was all right. He took a step, and it worked. He could walk.

He practiced, and found no problems. "I am well enough," he said. "But we must still be alert for machines. We're lucky another didn't come while I was sleeping." Because now it was clear that the siege wasn't yet over, and they were still resisting.

She moved to the entrance, and he followed. Outside he discovered that all the nearby brush had been clipped, so that nothing could hide in it. Click-toe had been busy while he was out of it, standing guard and doing whatever she could to be sure they would not be taken by surprise. It had not been chance that no machine had come; she had been alert, and should would have awakened him if she had had to. But she had let him sleep as long as she could.

He was really coming to like Click-toe. She was a worthy companion.

Then he remembered: "Flame says we can take out a machine with hot water. We'd better heat some."

She looked at him with her one eye stalk and clicked, not understanding.

He had to pantomime. He talked as he did it, so she would know he was telling something. "Say a machine comes." He went to the path, hunched down, and tried to emulate a scuttle, on knees and elbows, holding his two hands up shaped into little pincers.

Click-toe made a rapid clicking sound unlike her normal dialogue. He realized she was laughing. Good enough; she understood his analogy.

"A wire will do it." He lifted the wire and jammed it where he had just been. "But so will hot water." He put his hands together as if holding water, then formed a little pyramid of twigs and touched them as if lighting them.

He was making a fire. Then he held his cupped hands over his imaginary fire. He was heating water. Did she understand?

She clicked in query fashion.

He returned to his emulation of the machine, then stood and took his joined hands to it and dumped the hot water on its head. Then he emulated the machine again, and did an emulation of collapsing. Hot water had also shorted it out.

Click-toe turned and went back into the house. Fifth followed. She fetched a large pan, filled it with water, and put it over a grill. Then she lit a fire under it.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. He caught her lesser pincers and kissed it. She did understand. At least to this extent.

In due course the water was boiling. They were ready, assuming they could get it to the machine. But maybe smaller containers would do. He found one, and pantomimed dipping hot water and dumping it on a machine. Click-toe clicked, and found more containers.

Time passed. Maybe there would be no third machine. They resumed alternating watches, with one alert and keeping wood for the fire. They both knew they would be best off if no third machine came.

But one did. It happened on Click-toe's watch. He heard her frantic clicks, and peeked out the skylight. The machine was scuttling toward the house. But then it paused, looking around.

Click-toe could have avoided it, but she scooted out in front of it, crossing its line of sight and going into the light brush on the other side of the trail. What was she doing?

Fifth knew. She was distracting the machine so that he could get his water ready. But that had to be inside.

The machine oriented on her and fired, once. Click-toe leaped and flipped over, landing on her back, inert. Had the bullet killed her, or merely knocked her out? Fifth couldn't investigate; he had to be ready with the water.

He continued to watch, peeking as long as the machine was not looking toward the house. He saw it move cautiously up to the lobster. It poked at the tail. There was no reaction. It lifted a pincers and cut off part of the tail. No reaction.

Satisfied that the enemy was dead, the machine turned about and moved toward the house. Fifth immediately ducked down and dipped a bowlful of boiling water. He stood beside the entrance, ready.

The machine entered, slowly. It wanted to be sure that no living lobsters remained, perhaps knowing that they normally were in pairs. Once both were gone, this site would be secured and it could move on.

The pincers appeared within the entrance. Fifth stood still, bowl aloft, waiting. He had to be sure of a good target.

If he struck too soon, the water would miss the brain unit and the machine would remain functional, and deadly. He might not get any second chance.

The machine nudged forward. Its eyestalks swung around, surveying the interior. Then they looked up.

Fifth dumped the water. There was a hiss as it struck the metallic carapace, drenching it. Vapor rose up.

But the machine remained active. It lunged ahead, fully entering the room.

Fifth acted simultaneously, grabbing a second bowl. But before he could fill it, the machine oriented on him.

He had only seconds.

He grabbed the edge of the main pot and pushed it over, onto the machine. The water slopped, burning his hands, but more of it washed over the body of the machine.

There was a crackle and puff of steam. Then the machine collapsed. It had been shorted out.

Fifth ducked down and scrambled out the entrance. He ran to the lobster. "Click-toe! Are you alive?" he cried, fearing the worst.

She clicked. She lived! She had played possum to fool the machine, so that it would move on. It could not afford to dally long, lest there be another lobster in the vicinity. She had even allowed it to cut off part of her tail, and not given any sign of pain or life.

But she had been severely injured. The bullet had entered her torso and done what damage he could not know.

Her tail was leaking ichor. She was in severe pain, perhaps dying.

"Oh, Click-toe!" he said. "You took your wounds to give me time to set up. I got the machine, but at what price?"

She touched one of his hands with the outside of a pincers. He looked—and saw the blistered skin. The boiling water had slopped across his hands, burning them horribly.

Now the pain struck him. He sank to the ground, moaning. There was nothing in his universe but the agony.

Flame appeared. He wasn't sure when she had come, but now she was lifting up his hands, concentrating her healing power on them. The pain was fading.

"Don't heal me!" he cried. "Heal her! I fear she's dying!"

Flame turned to Click-toe, examining her. Then she put her hands on tail and carapace. She was doing it.

It took time, but Flame stayed with it, and managed to restore them both to some semblance of health. She produced another translator, and spoke. "We have repelled the invasion. The machines have all been taken out. Yours was the last one. We did not know where it was, until it struck. You both did well."

"Click-toe did most of it," Fifth said. "She held down the second machine for me, then distracted the third so I could set up an ambush. She risked her life. She took bad injuries."

"Fifth did it. He took them all out," Click-toe clicked. "He took bad injuries, but persevered."

"You were a team," Flame said. "You had the worst assignment, and completed it. Because of you—both of you—no machine escaped to signal the danger. Now come with me." She put out her hands, touching each of them.

They were back in the main hall. Old Tail and the others were there. They clicked applause.

Fifth exchanged a look with Click-toe's eye stalk. What was this?

"I telepathed the scene and situation to Old Tail," Flame explained. "He relayed it to the rest. They all know."

Old Tail clicked. "You are heroes, both. You saved our planet. We honor you."

The clicking applause grew louder.

Fifth was embarrassed, and knew Click-toe was too. "We do not seek this attention," he said.

"We did what we had to do," she said.

Old Tail clicked, and the noise died down. "I am a widower," he clicked. "I thought not to marry again. But your worthiness overwhelms me. I wish to marry you, Click-toe, and provide you some of the status you deserve." He extended his greater pincers.

Now she was really taken aback. She looked again at Fifth. "Do it," he said. "If you like him."

She hesitated, then moved forward and touched his pincers with her own, accepting the offer.

The applause swelled again.

Click-toe would have her marriage, and her leisure, so she could fulfill her ambition to carve soapstone sculptures. It could hardly have happened to a more worthy person.

"Now we must go," Flame said. "We hope we won't have to return, but we will if necessary. Parting."

She touched Fifth, and they were gone.