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.
The buckles seemed to be free but he wasn't able to drop out of the cockpit and I squeezed my body higher, making a decision of my own that was as critical as his because I was too far inside the thing now to get clear if the tail came out of the mud. It wasn't possible to work out what would happen if six tons of metal came down on us but I didn't think there'd be enough room to stay alive.
The wind buffeted, screaming faintly through the reeds outside. I could feel the movement very distinctly as the aircraft yawed to the gusts, and my hands slowed, taking their time, because in a shut-ended situation the organism must resist panic if it wants to survive. The harness was indeed free but his legs were twisted awkwardly and hs feet had got trapped by some sort of equipment that had come unshipped on impact: the whole thing had taken somewhere in the region of fifty or sixty g's and it was now clear that he'd decided to jump and hadn't been able to.
My leg was against the padded edge of the cockpit and I could feel it lift and fall every time the tail unit flexed, lifting a little less, falling a little more, till the point was reached when I had to ask whether London wanted one live agent or two dead ones because if the thing came down on me now I was going to get crushed and so was Zarkovic. But I'd started something and I wanted to finish it, so I decided to give it sixty seconds more and then get out.
Bloody stuff was oozing down from the cockpit floor, some of it running into my eyes before I could shut them and wipe it away. Some kind of instrument ticking steadily in the quietness, the chronometer or a timed alert system; with one eye I could see the ghostly phosphorescence of the instrument dials. Still couldn't free him because his flying-boots had been wrenched around as his body had twisted, and I thought that if I ever got him out of here he might not walk again, 'Zarkovic.'
Nothing.
Zarkovic, my friend, will you ever walk again?
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.
Emergency klaxons, from the direction of Istres. They were closer than they sounded, because of the wind. I knelt in the mud beside him, watching his eyes and waiting; but their dull glaze remained. One leg was badly twisted and he was holding his head awkwardly and it occurred to me that he'd broken his neck. The blood was slowly receding from his face, leaving it translucent white, like the flesh of coconut Klaxons.
'Zarkovic,' I said. 'Can you talk?'
Intelligence came into the narrowed brown eyes and they watched me without bunking.
'I was sent to meet you,' I said, 'from London.'
He watched me, a spasm passing across his face. He didn't take his eyes off mine. Then his thin mouth moved.
'What?' I asked him. It had sounded like 'coder', His eyes squeezed shut and I waited.
A flash of light sparked from the reeds on the horizon, then another. They would be the emergency vehicles along the road beyond the marshland, the sun striking reflections from then- windscreens.
'Listen,' I said against the cuffing of the wind, 'I'm going to-'
'Cobra.'
'What?'
I watched his lips.
'Cobra.'
Another spasm came and I waited but it wasn't any good because the eyes were losing their intelligence: they were staring at me but I wasn't there any more. Nothing was there.
The klaxons sounded urgently as the wind shifted and I tugged at the zip of his flying-suit and found his wallet and felt for other things like that, flat things, any kind of papers, documents. Nothing. Only the wallet I took it and pulled the zip shut and got to my feet and began running. They were coming from the south and would have to leave their vehicles on the road and bring their equipment here on foot across the soggy ground. The Lancia was standing beyond the fringe of reeds north-west of here and I could reach it in ten minutes if I tried and I was going to try. In any case they wouldn't take any interest in me till they'd examined the body, so I had plenty of time.
But London wouldn't be pleased.
It was raining hard and they had the gas mains up from one end of Whitehall to the other and I left clay all over the floor of the lift. Matthews was trudging along the corridor with a wad of papers, which is the only thing I'd ever seen him doing.
'Oh hello, Q — how was the Grand Prix?'
'Bloody awful, where's Tilson?'
'What? Monitoring, the last I saw.'
There were only three people in Monitoring and none of them was Tilson. They were sitting there like waxworks and I picked up a spare set and heard a lot of Asian coming through, probably from Laos. Everybody was worried about Laos these days, which made a change from Ireland. I went along to Incoming Staff and knocked and opened the door. They've got a man there now, instead of the two women clerks, because Incoming Staff is the place where you report first thing at the end of a mission or at the end of whatever phase of a mission you managed to reach before the whole thing blew up in your face. We don't always look very well-groomed when we come in here, and some of us have to go on to a head shrinker or a nervous disorders ward or somewhere Like that; and finally the two women clerks couldn't stand it any more and I don't blame them.