Already there was the stench of melting plastic, and the blaze was spreading. There were secondary explosions; powerful concussions that rattled doors and windows. Men and women were running in the street as far as the eye could see.

At last, there came the wail of an approaching siren. A mechi-engine. The people began to cheer. The mechi-engines were a pleasure to watch. They selected the core of a big fire and subdued it with computer-directed foamers, never erring.

Allen was becoming more and more excited. The people were crowding to the parapets to watch. Could one mechi-engine handle a fire this big? There was really very little doubt, but the fire blazed, roaring and radiating heat for blocks around. Lenox Avenue was a scene from hell.

Allen stood and listened. The sirens drew closer. His fingers were curled around the same polyethylene brick he had brandished that afternoon. The engine hove into view, rounding the corner at 110th and swinging north on Lenox. The crowd cheered it on. Allen knew no one would let him throw the brick if he was spotted. He stuffed it under his dashiki and waited. He would make everyone fight before he was finished.

Someone touched his sleeve. It was Frank. Their eyes met in the red glow of the fire. Frank's face was twisted in a silent question: "You?" Allen nodded. Frank's eyes gleamed and he too picked up a brick; together they waited.

The engine had slowed in the street. It was selecting the best spot from which to attack the fire. The siren stopped and the people could hear the whine of heavy-duty electric motors. The engine was like a bull preparing to ram the heart of the fire. It cruised slowly up the street, sensors out and working, and it was like an animal. Closer, a little closer, the great golden bell clanged slowly as though the mechi-engine was thinking.

Allen knew if he didn't act soon, the engine would grapple with the fire, win, and leave unmolested. He stood and hurled the brick, quickly stooping and following it with another.

"Fight, fight, fight!" he screamed. Frank was throwing bricks beside him. The crowd watched, amazed. The stunned people looked on as the unlikely pair threw bricks, bottles and whatever else they could get their hands on.

The engine began again to move. Frank stopped and froze, seized with panic. The engine was coming with surprising speed, and it was ignoring the fire. It squealed to a stop almost directly below Pigeon City. Allen could almost hear the computers whirring and clicking. A ladder was climbing toward them, a hose at the edge. The crowd stood transfixed. All eyes were on that hose. "Gas," someone whispered fearfully.

The ladder extended, smoothly, slickly reaching for the roof from which the bricks had been thrown. The engine was programmed to pick up the dissidents; the fire raged on unchecked.

"Fight! Fight!" Allen screamed. He tore a loose brick from the parapet and threw it. It struck the onrushing ladder and bounced harmlessly to the street below. "Fight or be retrieved," he yelled.

That did it. First one and then another citizen joined in the fray. The ladder hesitated under the bombardment of bottles and bricks. The hose began to spew gas prematurely, still a few floors below. The ladder weaved like a cobra. The people cheered. It was the first time a machine had been deterred, but it was still coming. Everyone knew it would get them unless it was rendered absolutely unfunctional. The missile throwing became serious, the marksmen among them taking careful aim before throwing whatever small or large objects they could find.

Curtiss tapped Allen's back. Allen turned, and the two friends eyed each other in this moment of crisis.

"Help me," Allen said simply. "Help."

Curtiss beckoned to Allen and together they walked through the intent crowd of fighting men. Allen stopped when they reached Curtiss' coop; he understood immediately. They went behind it and gave a mighty heave. The coop rocked a little, but it wasn't until others came and lent a hand that they were able to budge it. Under pressure of massed coordinated effort, the huge coop finally yielded. It toppled over on its side, and the birds within squawked and complained. Feathers drifted inside the plastiscreen enclosure. The men pushed the big coop, and it went side over side through the crowd, leaving a trail of broken bits of plastiwood.

At last, the coop stood ready on the roof's edge. The ladder was a few yards away and climbing, bricks and bottles pelted the engine below. The people could easily hear sensors clicking as the ladder probed and sought. The hose spit thick yellow gas.

Three men began to rock the coop. "One!" they shouted, and it tilted a little then swayed in again. The men met the return swing and pushed back. "Two!" The massive coop swung far out over the street and slipped a little before swinging in once more.

"Three!" they shouted, and the pigeons were gone forever.

Everyone ran to watch as the huge coop disappeared over the edge of the parapet, smashed into the extending ladder and hurtled straight at the engine below.

It snapped through two clotheslines on the way down, and by the time it struck the engine in the street it was an impossibly huge crate, shrouded in flying sheets and flapping assorted clothes. Broken ropes whipped the air around it and it struck the engine with a tremendous crash, crushing it under its colossal weight and impact.

A machine had been beaten. The roar of the fire was a lullaby. The street had gone suddenly quiet. A machine had tried to get them, and they had stopped it. "God," someone whispered, and everyone turned, startled.

The fire seemed to blaze with renewed life. It devoured and spread, eating and destroying unhampered.

Everyone rushed down to the crippled engine. It lay smoking and twisted, and there was glee to the point of madness. The liberated crowd pounced on the disabled machine and began to rip off parts, running and dancing. Allen reached the street a little after the others, and he hobbled impotently from man to man, begging them to stop. The mob laughed and celebrated, ignoring Allen.

Curtiss was a hero. The fire roared on unimpeded now, and melting plastic began to flow like liquid wax. It immediately began to harden. Children rolled the cooling stuff into balls and threw them back into the fire, then laughing, at each other.

There was great jubilation, but Allen hobbled quickly from one man to another. "Stop!" he yelled. "Get off the streets! Get off the streets!" He was beside himself, but the people would not listen. Allen was going hoarse.

He spotted Curt. Curtiss was sitting on the curb in the flickering shadows. In his hands, he cupped a broken and dying bird. Allen scrabbled over to him and squeezed his shoulder. Curt looked up slowly, but he did not seem to see.

"Curt, Curt, I can't make them stop. They won't listen." His face was twisted with fear and emotion. Something in the urgency of his voice broke through and Curt slowly got to his feet, leaving the pigeon on the ground beside him.

"Listen to what?" Curtiss said softly.

"The sirens, man. The sirens! The vans are coming!"

Curtiss cocked his head and listened carefully. Sure enough, over the noise of the fire, the roar of the jubilant crowd, drifted the distant whine of approaching multiple sirens. The riot vans. Slowly, Curtiss turned and faced Allen.

"Listen Curt, we've got to . . ."

But Curt would no longer listen. He clenched his fist and suddenly swung with all his might so that Allen caught it in the pit of his stomach and went down, twisting and gasping.

"You've gone too far," Curtiss hissed. "You talk too much. You always talked too much." Curtiss drew back his foot. He shook with hate and fear.

Someone spotted him and ran over. It was Franklyn, happy as a lark in the dancing glow of the blaze. "Curtiss, what are you doing, brother?" His mouth worked on the ever-present lemon yellow candy. "What do you think you're about to do?" He laughed and seized Curtiss, spinning him away from Allen.

"What am I about to do?" Curtiss pushed Frank off. "Listen, brother. Just listen and you tell me what I'm supposed to do."

Then they listened together, and by now, the wail of the mechivan's sirens was much closer. "No," Franklyn whispered softly.

But it was undeniably true. The sirens were very close now, unmistakable even above the snarl and crackle of that magnificent fire. One by one, the men stopped running in the streets, until Lenox Avenue was filled with trapped rioters.

Gutilty as children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, they stood, rooted to their places, like so many chessmen. The fire was a tall red beacon, telling on them. Someone looked as though he wished it would go away.

One man had the dead engine's bell, and he looked around cunningly before stuffing it up in his shirt. Then he too froze, but the machine's gold bell dropped to the street and began rolling toward the gutter, clanging sadly.

There was no where to run. The vans could be heard encircling the block now. Curtiss turned and walked away. He knew he too would be retrieved, but he had to be as far from Allen as possible. Allen forced himself to rise and follow Curtiss. His steel foot made keeping up difficult, but he persisted, scurrying after Curt and calling to him.

"Listen to me," Allen was saying. "Would you please listen?"

"Get away from me, Allen." Curtiss' voice was bitter. The hands swinging at his sides were fists. "I'm warning you brother, stay back. You've done enough."

Allen took a deep breath and struggled to keep pace. "Just two words brother," he panted. "Please let me say these two last words."

Curtiss was furious, but he spun and waited, glaring at Allen. Allen caught up. He looked like a madman in the reflected firelight, the people around them stood stock still waiting for their roundup as helplessly as cattle.

"What two words could you possibly have for me that could change any of this?" Curtiss said sadly.

Allen reached under his dashiki and produced two gas masks. His eyes gleamed wickedly, and he said, "Trojan Horse."

Click HERE for Part VI