But you don’t walk away on another cap trooper, not while there’s a chance he’s still alive — not in Rasczak’s Roughnecks. Not in any outfit of the Mobile Infantry. You try to make pickup.
I heard Jelly order: “Heads up, lads! Close to retrieval circle and interdict! On the bounce!”
And I heard the beacon’s sweet voice: “ — to the everlasting glory of the infantry, shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young!” and I wanted to head for it so bad I could taste it.
Instead I was headed the other way, closing on Ace’s beacon and expending what I had left of bombs and fire pills and anything else that would weigh me down. “Ace! You got his beacon?”
“Yes. Go back, Useless!”
“I’ve got you by eye now. Where is he?”
“Right ahead of me, maybe quarter mile. Scram! He’s my man.”
I didn’t answer; I simply cut left oblique to reach Ace about where he said Dizzy was.
And found Ace standing over him, a couple of skinnies flamed down and more running away. I lit beside him. “Let’s get him out of his armor — the boat’ll be down any second!”
“He’s too bad hurt!”
I looked and saw that it was true — there was actually a hole in his armor and blood coming out. And I was stumped. To make a wounded pickup you get him out of his armorthen you simply pick him up in your arms — no trouble in a powered suit — and bounce away from there. A bare man weighs less than the ammo and stuff you’ve expended. “What’ll we do?”
“We carry him,” Ace said grimly. “Grab ahold the left side of his belt.” He grabbed the right side, we manhandled Flores to his feet. “Lock on! Nowby the numbers, stand by to jump — one — two!”
We jumped. Not far, not well. One man alone couldn’t have gotten him off the ground; an armored suit is too heavy. But split it between two men and it can be done.
We jumped — and we jumped — and again, and again, with Ace calling it and both of us steadying and catching Dizzy on each grounding. His gyros seemed to be out.
We heard the beacon cut off as the retrieval boat landed on it — I saw it landand it was too far away. We heard the acting platoon sergeant call out: “In succession, prepare to embark!”
And Jelly called out, “Belay that order!”
We broke at last into the open and saw the boat standing on its tail, heard the ululation of its take-off warning — saw the platoon still on the ground around it, in interdiction circle, crouching behind the shield they had formed.
Heard Jelly shout, “In succession, man the boat — move!”
And we were still too far away! I could see them peel off from the first squad, swarm into the boat as the interdiction circle tightened.
And a single figure broke out of the circle, came toward us at a speed possible only to a command suit.
Jelly caught us while we were in the air, grabbed Flores by his Y-rack and helped us lift.
Three jumps got us to the boat. Everybody else was inside but the door was still open. We got him in and closed it while the boat pilot screamed that we had made her miss rendezvous and now we had all bought it! Jelly paid no attention to her; we laid Flores down and lay down beside him. As the blast hit us Jelly was saying to himself, “All present, Lieutenant. Three men hurt — but all present!”
I’ll say this for Captain Deladrier: they don’t make any better pilots. A rendezvous, boat to ship in orbit, is precisely calculated. I don’t know how, but it is, and you don’t change it. You can’t.
Only she did. She saw in her scope that the boat had failed to blast on time; she braked back, picked up speed again — and matched and took us in, just by eye and touch, no time to compute it. If the Almighty ever needs an assistant to keep the stars in their courses, I know where he can look.