"Won't make much difference," he said.
Crag managed a weak grin. "Remember, we're angels of mercy."
"Yeah, carrying Lucifer."
The helmet proved intact. Crag sighed and signaled to move on. They hoisted the stretcher and resumed their slow trek toward the Aztec.
Crag's body itched from perspiration. His face was hot, flushed and his heart thudded in his ears. Larkwell's breathing became a harsh rasp in the interphones. Occasionally Prochaska checked their progress. Crag thought Nagel was making damned poor time. He looked at his oxygen meter several times, finally beginning to worry. Larkwell put his fears into words.
"We'd better drop this character and light out for the Aztec," he growled. "We're not going to make it this way."
"Nagel should reach us soon."
"Soon won't be soon enough."
"Nagel! Get on the ball," Crag snapped curtly into the interphones.
"Moving right along." The oxygen man's voice was a flat imperturbed twang. Crag fought to keep his temper under control. Nagel's calm was maddening. But it was their necks that were in danger. He repressed his anger, wondering again at the wisdom of trying to save the enemy crewman. If he lived?