The sleeve of his shirt fell across his face, ripped wide. Incredulously, he discovered that everything he wore hung in rags and tatters. Even his shoes were slashed and mud-caked.
How far had he strayed in his fever-wanderings? How long had it been since delirium struck?
He ran his fingers over cheek and chin: a three days' growth of beard at least ... maybe more.
Not that it mattered. For he was alive; and out of horror, hypothesis had been born. If, truly, the materializing monsters and Titan fever were weapons of the beleaguered Helgae, then a truce must somehow be arranged, even if it meant complete human withdrawal from all satellites of Saturn.
That called for action by the Federation: action which the Cartel's chiefs would fight with tooth and nail.
Yet IC might well defeat itself by its own opposition. All apart from any Helgae menace, the Independents would rally instantly to whatever cause should threaten to disrupt the Cartel's mekronal production.
But that could wait; Eileen could not. Here, now, somehow, he had to save her.
Or was that hopeless?
Only time and fate could give the answers. Meanwhile, the least that he could do was try.
Unsteadily, Boone rose. He cursed the fever that had drained his strength.