watched unsympathetically while he examined it.
"Won't make much difference," he
said. Crag managed a weak grin. "Remember, we're angels of mercy."
"Yeah, carrying
Lucifer."
The
helmet proved intact. Crag sighed and signaled to move on. They hoisted the
stretcher and resumed then-slow trek toward the Aztec.
Crag's
body itched from perspiration. His face was. hot ,
flushed and his heart thudded in his ears. LarkweQ's breathing became a harsh
rasp in the interphones. Occasionally Prochaska checked their progress. Crag
thought Nagel was making damned poor time. He looked at his oxygen meter
several times, finally beginning to worry. Larkwell put his fears into words.
"We'd
better drop this character and light out for the Aztec," he growled.
"We're not going to make it this way."
"Nagel should reach us soon."
"Soon won't be soon enough."
"Nagel! Get on the ball," Crag snapped curtly into the interphones.
"Moving right along." The oxygen man's voice was a flat
unperturbed twang. Crag fought to keep his temper under control. Nagel's calm
was maddening. But it was then-necks that were in danger. He repressed his
anger, wondering again at the wisdom of trying to save the enemy crewman. If he lived?
In
short time Larkwell was grumbling again. He was on the point of telling him to
shut up when Nagel appeared in the distance. He was moving slowly, stooped
under the weight of the spare oxygen cylinders. He appeared somewhat like an
ungainly robot, moving with mechanical steps—the movements of a machine rather
than a man. Crag kept his eyes on him. Nagel never faltered, never changed
pace. His figure grew steadily nearer, a dark mechanical blob against the gray
ash. Crag suddenly realized that Nagel wasn't stalling; he simply lacked the
strength for what was expected of him. Somehow the knowledge added to his
despair.
They
met a short time later. Nagel dropped his burden in the ash and squirmed to
straighten his body. He looked curiously at the figure in the stretcher, then
at Crag.
Itoesn't make much sense to me," he said critically.
"Where are we going to get the oxygen to keep this bird alive?"
"That's my worry," Crag snapped
shortly. "Seems to me it's mine," Nagel pointed out. "I'm the oxygen
man."
Crag probed the voice for defiance. There was
none. Nagel was merely stating a fact—an honest worry. His temper was subsiding
when Larkwell spoke.
"He's
right. This bird's a parasite. We ought to heave him in the rill. Hell, we've
got worries enough without . ."
"Knock
it off," Crag snarled harshly. There was a short silence during which the
others looked defiantly at him.
"Stop
the bickering and let's get going," Crag ordered. He fek on the verge of
an explosion, wanted to lash out Take, it- easy, he told himself.
With
fresh oxygen and three men the remainder of the trip was easier. Prochaska was
waiting for them. He helped haul the Bandit crewman to the safety of the space
cabin. When it was pressurized they removed their suits and Crag began to strip
the heavy space garments from the injured man's body. He finished and stepped
back, letting him lie on the deck.
They stood in a tight half-circle, silendy
studying the inert figure. It was that of an extremely short man, about five
feet, Crag judged, and thin A thinness without emaciation. His face was
pale, haggard and, like the Aztec crewmen's, covered with stubbly beard. He
appeared in his late thirties or early forties
but Crag surmised he was much younger. His chest rose and fell irregularly and
his breathing was harsh. Crag knelt and checked his pulse. It was shallow,
fast.
"I
don't know." He got to his feet. "He may have internal injuries ... or just a bad concussion,"
"To hell with him," spat Larkwell.
Prochaska
said, "Hell either five or die. In either case there's not much we can do
about it." His voice wasn't callous, just matter-of-fact. Crag nodded
agreement. The Chief turned his back. Crag was brooding over the possible
complications of having
"Won't make much difference," he
said. Crag managed a weak grin. "Remember, we're angels of mercy."
"Yeah, carrying
Lucifer."
The
helmet proved intact. Crag sighed and signaled to move on. They hoisted the
stretcher and resumed then-slow trek toward the Aztec.
Crag's
body itched from perspiration. His face was. hot ,
flushed and his heart thudded in his ears. LarkweQ's breathing became a harsh
rasp in the interphones. Occasionally Prochaska checked their progress. Crag
thought Nagel was making damned poor time. He looked at his oxygen meter
several times, finally beginning to worry. Larkwell put his fears into words.
"We'd
better drop this character and light out for the Aztec," he growled.
"We're not going to make it this way."
"Nagel should reach us soon."
"Soon won't be soon enough."
"Nagel! Get on the ball," Crag snapped curtly into the interphones.
"Moving right along." The oxygen man's voice was a flat
unperturbed twang. Crag fought to keep his temper under control. Nagel's calm
was maddening. But it was then-necks that were in danger. He repressed his
anger, wondering again at the wisdom of trying to save the enemy crewman. If he lived?
In
short time Larkwell was grumbling again. He was on the point of telling him to
shut up when Nagel appeared in the distance. He was moving slowly, stooped
under the weight of the spare oxygen cylinders. He appeared somewhat like an
ungainly robot, moving with mechanical steps—the movements of a machine rather
than a man. Crag kept his eyes on him. Nagel never faltered, never changed
pace. His figure grew steadily nearer, a dark mechanical blob against the gray
ash. Crag suddenly realized that Nagel wasn't stalling; he simply lacked the
strength for what was expected of him. Somehow the knowledge added to his
despair.
They
met a short time later. Nagel dropped his burden in the ash and squirmed to
straighten his body. He looked curiously at the figure in the stretcher, then
at Crag.
Itoesn't make much sense to me," he said critically.
"Where are we going to get the oxygen to keep this bird alive?"
"That's my worry," Crag snapped
shortly. "Seems to me it's mine," Nagel pointed out. "I'm the oxygen
man."
Crag probed the voice for defiance. There was
none. Nagel was merely stating a fact—an honest worry. His temper was subsiding
when Larkwell spoke.
"He's
right. This bird's a parasite. We ought to heave him in the rill. Hell, we've
got worries enough without . ."
"Knock
it off," Crag snarled harshly. There was a short silence during which the
others looked defiantly at him.
"Stop
the bickering and let's get going," Crag ordered. He fek on the verge of
an explosion, wanted to lash out Take, it- easy, he told himself.
With
fresh oxygen and three men the remainder of the trip was easier. Prochaska was
waiting for them. He helped haul the Bandit crewman to the safety of the space
cabin. When it was pressurized they removed their suits and Crag began to strip
the heavy space garments from the injured man's body. He finished and stepped
back, letting him lie on the deck.
They stood in a tight half-circle, silendy
studying the inert figure. It was that of an extremely short man, about five
feet, Crag judged, and thin A thinness without emaciation. His face was
pale, haggard and, like the Aztec crewmen's, covered with stubbly beard. He
appeared in his late thirties or early forties
but Crag surmised he was much younger. His chest rose and fell irregularly and
his breathing was harsh. Crag knelt and checked his pulse. It was shallow,
fast.
"I
don't know." He got to his feet. "He may have internal injuries ... or just a bad concussion,"
"To hell with him," spat Larkwell.
Prochaska
said, "Hell either five or die. In either case there's not much we can do
about it." His voice wasn't callous, just matter-of-fact. Crag nodded
agreement. The Chief turned his back. Crag was brooding over the possible
complications of having
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