All four team members hit the deck, staring at the large hole.

Two more quickly followed, punching through the metal.

Rip said, “How’d that wall we were behind earlier survive the dynamite?”

“Probably thinner here Sergeant. And this looks to be a 9-50.”

“What’s that? I’ve heard of a 50 caliber gun.”

“A 9-50 is almost twice as big.”

Rip’s face dropped. He had fired a .50 caliber machine gun in Basic, with bullets half an inch in diameter, and it was no picnic to shoot. He couldn’t imagine how much power might be behind something slinging bullets twice that size, almost a full inch in diameter if it was indeed a .950 caliber.

“Any ideas, team?” Bixby said. “We’re pinned down here, good and well, dash it all.”

The huge 9-50 roared again, punching yet another hole in the wall near Bixby.

“How many rounds does that thing hold?” Rip asked while trying to hug the floor.

“Seven,” Bixby said. “I doubt it fires again without a clear shot. I say, Sergeant. Why don’t you try jumping on it with that enhanced wrench of yours? I imagine that tool will give you access to the tin man’s control panels.”

“Sure. If I can avoid getting shot.”

“What a mare’s nest. We need a distraction, some way to get the robot to use up its remaining shots.”

“I’ve got just the thing, sir.”

Chance reached into a pocket and pulled out a toy windup mouse.

“Is that thing really going to work?” Rip said, eyeing it across the floor.

“You’d be surprised how useful a windup mouse is in many situations. It’s as much a part of an infiltrator’s toolkit as lock picks.”

He quickly turned the key on top and wound the toy all the way up. Then he carefully crawled closer to the door and set it down just inside the other room.

When he let it go, the toy mouse scurried off on the floor.

They heard a loud boom as the giant gun fired, then another as the robot tried to track the little toy.

Finally a third shot was accompanied by the sound of the little contraption exploding.

“That’s seven,” Chance said, giving Rip a wink. “The emergency off switch on those things is usually behind the panel on the back. Good luck.”

“I hope that was seven,” Rip said, standing up. “And I hope this isn’t some new model with a bigger magazine or something.”

He cautiously peeked through the open door.

A ten-foot tall metal monstrosity stood in a large open room, with a cylindrical head and a square torso. A huge gun barrel protruded from its left forearm, held up in a fist at the moment.

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“Gun metal gray is the color of choice around here for everything,” Rip said.

When the machine did not fire at him, he felt safe enough to commit himself to the room.

“Halt! Do not attempt to come closer! This is a restricted area!”

Rip realized the machine “spoke” with a little round speaker for a mouth, like the kind used in old radios. That accounted for the tinny sound of its voice.

Briefly, Rip wondered how the voice was recorded. The robot did not appear overly sophisticated.

He pulled the wrench out of the big front pocket on the front of his overalls and broke into a run.

The machine tracked him with the gun, still resting on top of the machine’s left wrist. But it did not fire. Apparently Chance was correct about the ammo being all spent.

Rip gained speed and jumped at the last moment, reaching for the robot’s shoulders. He landed with a painful slap, flesh against metal. But he held on.

The machine immediately clubbed him with its right hand, striking Rip repeatedly.

He grunted under the blows, but swiveled to the back, hanging onto the robot’s head while climbing over to its back.

Here, hanging with one arm wrapped around the “neck,” he found the panel Chance mentioned. Four bolts fastened it onto the machine’s back. He fitted the wrench on one and found to his surprise it fit perfectly.

“Lefty-loosey!” he said, grunting as he pulled.

The robot slammed its arm into Rip’s, leaving bruises.

The bolt spun out and dropped to the floor. Rip hurried to loosen the next one.

The robot changed tactics, and stepped backward slowly until it slammed into the wall, pressing into Rip.

The Sergeant grunted but the second bolt fell with a ping to the floor. He quickly shifted to the third one. Things went faster now that he knew what he was doing.

The robot thudded him into the metal wall again. He grunted but held on as the third bolt dropped out.

At this point, the panel swiveled open, revealing a breadboard and glowing vacuum tubes.

“What in the world?”

The robot twirled around now, trying to shake him off. Rip risked a lighter grip so he could duck his head lower for a better look inside. The robot’s motions grew wilder, building up centrifugal force as it twirled and gyrated, trying to throw him off its back.

At last Rip found a small red button, the size of a typewriter key, to the right of the glowing breadboard. He reached inside and pushed it just as the robot jerked its torso, finally flinging him off.

Rip hit the floor and rolled.

The bot froze, the jerking motion suspended, its arms outstretched.

Rip looked up at and slowly pocketed his wrench. He felt bruised all over, especially his lower arms where the machine had wailed on him.

“Jolly good show,” Bixby said, walking in while Chance scanned the room for additional threats.

Blair had a concerned look on her face and ran forward to check on Rip.

Bixby headed for the door in the back room.

“Let us hope this leads to our lost party,“ he said, trying the latch.

Unlike the outer doors, this one remained unlocked. It swung open on rusty hinges.

An older man wearing soda-bottle glasses turned at the noise and stared at him. He stood chained to the controls for the giant machine filling up the space.

He had to stand, Rip thought, because there was not much space left over. The entire room held panel after panel of breadboards with glowing vacuum tubes. A low hummed filled the room.

Rip placed the difference in atmosphere he detected earlier. The whole place seemed to have a charge in the air, and this must be the source. He could smell the ionization.

Off to one side, a gigantic spherical transformer fizzled and sparked. Bolts of energy crackled around it, like dancing streaks of lightning.

Rip stared at it with sudden recognition.

“Is that a Tesla coil?”

But no one seemed to hear him. They were all focused on the objective of their mission.

“Dr. Oggolopoli, a pleasure. I am Baron Swathmore, Colonel Bixby in the Third Cavalry. We have arrived to bring you home, my good man.”

The man’s wispy white hair floated in a gossamer halo around his baldpate. His eyes seemed twice their normal size behind the thick glasses.

He blinked at Bixby but said not a word. Then he looked at others in the room, his head slowly moving to take them all in.

When he came to Rip, he stopped. The giant eyes gazed intently at him, without blinking.

Slowly, the old man raised his free hand, the one not shackled, and pointed a finger at the Sergeant.

“You! You are from another world, yes?”

All eyes in the room turned to stare at Rip, making him feel slightly uncomfortable.

“Uh . . . yes?”