still busy with the kill. No one seemed at all interested in the two dead or dying men who had been trampled by the escaping animals.
Two of the youngest hunters were gripping their knives in an obviously menacing way. It seemed that in another moment violence might erupt between the two groups. Dr. Barnes was grimly acting out every kind of charade that he thought might pacify the hunters, but he clearly did not appear to be getting through.
Suddenly he turned. "Carl, do you have police medic training?"
"Yes, sir. First aid, at least."
"All right. Get your medic kit and come on with me. You too, Jim. Keep that power torch handy, just in case they misunderstand."
Jim and Carl followed Dr. Barnes across the ice to where the fallen hunters lay. A stir ran through the band of nomads, but they remained gathered together, muttering to one another.
Dr. Barnes knelt by the side of one hunter. The fallen man wasn't a pretty sight. Flying hoofs had crashed into him and knocked him down, other hoofs had trampled across his skull. His face was nothing but a bloody smear. His chest was caved in.
"Nothing we can do for him, poor devil," Dr. Barnes muttered. "Let's see about the other one."
The second man was still alive. His fur jacket was half ripped off, and Jim could see the ugly gouge in his chest where a passing moose had kicked him. The hairy, dirty skin was purple and swollen around the wound. He had been kicked in several other places, too, and the skin had been broken, but he did not seem really badly hurt.
Carl opened the medic kit and took out retractors and a sterilizer. He worked briskly and efficiently; he was no doctor, but medical equipment had been refined to the point where anyone with a little first-aid training could take care of even serious injuries. Dr. Barnes moved the wounded man into position while Carl drew back the edges of the big gash with the retractors and passed the sterilizer the length of the cut. A quick hum, a flash of light, and the danger of infection was past.
Carl took a flesh-sealer from the little medic kit. Tiny metals claws seized the ragged edges of the wound, drew them together.
"He's going to have a pretty ugly scar," Carl said apologetically. "I'm not very good at matching the tissues yet, I'm afraid."
"Don't let it worry you," Dr. Barnes said. "They were going to leave him for dead."
"They're coming over to have a look," Jim said uneasily. "The whole bunch of them. They look ugly."
"Just go on working, Carl," Dr. Barnes said quietly. He glanced up at Jim. "Let them come within about six feet of us, but no closer. And stay cool."
Jim nodded. He watched the nomads crowd round, and held the power torch in readiness, though without aiming it. The nomads seemed awed by the instruments Carl was using, and they kept their distance, their mood changing from one of menace to one of uncertainty and fear.
Carl worked methodically, closing the wound, sealing it with the heat-and-pressure device that had replaced surgical stitches centuries before. When he was finished, a ragged red line ran down the man's chest-but the wound was closed.
"Go on," Dr. Barnes said. "Let's get the other cuts now."
In a matter of minutes, the injured hunter's wounds were rendered aseptic and sealed. The man stirred. His eyes opened, and he looked at his saviors in dull incomprehension. He lifted a shaky hand, touched it to the rough patch of sterile plastispray covering the wound on his chest. Then he looked at his companions and said something to them. They answered with hoots of amazement. The injured man tried to get to his feet, rose as far as his knees, halted there, dizzy, swaying. Two of the hunters started forward to help him, then hesitated until Carl and Dr. Barnes stepped back.
The injured man rose, leaning against them, and took a few hobbling steps. A moment later, every hunter had his knife drawn!
Jim leveled the power torch, ready to wipe out the whole band if he had to. But he relaxed as
Two of the youngest hunters were gripping their knives in an obviously menacing way. It seemed that in another moment violence might erupt between the two groups. Dr. Barnes was grimly acting out every kind of charade that he thought might pacify the hunters, but he clearly did not appear to be getting through.
Suddenly he turned. "Carl, do you have police medic training?"
"Yes, sir. First aid, at least."
"All right. Get your medic kit and come on with me. You too, Jim. Keep that power torch handy, just in case they misunderstand."
Jim and Carl followed Dr. Barnes across the ice to where the fallen hunters lay. A stir ran through the band of nomads, but they remained gathered together, muttering to one another.
Dr. Barnes knelt by the side of one hunter. The fallen man wasn't a pretty sight. Flying hoofs had crashed into him and knocked him down, other hoofs had trampled across his skull. His face was nothing but a bloody smear. His chest was caved in.
"Nothing we can do for him, poor devil," Dr. Barnes muttered. "Let's see about the other one."
The second man was still alive. His fur jacket was half ripped off, and Jim could see the ugly gouge in his chest where a passing moose had kicked him. The hairy, dirty skin was purple and swollen around the wound. He had been kicked in several other places, too, and the skin had been broken, but he did not seem really badly hurt.
Carl opened the medic kit and took out retractors and a sterilizer. He worked briskly and efficiently; he was no doctor, but medical equipment had been refined to the point where anyone with a little first-aid training could take care of even serious injuries. Dr. Barnes moved the wounded man into position while Carl drew back the edges of the big gash with the retractors and passed the sterilizer the length of the cut. A quick hum, a flash of light, and the danger of infection was past.
Carl took a flesh-sealer from the little medic kit. Tiny metals claws seized the ragged edges of the wound, drew them together.
"He's going to have a pretty ugly scar," Carl said apologetically. "I'm not very good at matching the tissues yet, I'm afraid."
"Don't let it worry you," Dr. Barnes said. "They were going to leave him for dead."
"They're coming over to have a look," Jim said uneasily. "The whole bunch of them. They look ugly."
"Just go on working, Carl," Dr. Barnes said quietly. He glanced up at Jim. "Let them come within about six feet of us, but no closer. And stay cool."
Jim nodded. He watched the nomads crowd round, and held the power torch in readiness, though without aiming it. The nomads seemed awed by the instruments Carl was using, and they kept their distance, their mood changing from one of menace to one of uncertainty and fear.
Carl worked methodically, closing the wound, sealing it with the heat-and-pressure device that had replaced surgical stitches centuries before. When he was finished, a ragged red line ran down the man's chest-but the wound was closed.
"Go on," Dr. Barnes said. "Let's get the other cuts now."
In a matter of minutes, the injured hunter's wounds were rendered aseptic and sealed. The man stirred. His eyes opened, and he looked at his saviors in dull incomprehension. He lifted a shaky hand, touched it to the rough patch of sterile plastispray covering the wound on his chest. Then he looked at his companions and said something to them. They answered with hoots of amazement. The injured man tried to get to his feet, rose as far as his knees, halted there, dizzy, swaying. Two of the hunters started forward to help him, then hesitated until Carl and Dr. Barnes stepped back.
The injured man rose, leaning against them, and took a few hobbling steps. A moment later, every hunter had his knife drawn!
Jim leveled the power torch, ready to wipe out the whole band if he had to. But he relaxed as
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