"Earl?" Calmed by the drug Oar's voice was flat and dull. "It's bad?"

"Bad enough."

"I knew it." A hand rose to push the helmet from the sweating face, thin grey hair accentuating the age-lines now prominent at eyes and mouth. "A hell of a way to end. Ten years with the Corps and never a wound and now it's the end of the line. Well, it happens. A man can't live forever, Earl."

But no man had to die like a beast in the mud of a city, spilling his guts for the sake of another's ambition. From somewhere came the roar of an explosion, the rattle of small-arms fire. Flame, red and leaping, rose to dull the watching stars, the distant points of brilliance cold, remote, hostile in their indifference.

"Listen," said Clar. "Hide out until it's over. Pick a spot and crawl into it and stay there until its safe to show yourself. Wait until well past dawn and, when you move, keep your hands open and high. You understand?"

Beneath his fingers Dumarest could feel the growing acceleration of the pulse in the dying man's throat.

"Be smart, Earl. Learn from one who knows. So we've lost, so what? There'll be a penalty to pay, but later, when cool, the winners will listen to reason. Now they'll kill anything moving on sight. I…" His voice broke, returning edged with pain. "A burn like that-why is it taking so long?"

The weapon itself had seen to that, cauterising the flesh and preventing the swift loss of blood which would have brought a speedy and merciful end. An irony. In another time and place the man could have been saved, frozen, placed in an amniotic tank, the ruined tissue replaced with other grown from his own cells. Now he could only wait for death.