He pointed with his pistol. “This one—here in the middle—that was Okatar.”
Mclntyre pulled himself up. There was an ugly gash long the side of his head. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get outta here.”
The tent was filling with smoke now, and they could hear the shouts of fighting men approaching. The three Marines were still at the entrance, but two of them obviously were badly wounded.
“I’ll get ’em,” Giradaux said. He touched the control stud at his waist that activated his jetbelt and rocketed across the room to the first of the wounded men. The trooper hurled his last grenade at the oncoming Komani, then took off on his own jetbelt and started toward Mclntyre.
The sergeant and Merdon had joined the one unhurt Marine, at the entrance he was holding. Flames were licking up the side of the tent, and the Komani were beginning to organize their frantic, helter-skelter attempts to recapture the tent.
Before Ciradaux could reach the other wounded Marine, the trooper keeled over and a horde of Komani boiled into the room.
Without an instant’s hesitation, Giradaux jetted straight upward, sliced open the tent’s dome with his beamgun as he flew, and disappeared through the roof.
Merdon took off at the same instant, leaping through the entrance and spiralling up around the tent’s curving dome. Mclntyre grabbed the wounded Marine and started to follow the Shinarian, but the trooper had collapsed and could not control his jetbelt. Mclntyre hesitated for a moment—just long enough for a Komani warrior to reach him with a ceremonial broadsword gleaming wickedly in his upraised hand.