"Noon," Sergeant Hallihan said cryptically.

Others of the B.D.s were going through the same process. It was as if the ground had opened and swallowed them up. Hallihan's heckler blew out a great cloud of smoke and dwindled rapidly away to nothing. In one minute, the unconcerned group of half-animals was lessened by a third. The I.P. men sat with open mouths, craning their necks over companions' shoulders to better witness the event. Although they had seen it many times in the past weeks, the weird exhibition never failed to impress them.

"Those things never miss," one soldier said in awe. "Come noon or midnight, and boom!—away they go, right on the dot. S'crazy."

Captain Staley smiled at the man and walked quickly to the spot where the B.D.s had disappeared, Sergeant Hallihan following. He bent to the ground and scooped up a handful of elliptical, waxy-surfaced seeds.

"Reproduction, man, reproduction," he said. "Their race, just as any other, would come to a quick end if they didn't propagate." He pointed to five B.D.s whose fur was slowly turning yellow and falling from their bodies in brittle patches. "In exactly half an hour, those creatures will be dead, and from these seeds will come new B.D.s to fill the gaps. By actual count, we know there are approximately five hundred of these beings on Titan. At noon and midnight, half of them reproduce, and the half that has already reproduced dies. Thus there are at all times exactly five hundred of the creatures, no more and no less. The disease germs that all of them carry, though fatal to the Squeakers, don't seem to have any ill effects on them. If they are injured, their bodies heal, no matter how deep the wound. So a B.D. lives his full half-day, Titan-reckoning, regardless of accidents and diseases. I would like to remain here and watch these seeds develop into full-grown B.D.s, but we must be getting on to the mine. We shall remain there a week, Sergeant, returning to the garrison at the end of that time for fresh supplies and equipment. Four or five grav-trucks and cranes would make the work much easier, but all of my requisitions to the government for these have been rejected on the grounds the Squeakers might stage an uprising and gain possession of valuable equipment. As I said, we'll have to struggle along as best we can until we can catch the Squeakers in a false move and blast them out of existence. Carry on, Sergeant."

Hallihan snapped to attention as the captain whirled on his heel and returned to his grav-car. Only fifteen minutes rest. Damn!

Under the direction of Hallihan's acid tongue, the men heaved reluctantly to their feet and fell into line, whispering curses as the sergeant roared out the hated, "F'r'ard, harch! Hut! Twuh, hree, foar."

"Ungh! Ungh, ungh ungh. Ungh! Ungh, ungh—" The B.D.s quickly appointed a new sergeant and took up the march with an eagerness that brought grunts of disgust from the begrimed men.

Hallihan glanced back over his shoulder to fix an icy stare on this new nemesis, and his eyes widened with amazement as he caught sight of a disheveled man stumbling along behind them, his arms waving frantically and his lips moving in a soundless yell. The sergeant called a quick halt and waited for the man to overtake them.

It was a soldier from the garrison. Blood trickled from his lips and one arm hung in a queer position at his side. The skin was hideously burnt and blackened where a heat-ray had caught him full in the face. Hallihan knew the man was dying as he collapsed in his arms, insanely babbling: "Managed to 'scape ... got all rest, but managed to 'scape ... must tell you, Serg'nt ... must tell you ... all rest dead...."

Staley's car came to a jarring halt beside them and the alarmed captain jumped out, his emotionless features softening with pity as he saw the man's condition. The soldier was talking again, and Staley bent close to the mutilated mouth to catch all of the feeble words.

"All dead ... all dead ... Squeakers s'prised us 'n' took garrison ... thousand Squeakers ... thousand Squeakers in garrison ... no chance ... all dead...."

Captain Staley straightened, and his eyes were steely as he turned to Hallihan. He waited while Hallihan let the soldier gently to the ground and assigned a man to watch over him.

"It was a gross mistake to leave such a small complement of men at the garrison," Captain Staley said bitterly. "I seriously doubt that we can recapture it. If those creatures have enough intelligence to load and fire the four atomic cannons, our sidearms will be of little use. They'll slaughter us to the last man. But we've got to try, Sergeant. Understand? We've got to try."

"Yes, Sir." Hallihan saluted and turned, grim-lipped, to the waiting men. "We're returning to the garrison, men," he said simply. "'Bout face!"

The B.D.s scattered as the I.P. men plowed through them, but reformed behind the swift-moving columns and scurried anxiously after them. Another group of the curious creatures joined their fellows, swelling the ranks to fifty. They made a strange sight as they hustled along over the rocky ground, the dire-eyed sergeant belching out his eternal, "Ung! Ung, ungh, ugh. Ungh! Ungh, ungh—"

"If only those crazy bucket-heads would help us fight the Squeakers," Hallihan thought unhappily. "But they can't. They're just dumb mimics. They wouldn't know one end of a heat-ray from the other." Then he forgot about the B.D.s and started thinking about his shrieking feet.

They reached the garrison late in the afternoon, and Hallihan began displacing his men about the front of the structure, taking care they didn't expose themselves to the Squeakers' fire. In spite of their caution, five men were torn to shreds as an atomic cannon let go, catching them in the open. Hallihan swore harshly and ducked behind a huge boulder. Those dirty sons meant business.

The B.D.s followed suit, gliding behind upjuttings of rock and yelling one-syllable curses at the embattled garrison. They watched the proceedings with casually-interested eyes, emitting sympathetic "Unghs" whenever a patrolman fell. One of the creatures got his top blown off when he let it stick out too far from behind a rock, but he immediately grew a new one.

The I.P. men weren't faring so well. Most of the Squeakers' shots went wild, but the very intensity of their fire took its toll of the outnumbered patrolmen. Hallihan rushed about from rock to rock, patting his soldiers on the back and shouting words of encouragement in their ears. The B.D. sergeant hurried along behind him, whacking his tentacle across the furry bodies of his compatriots and keeping up a steady flow of loud, well-pleased "Unghs."

Captain Staley was doing his share of the fighting. He crouched behind a round boulder, snapping quick shots at the garrison and drawing back before the Squeakers could locate him. Sergeant Hallihan flopped down beside him and lay staring questioningly at his superior.

"We can't win," Staley said, matter-of-factly. "The garrison was built to withstand just such a siege as this. We have to hit those loopholes in the wall dead-center to bring down a Squeaker. We couldn't have nailed more than half a dozen or so; half a dozen, out of a thousand. Attack from the rear is impossible, because of the steep canyon walls protecting the garrison on three sides. If we could rout them into the open, we could blast them down like cattle. There would be no escape, except through our ranks, and our sharpshooters would take care of any who broke through. But that's just wishful thinking, Sergeant. The Squeakers aren't stupid enough to try charging us. They'll stay holed up in the garrison, picking us off one by one. There's no place to run to. All of our food and water is in the hands of those devils, so we have our choice of fighting it out to the last man or retreating to the mine and wait for thirst and starvation to end our worries. What will it be, Sergeant?"

"We'll fight, Sir," Hallihan said grimly. "Yahoo! Pour it to 'em, men! Give 'em a taste of I.P. hell!"

Above the noise of battle could be heard the rat-like screeching of the Squeakers. The B.D.s answered with their version of the Bronx cheer, and between them and the ground-shaking c-r-rump-c-r-rump of the atomic cannons, the uproar was enough to cause a nervous breakdown in the staunchest habitue of Times Square.

Night fell across the scene, and the battle raged on. The I.P. patrolmen now had a slight advantage, for the large bulk of the garrison was easily discernible in the dim light and they had the locations of the loopholes well-fixed in their minds. After each shot, they shifted positions, crawling over the ground so the Squeakers could not observe their movements. More than one unlucky fellow was found out, though, when a tall B.D. followed him, hurling challenges at the Squeakers in a loud, attention-drawing voice. This hindrance was temporarily done away with when midnight came and fully half of the B.D.s spouted blue smoke from their shaggy tops and dwindled away to silent, waxy seeds. More of them lost their enthusiasm for the battle as their brown fur slowly took on a yellowish hue, and they retired to various dark crannies to sulk away their last few living moments.

"I have an idea, Sir," Hallihan reported excitedly to Captain Staley. "That armored grav-car of yours could easily gain the wall of the garrison without getting knocked out of commission, couldn't it? Well, here's the plan. We use the shovel handles to whip together a ladder long enough to scale the wall. Then me and a couple of the men speed through to the garrison in the grav-car and prop the ladder against the wall before the Squeakers can nail us. Maybe one or two of us will live long enough to get over the wall and open the gates. Then before the Squeakers catch wise, the rest of you charge through the gates and finish 'em off. What do you think, Sir?"

"I must commend you for your valor, Sergeant," Staley said soberly. "But I don't believe your plan would work. Even assuming that one of you would get through to the gates—and you must admit there would be small chance of that—the Squeakers would still be in possession of the cannons, and our men would be easy targets at such close range. We would only bring about our own defeat that much sooner. However, you have given me an idea, Sergeant. As you say, the grav-car could gain the garrison wall, and a man could stand outside with reasonable safety if he was careful not to move in line with a loophole. What is the time, Sergeant?"

"Why, er, five minutes past twelve, Sir—Titan-time."

"Good," Staley said determinedly. "I must put my plan into immediate operation. In ten minutes, Sergeant, my car will move toward the garrison. Instruct your men to direct a heavy fire at the loopholes until I have reached the wall. The more confusion, the better; anything that will draw the Squeakers' attention away from me. After that, well—Inform your men of the plan, Sergeant!"

Hallihan gulped and saluted. "Yes, Sir! That I'll do, Sir!" Cripes! Had the old man lost his marbles? One man against a thousand Squeakers! That was crazier than Hallihan's own idea! Nevertheless, the sergeant raced away to lay down the law to the sleepy-eyed soldiers.

Ten minutes later, Captain Staley's grav-car leaped from behind a boulder and bore down swiftly on the dark garrison. Instantly the patrolmen began howling and blasting at the garrison, drawing a murderous return fire from the mildly-surprised Squeakers. The few B.D.s who were still capable of its added their voices to the din, and Staley's car lurched to a halt at the garrison wall, completely undamaged. The Captain jumped out and fumbled inside the car a moment.

What the hell was he doing, Hallihan wondered. He watched the dark form move cautiously along the rampart and stop at a point where a good-sized upheaval in the ground raised him to within ten feet of the wall's top. The captain went through some strange motions. His hand dug in his pocket and then his arms snapped back like a baseball pitcher's. His hand flicked forward and came down to dig once more in his pocket. Again he went through the movements of throwing something. Hallihan scratched his head puzzledly, straining his eyes to see what Staley did next. That was all. Staley returned to his car and climbed inside, but the speedy little vehicle gave no indication of withdrawing from its position against the garrison wall.

Things quieted down a bit then, and Hallihan nearly went mad waiting for something to happen. Now and then an atomic cannon blasted out at the patrolmen, but the intensity of the Squeakers' fire had diminished considerably from that of earlier in the battle. They had plenty of time. They would wait until morning, when the sun exposed the hiding places of the I.P. men, then it would be curtains for these hated invaders from another world. Hallihan wished he could sleep, but he knew if he did he might never wake up again. He waited....

A minute later, the sergeant's hair almost stood on end as a prolonged, hideous screech of terror beat against his ears, growing, swelling in intensity, and owning a note of stark, unreasoning fear. It came from the garrison; came from the throats of a thousand panicked Squeakers. Hallihan's jaw gaped ludicrously as the gates burst open and hundreds of screaming, scrabbling, sleek-boiled Squeakers spilled into the clearing, fleeing from the garrison as fast as their skinny legs could carry them. Hallihan recovered quickly from his surprise and drew a bead on the leading Squeaker. The creature crumpled under the heat-beam, shrieking in agony as his fellows trampled over him, making pulp of his thrashing, charred body.

"Give 'em hell, boys!" Hallihan shouted exultantly. "Pour it to the rats!"

The I.P. patrolmen needed no coaxing. The terrified Squeakers were already falling by the dozens under their withering fire. The rodent-like animals hesitated, not knowing where to turn. Some of them ran to the canyon walls and tried to scrabble up to safety, but the sharp-eyed soldiers nailed them before they could go a yard. An atomic cannon started banging away from the garrison, and Hallihan knew Captain Staley had plunged his grav-car through the open gates and taken over one of the deadly guns. After that, it was only a question of mopping up....

When morning came, the canyon floor looked like an inverted graveyard. Blackened, torn bodies, all that remained of the Squeakers, littered the clearing. Weary patrolmen emerged from behind the protecting boulders, moving warily, lest some of the creatures were playing possum. But the repulsive animals were quite dead.

"Not more than a dozen got away," Hallihan said, satisfaction in his voice. "They were scared to come through our lines with those B.D.s hangin' around. The ones that did get through will probably die of that strange disease the shaggies carry in their fur. Let's find out about Captain Staley, men."

Staley was waiting for them when they entered the garrison. And so were fifty Barber's Delights! Staley smiled when he saw the question on Hallihan's beefy face. Hallihan recovered enough to salute.

"Everything went well, I trust, Sergeant?" Staley asked.

"Yeah. I mean, yes, Sir. We really cleaned up on those devils. We won't have to worry about them any longer. They come out of here like bats outta hell. How'd they come to blow their tops, Captain?"

"We have the B.D.s to thank for that," Staley said, fondly patting one of the log-bodied creatures on the back.

"I don't see why, Sir," Hallihan said skeptically. "We all know the things ain't got brains enough to fight. Anyway, how in all creation did they get in here? They—" The sergeant stopped abruptly. He clapped a hand to his forehead in feigned exasperation and snorted disgustedly. "Cripes, I'm stupid! I mean, I think I understand now, Sir. You had me wondering, though. I thought you'd cracked up under the strain when you started goin' through them crazy shenanigans in front of the wall. I guess I ought to apologize, Sir."

"No need, Sergeant. I suppose it did seem as if I had gone mad. But I knew our only chance to beat the Squeakers was to get them into the open, and the only way to do that was to inspire great fear in them. The only thing the Squeakers feared was the Barber's Delights, because of the fatal disease they bear in their fur. But obviously, I couldn't induce these dumb creatures to storm the garrison and force the Squeakers into the open. Then I remembered the seeds. The B.D.s' seeds certainly couldn't object if I carried them to the garrison wall and tossed them inside. That is exactly what I did. All there was to do then was wait until the seeds blossomed into full-grown B.D.s and stampeded the Squeakers right into our hands. The Squeakers' poor marksmanship was no match for ours. I believe our work is done here, Sergeant. Experienced miners can take over the job now."

"Yes, Sir!" Hallihan grinned broadly. "The men will be glad to hear that, Sir. But first, we've got a bit of a mess to clean up. Hold on to them shovels, men, you ain't through diggin' yet. Lively, now!"

"Ungh ungh!" a new B.D. sergeant took up the cry, glaring balefully at his fellows. The obedient creatures scooted quickly after the soldiers. Just dumb mimics, but they had saved spaceflight from an early end.