One night, finally, the citizens of Parmahansa Corp II managed to stop a
Screecher in its tracks. They were an impious lot, and very determined.
They even took the extra precaution of not thinking about their
countermeasures, to guard against possible telepathy.
   The Screecher was tracked by several cameras, which calculated its
rate and path, computed, then fired several pocket missiles
simultaneously from pneumatic tubes in the ductwork. When the smoke
cleared, the citizens, ears ringing, saw the wreckage of the Screecher
strewn out across the tarmac.
   They had succeeded. They stood around disappointed that it had been so
easy. Then one yelled and pointed.
   The pieces of wreckage were rolling away.
   Slowly and then with more speed and purpose, the bits began to move
uphill. One grizzled and brave veteran plucked one from the ground — he
saw tiny moist wheels whizzing on needle-like axles. Then he was stung
with a nasty electric shock. He dropped the thing in surprise.
   The rest maintained a respectful distance as the bits left.