He was young, Sutton saw…young beneath the mask of mud and pain.
"No atomics," said the man. "I dumped them."
There was pride in the words, pride in a job well done. But the words had cost him heavily. He lay still, so still that he might not have been living at all.
Then his breath came to life again and whistled in his throat. Sutton saw the blood pumping through the temples beneath the burned and twisted skin. The man's jaw worked and words came out, limping, tangled words.
"There was a battle…back in '83…I saw him coming…tried to time-jump…" The words gurgled and got lost, then gushed out again. "Got new guns…set metal afire…"
He turned his head and apparently saw Sutton for the first time. He started up and then fell back, gasping with the effort.
"Sutton!"
Sutton bent above him. "I will carry you. Get you to a doctor."
"Asher Sutton!" The two words were a whisper.
For a moment Sutton caught the triumphant, almost fanatic gleam that washed across the eyes of the dying man, half understood the gesture of the half-raised arm, of the cryptic sign that the fingers made.