Doorstep. Keith Laumer

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      Doorstep

       The general was bucking for his other star—and this miserable contraption bucked right back!

      Steadying his elbow on the kitchen table serving as desk, Brigadier General Straut leveled his binoculars and stared out through the second-floor window of the farmhouse at the bulky object lying canted at the edge of the wood lot. He watched the figures moving over and around the gray mass, then flipped the lever on the field telephone at his elbow.

      “How are your boys doing, Major?”

      “General, since that box this morning—”

      “I know all about the box, Bill. So does Washington by now. What have you got that’s new?”

      “Sir, I haven’t got anything to report yet. I have four crews on it, and she still looks impervious as hell.”

      “Still getting the sounds from inside?”

      “Intermittently, General.”

      “I’m giving you one more hour, Major. I want that thing cracked.”

      The general dropped the phone back on its cradle and peeled the cellophane from a cigar absently. He had moved fast, he reflected, after the State Police notified him at nine forty-one last night. He had his men on the spot, the area evacuated of civilians, and a preliminary report on its way to Washington by midnight. At two thirty-six, they had discovered the four-inch cube lying on the ground fifteen feet from the huge object—missile, capsule, bomb—whatever it was. But now—several hours later—nothing new.

      The field phone jangled. Straut grabbed it up.

      “General, we’ve discovered a thin spot up on the top side. All we can tell so far is that the wall thickness falls off there....”

      “All right. Keep after it, Bill.”

      This was more like it. If Brigadier General Straut could have this thing wrapped up by the time Washington awoke to the fact that it was something big—well, he’d been waiting a long time for that second star. This was his chance, and he would damn well make the most of it.

      *