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purposes,
was over. Nothing effective opposed them.
    And then the first claws appeared. And overnight the complexion of the war changed.
    The claws were awkward, at first. Slow. The Ivans knocked them off almost as fast as they
crawled out of their under-ground tunnels. But then they got better, faster, and more cunning. Factories,
all on Terra, turned them out. Factories a long way underground, behind the Soviet lines, factories that
had once made atomic projectiles, now almost forgotten.
    The claws got faster, and they got bigger. New types appeared, some with feelers, some that
flew. There were a few jumping kinds. The best technicians on the moon were working on designs,
making them more and more intricate, more flexible. They became uncanny; the Ivans were having a lot
of trouble with them. Some of the little claws were learning to hide themselves, burrowing down into the
ash, lying in wait.
    And then they started getting into the Russian bunkers, slipping down when the lids were raised
for air and a look around. One claw inside a bunker, a churning sphere of blades and metal, that was
enough. And when one got in others followed. With a weapon like that the war couldn't go on much
longer.
    Maybe it was already over.
    Maybe he was going to hear the news. Maybe the Politburo had decided to throw in the sponge.
Too bad it had taken so long. Six years. A long time for war like that, the way they had waged it. The
automatic retaliation disks, spinning down all over Russia, hundreds of thousands of them. Bacteria
crystals. The Soviet guided missiles, whistling through the air. The chain bombs.
    And now this, the robots, the claws. The claws weren't like other weapons. They were alive,
from any practical standpoint, whether the Governments wanted to admit it or not. They were not
machines. They were living things, spinning, creeping, shaking themselves up suddenly from the gray ash
and darting towards a man, climbing up him, rushing for his throat. And that was what they had been
designed to do. Their job.
    They did their job well. Especially lately, with the new designs coming up. Now they repaired
themselves. They were on their own. Radiation tabs protected the UN troops, but if a man lost his tab he
was fair game for the claws, no matter what his uniform. Down below the surface automatic machinery
stamped them out. Human beings stayed a long way off. It was too risky; nobody wanted to be around
them. They were left to themselves. And they seemed to be doing all right. The new designs were faster,
more complex. More efficient.
    Apparently they had won the war.
    Major Hendricks lit a second cigarette. The landscape depressed him. Nothing but ash and ruins.
He seemed to be alone, the only living thing in the whole world. To the right the ruins of a town rose up, a
few walls and heaps of debris. He tossed the dead match away, increasing his pace. Suddenly he
stopped, jerking up his gun, his body tense. For a minute it looked like -
     
    few walls and heaps of debris. He tossed the dead match away, increasing his pace. Suddenly he
stopped, jerking up his gun, his body tense. For a minute it looked like -
     
    The boy stopped. Hendricks lowered his gun. The boy stood silently, looking at him. He was
small, not very old. Perhaps eight. But it was hard to tell. Most of the kids who remained were stunted.
He wore a faded blue sweater, ragged with dirt, and short pants. His hair was long and matted. Brown
hair. It hung over his face and around his ears. He held something in his arms.
    "What's that you have?" Hendricks said sharply.
    The boy held it out. It was a toy, a bear. A teddy bear.
    The boy's eyes were large, but without expression.
    Hendricks relaxed. "I don't want it. Keep it."
    The boy hugged the bear again.
    "Where do you live?" Hendricks said.
    "In there."
    "The ruins?"
    "Yes."
    "Underground?"
    "Yes."
    "How many are there?"
    "How -- how many?"
    "How many of you. How big's your settlement?"
    The