Oh come on for Christ's sake, the whole bloody thing's going to blot us both out and you've given yourself sixty seconds and you've got thirty left so come on for Christ's sake, get this poor bastard out.

Unlace the boots. Get his boots off.

Another thing was that they must have seen the Pulmeister from the tower at Istres and if there were anyone on duty at this hour they'd send emergency crews and the distance was less than four kilometres by road and I didn't want any emergency crews or gendarmes or anyone like that-all I wanted was to get this man's bloody boots off.

A wind gust came and the whole thing shuddered and I worked very hard and he dropped half across me as I got the first boot off but he didn't say anything or make any movement because he'd taken a beating through those fifty or sixty g's and he'd been hanging here with the blood accumulating in his head and maybe I was wrong: maybe we did want the emergency crews here and as fast as they could make it.

Another wind gust and then everything happened at once: the Pulmeister shook itself as the tail unit began coming out of the mud and I ducked low and pulled him down with me, tried to roll him clear and didn't manage it because my feet and knees were slipping across the mud and I couldn't get any purchase, it was no go. Tried again and got my shoes dug in and pulled him backwards like a rope in a tug-o-war and kept on going while the fuselage came slowly down till the edge of the cockpit reached the mud and the thing became a trap but that didn't matter now because we were clear and I saw where She clip was and snapped it open and took off the helmet, easing it gently, easing it, because he must have suffered some degree of whiplash, 'Zarkovic.'

The wind blew across us, whining faintly through the reeds. It was a good face: young, sharp, with a hooked nose and thick dark eyebrows and a scar running from one ear to the chin. His eyes were coming open but there wasn't much intelligence in them.