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. But they only circled the drop ship.
"Why haven't they fired on it, my lord?" Cato carded the battle into the enemy camp, so to speak.
Dixter, realizing this, offered a brief apology. "Sorry, Captain. You know your job. And--unfortunately, at times like this--I know mine. That drop ship is designed to withstand enemy attack from the ground or the air. The shielding is damn near impenetrable. You can drop bombs on it all day long and maybe put a dent in the damn thing.
"Oh, sure," he added, in response to Cato's frown, "we could destroy it with a few plasma missiles, which would also fuse together in one gigantic metal lump every single civilian vehic in that parking lot. Not to mention the civilians themselves."
"Yes, my lord." Cato rubbed his smooth-shaven chin.
"Besides"--Dixter spoke softly, almost to himself--'Tm not certain we should do anything to that drop ship."
"Sir?" Cato was clearly appalled.
"Just a hunch, Captain. Just a hunch. And of course we'll do something." Dixter was soothing. "Just as soon as we figure out what."
"Good God, my lord! Look!"
One side of the drop ship opened wide. A hulking machine--large and massive and mottled gray-green in color--lurched out. The thing was belching great quantifies of black smoke. People in the vicinity began shrieking in terror.
"Analyze that gas," Cato ordered over the comm
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