“So I see,” Phule said sternly. “I want a doctor to look at that, Harry. No arguments.”
“Don’t do it, Cap’n,” Harry wheezed, shaking his head. “I’ve been knocked around before, and this’s nothin’ more’n a few cracked ribs. I’m pretty sure the Max has the local medics in her pocket, and you bring one of ’em up here, she’s gonna know I’m with you, and maybe start lookin’ around to see who else might be Legionnaires in civilian clothes.”
The commander hesitated.
“Please, Cap’n,” the sergeant pressed. “I’ll be all right … really. Just let me get some sleep, and I’ll be good as new.”
Phule pursed his lips, then nodded.
“Beeker,” he said, “I want you to stay close to Harry tonight. Watch him close. If there’s any indication he’s hurt worse than he’s telling us, I want you to call me … cancel that. Call a doctor, then call me.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“The rest of you, clear out of here and let the man get some rest. We’ll keep you posted as to his condition.”
“One more thing, Cap’n,” the prone sergeant said, raising his head painfully.
“What is it, Harry?”
“The bulletproof material our uniforms are made of? Well, Stilman’s outfit was made of the same stuff, probably standard issue for their troops as well. I don’t think our tranquilizer guns will work against it.”
“Don’t worry, C.H.,” Phule said grimly. “I already planned to have heavier armaments issued to everyone and to put an around-the-clock guard on Gunther. It looks like things are starting to get rough.”
“Yeah, well, you might want to find that salesman and see about gettin’ some of your money back.” Harry grinned humorlessly as he let his head ease back down. “That stuff may stop penetration, but it ain’t much good against impact. If he wants to argue, I bet there are four people who will be glad to give him a demonstration that he’s wrong!”