Rip started to thank the Scot, but his stomach suddenly turned over, and black dizziness flooded in on him. He heard MacFife's sudden exclamation, felt hands on him.
White light blinded him. He shook his head and tried to keep his stomach from acting up. A voice asked, "Were you shielded from those nuclear blasts?"
"No," he said past a constricted throat. "Not from the last. We got some prompt radiation."
"When was that? The exact time?"
Rip tried to remember. He felt horrible. "It was twenty-three-oh-five."
"Bad," the voice said. "He must have taken enough roentgens of gamma and neutrons to reach or exceed the median-lethal dose."
Rip found his voice again. "Santos," he said urgently. "On the asteroid. He got it, too. The rest were shielded."
MacFife snapped orders. The ball-bat would have Santos in the ship within minutes. Being sick in a space suit was about the most unpleasant thing that could happen.
A hypospray tingled against Rip's arm. The drug penetrated, caught a quick lift to all parts of his body through the bloodstream. Consciousness slid away.