"Full count," someone yelled. "Button up!" Wood splintered as a bullet came through.
The door banged shut, and the box trembled while a rumble built up into a whine, then passed on up out of audibility.
Someone grabbed my arm. "My God, Brion, you must have had a terrible time of it."
It was Richthofen, in a grey uniform, a cut on his face, staring at me.
"No hard feelings," I said. "Your timing ... was good."
"We've had a monitor on your band day and night, hoping for something," he said. "We'd given you up, but couldn't bring ourselves to abandon hope; then four hours ago the tapping started coming through. They went after it with locators, and fixed it here in the wine cellars.
"The patrol scouts couldn't get in here; no room. We pitched this box together and came in."
"Fast work," I said. I thought of the trip through the dreaded Blight, in a jury-rig made of pine boards. I felt a certain pride in the men of the Imperium.
"Make a place for Colonel Bayard, men," someone said. A space was cleared on the floor, jackets laid out on it. Richthofen was holding me up and I made a mighty effort, got to the pallet and collapsed. Richthofen said something but I didn't hear it. I wondered what had held the meat cutters up so long, and then let it go. I had to say something, warn them. I couldn't remember....