Bridge Crossing
BY DAVE DRYFOOS
Illustrated by HARRISON
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He knew the city was organized for his
individual defense, for it had been that
way since he was born. But who was his enemy?
In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.
But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.
He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.
But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.
And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, "The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't—"
"I'm not a little boy!" Roddie suddenly shouted. "I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?"
Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.
"A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse—" she chanted.
Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.
"Wuzzums hungry?" Molly cooed, still rocking.
Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.
It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.
He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.
She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. "Hello, boys," she simpered."Looking for a good time?"
Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: "Soldiers, cometo attention and report!"
There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.
"Sir," they chorused, "we have met the enemy and he is ours."
He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.
"Come here, fellow," Roddie said. "Let's see if I can fix that."
The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.
"Death to Invaders!" he yelled, and charged crazily.
Molly stepped in front