The whole thing was smothered in mud and I couldn't find the clip, partly because my fingers didn't know the precise shape to feel for. Some kind of fluid was dripping from a severed pipe somewhere behind the instrument panel and the wind kept slapping the side of the fuselage: I could bear the sucking sound as the tail unit flexed in the mud. I didn't think I had more than a few seconds to get him clear. My hands began moving in a kind of controlled frenzy, feeling for whatever they could find: clips, buckles, fasteners, anything they could release, worming their way in the mud and the half-dark while the tail unit flexed, steadied and flexed again.

'Zarkovic,' I said to the helmet.

He didn't move.

'Zarkovic.'

A basic form of communication designed to inform him that his identity was known and that I must therefore be an ally, even a saviour. He didn't answer.

The restrain harness seemed to be free and it looked as if he might have released it too early, having to make a critical decision between staying in place with the harness on to minimize the impact forces, and trying to jump clear. It couldn't have been easy to make up his mind because a lot of the data was unavailable: he didn't know what the Pulmeister was going to do when it hit the ground. If he stayed in place with the harness still on he could be trapped upside down in the cockpit in total darkness and with no incoming all and the risk of something catching fire; and if he tried to jump clear he — could get fouled in the loose harness and risk the edge of the cockpit coming down on him.

'Zarkovic.'

My voice was beginning to have no more meaning than the wind.