When the missile struck the big computer was wrenched loose from the
floor. It careened down as the floor tilted, taking with it anything
that stood in its way.
M'Clare was just stooping to the fuse, I think. The computer smashed
against his legs and pinned him down in the angle between the wall and
the floor. His legs are hidden by it.
Because of the spacesuit he does not looked crushed; the thick clumsy
joints have kept their roundness, so far as they are visible; only his
hands and head are bare and vulnerable looking.
I am halfway down, floating on minimum gravity, before it really
occurs to me that he may be still alive.
I switch to half and drop beside him. His face is colorless but he is
breathing all right.
First-aid kit. I will never make fun of Space Force thoroughness
again. Rows and rows of small plastic ampoules. Needles.
Pain-killer, first. I read the directions twice, sweating. Emergencies
only--this is. One dose _only_ to be given and if patient is not in
good health use--never mind that. I fit on the longest needle and jab
it through the suit, at the back of the thigh, as far towards the
knee-joint as I can get because the suit is thinner. Half one side,
half the other.
Now to get the computer off. At a guess it weighs about five hundred
pounds. The beam-lever would do it but it would probably fall back.
Antigrav; the personal size is supposed to take up to three times the
weight of the average man. I take mine off and buckle the straps
through a convenient gap. I have my hands under the thing when M'Clare
sighs again.
He is lying on his belly but his head is turned to one side, towards
me. Slowly his eyelids open. He catches the sight of my hand; his head
moves a little, and he says, "Lizzie. Golden Liz."