The shadowy blob which was Lieutenant Blake, moved into Jerry's line of vision. Blake's form seemed to be getting smaller now; the haziness around the edges seemed to be dwindling.
"How are you Peterman?" Blake asked the man with the wounded legs.
"I'll make it all right, Lieutenant. I might even be able to sight the gun if you lift me into the seat."
"Good man, Peterman!" Blake turned to Jerry, "Well, Conlon, it looks like you and I are the only ones on our feet. That means we've got work to do."
"My eyes are bad, but I think they're clearing up now," Jerry said.
"Things are pretty rough," Blake said. "From what I've been able to determine, the whole nation's been blasted."
"Lieutenant—no!" Jerry cried. He moved forward toward the Lieutenant and clutched Blake by the shoulders. "I've got a wife and kid back home!"
"We all have relatives back home, Conlon. You're no different than anybody else. And it's just as bad for us as it is for you. You've got to get a grip on yourself. There's nothing you can do for them one way or the other."
"The hell there isn't! I'm going back to 'em!"
The Lieutenant's covered hand whipped out and slapped the front of Jerry's helmet below the vision lens. Jerry went backwards and dropped to the concrete floor.