Garth put Paula directly behind him. The sight of her wan, drawn face made him feel a little frightened, though not for himself. He was remembering Moira, who had died on Earth years ago.
Eleven men and a girl—and he was the only one who could save them.
Garth made sure that the packs were in place on the men's shoulders. He took another drink, pulled out one of the guns, and gave the command to march.
Like automatons the line followed him.
If the day before had been hell, this was double-distilled hell.
Within an hour, Garth's nerves were scraped raw. He had to be constantly alert. The wrenching strain of watching for camouflaged menace made his eyes ache. When movement came, he had to be ready. Ready to squeeze the trigger....
He had to have eyes in the back of his head. For Sampson, at the tail of the procession, was as helpless as the others.
Liquor kept Garth going. Without it, he would have collapsed. By noon he was forced to call a halt, his eyes throbbing with the strain. But even then he could not relax. Danger waited everywhere.
He never remembered what happened that afternoon. He must have acted automatically, through blind instinct. But he got them through, somehow....
It was like awakening from deep sleep. Garth was abruptly conscious that he was marching forward, his head moving rhythmically, his eyes searching the jungle. The red twilight was almost gone.