"Fallon," said Einar Bjarnsson. "Turn back."
The remembered voice, coming from that glowing, pulsing throat, was the most horrible thing of all.
Fallon licked the cold sweat from his lips. "No," he said.
"Turn back, or you will be killed."
"It doesn't matter," whispered Fallon. "I've got to try."
Bjarnsson laughed. Fallon could see his diaphragm contract in a surge of flame, see the ripple of the laughter.
A wave of anger cut across Fallon's terror, cold and sane.
"I did this to you, Bjarnsson," he said. "I'm trying to make up for it. I thought you were dead. Perhaps, if you put your armor back on, we can patch it up somehow, and it may not be too late."
"But it is too late. So, you blame yourself, eh?"
"I left my post. Otherwise, you might have dodged that thing."