MacMartree looked at him, waiting.
"Mac, I ... I feel something ... I don't know ... perhaps it's sickness ... or hurt ... I've never known those things...." He held forth his hands, and they were twitching and trembling.
MacMartree's teeth ground together. "Another obsolescent word I'll have to teach you," he said to them. "It is fear."
He went to work on Abner's broken arm, setting it and injecting the serum that would cause the fracture to knit in a matter of minutes. And as he worked, he tried to drive the nagging thought from his mind ... sickness for Phillips, hurt for Abner, fear for Cole ... what for MacMartree? He was the oldest. He was leader of the patrol. Perhaps a little of all these horrors?
To keep his mind occupied, he counted off the required minutes for the serum to take effect. Then, when the time had passed, he gave the injured arm an experimental twist.
It flapped loosely at the break, as before, and Abner stirred and moaned behind the veil of his unconsciousness.
The serum had failed. Unheard of!
Straightening, MacMartree felt his particular affliction engulf him. Anger, wild, unreasoning anger at this intangible, invisible enemy that tormented them so. Cursing, he scooped up the vial of serum, flung it to clatter against the shimmering force-screen. But it did not. It passed through the curtain which was suddenly nothing more than thinning mist ... and then not even that.
"Weapons!" MacMartree cried, his voice a hoarse bellow. "Weapons and positions! Quickly!"