“Don’t fire!” Vorgens called out in standard Terran. “There’s a wounded man in here.”
“Bring him out,” the warrior commanded.
“I’ll need help.”
They consulted among themselves. The seemed apathetic, but the olive-skinned priest evidently persuaded them. One of the Komani came while the other remained with the priest, armed and ready. The warrior literally dwarfed Vorgens. His powerful body looked fully human, but his face was feline—wide-spaced cat’s eyes, flat nose, broad slash of a mouth. His ears were a pair of tiny cups atop his skull. The whole face and head was covered with a wiry, greenish fuzz.arriors
With the giant Komanfs help, Vorgens pulled Mcintyre out of the turret and carried him to the shade of me trees atop the hillock. The native priest set the sergeant’s arm while Vorgens applied Terran anesthetics and antibiotics. Together, they put on a plastic splint and binding.
“Are we the only ones left alive?” Vorgens asked the priest in his own language after Mclntyre was safely asleep.
“About half the Komani force survived. They have gone elsewhere now, leaving only these two to search for toot and prisoners. There are two others of your footmen nearby, although one is near death from his wounds.”
The priest led Vorgens across to the windswept ridge on the other side of the cruiser. They both tried for more than an hour to save the wounded trooper—in vain. Then they started back to the grove of trees where Mclntyre was resting. With them came the other Terran prisoner— private Neal Giradaux—tall, lanky, trying hard not to look afraid.