“You sound like the voice coming through the clown’s head at the drive-up window of a fast-food joint,” Hal said with a grin.

On a secondary comm channel one that Briggs and Wohl could not hear, Patrick said, “Jon, I felt that power surge again when I landed.”

“Then I recommend we terminate the test,” Dr Heinrich responded immediately on the commlink. “The problem hasn’t been fixed.”

“Patrick?” Masters asked. “It’s your project, and you’re wearing the gear. What do you say?”

Patrick McLanahan hesitated, but only for a moment: “Let’s go on,” he said. “The shock wasn’t too bad, and I feel fine now.”

“I recommend against it,” Heinrich said.

“We’re on schedule and on budget right now,” Patrick snapped, his voice much more impatient, even agitated. “Any delays would be costly. We go on.”

“So how do you take a dump or a piss in that getup, Patrick?” Briggs asked.

“You finish the mission and go home,” Patrick responded flatly.

“Touchy, touchy,” Hal said. “I don’t mean to crack wise, guys, but it’s not exactly what we were expecting. How did you fly in here like that?”

“A short burst of air compressed at three thousand psi,” Jon replied proudly. “The soldier of the future doesn’t run or march into combat anymore-he jumps in. The soldier can jump about twenty to thirty feet vertically and a hundred and fifty feet horizontally. The power unit he wears can recharge the gas generators in about fifteen seconds.”

“It’d be fun to watch a squad of these dudes hopping into battle,” Briggs commented. “How long does the power unit last?”

“The specs you gave us called for durable man-portable power units to last a minimum of six hours-ours can last eight,” Jon Masters replied. “Ours can be recharged by any power source available-a twelve-volt car battery, a home electrical outlet, a commercial two-twenty line, an aircraft auxiliary-power unit, or even by solar photovoltaic cells mounted on the back. If all power is lost, just drop the backpack, and the suit becomes a standard combat-ready insulated suit and battle-ready helmet. Patrick?”

To demonstrate, Patrick reached up to hidden clips on his shoulders and unfastened the backpack power unit, then passed it around to Briggs and Wohl. It resembled an oval turtle shell, contoured to match the body; it was about an inch thick and weighed about twenty pounds. The helmet’s oxygen visor automatically dropped open when the power unit was detached. Patrick pressed a tiny switch under the left edge of his helmet, and the helmet unlocked and popped open; he took it off and let Briggs and Wohl look it over.

Briggs was interested in the design and features of the helmet but Chris Wohl was more interested in Patrick. He looked at him carefully and asked, “Hot in that getup, sir?”

“A bit.” Patrick was sweating, and his face looked a little red, like a football player who had just finished a difficult series of plays and run in from the field. Heinrich handed Patrick a squeeze bottle of ice water, trying to check him over discreetly at the same time. Wohl’s face showed uncertainty, but he remained silent. When the helmet and backpack power unit were handed back to him, Patrick put them on, slipping on the backpack and fastening the attach points on his shoulders. It automatically snapped into place, locked, and energized…

… and, unnoticed and unheard by Briggs and Wohl, Patrick let out a barely audible moan through the commlink.

“Patrick? Was that you? Are you all right?” Dr Heinrich radioed.

“I… I felt that shock again when… when I put the fucking backpack on,” Patrick answered, clearly in pain.

“Terminate the test and get that power unit off now!” Heinrich radioed.

“No!” Patrick shouted.

This time everyone heard him. Hal’s impressed smile dimmed a bit. Chris Wohl, the veteran infantryman and commando, was clearly concerned now. “You all right in there, sir?” he asked. “You don’t sound too good.”

“The system’s environment is completely controlled,” Masters explained quickly. “He can withstand heat to three hundred degrees, cold to minus twenty, and can even stay under ice-cold water, all for up to an hour. The suit uses a positive pressure breathing system, so it is even capable of being used in a chemical- or biological-warfare environment.”

Wohl stepped over to Patrick and looked at the suit carefully. If he looked closely, he could see his eyes through the tinted visor in the helmet. The helmet appeared to be fitted with several sensors pointing in different directions, as well as different visors that slid into place over his eyes. Wohl could see that Patrick had an oxygen mask fitted inside the helmet, plus a microphone and several tiny sensors aimed at his eyeballs. “I see infrared sensors, microphone-what else have you got in there, sir?”

“Complete communications system-secure tactical FM, secure VHF, secure UHF, even a secure cellphone,” Patrick replied. “I have an omnidirectional microphone that can pick up whispers at three hundred feet. The helmet visor has data readouts and small laser-projected virtual screens that show menus to change the various functions in the system; the menu items are selected by an eyeball pointing system. Miniature infrared warning systems mounted on the helmet warn of movement in any direction.”

“Is that right?” Wohl remarked. He took a step back away from Patrick. “How does it feel? Can you move around all right, sir?”

“It’s a little stiff,” Patrick said, experimentally flexing his shoulders and knees, “but I can…”

Wohl suddenly reached out and, to everyone’s surprise, gave McLanahan a firm push. Patrick toppled over, landing on his back with a hard thud! on the concrete hangar floor.

“You look like a soft, bloated, overbaked Pillsbury Doughboy, sir!” Wohl said angrily, almost shouting. “You look ridiculous! You can’t move, you can’t run, you can hardly stand up, and you look like you’re either going to pass out or sweat to death inside that thing! Do you expect us to spend all that friggin’ money on a soldier my grandmother can push over? And where’s your damned weapon?”

Patrick struggled to his feet, very much like a diver in a wetsuit trying to get out of the surf. He seemed a little shaky at first, as if the fall had knocked some wind out of him, but he was up in fairly short order. Masters replied, “He doesn’t have any weapons, Gunny.”

“Say what? No weapons? You’re trying to tell me the soldier of the twenty-first century doesn’t have any weapons? You’ve got to be shitting me!”

“No, we’re not shitting you,” Patrick said, the anger in his voice coming through even in the distortion of the electronic speaker. He was on his feet, feet apart, arms away from his sides, facing Wohl in a challenging stance. “We’re going to develop a new infantry combat system, then have the soldier fire bullets? Get your head out of your ass, Wohl!”

Patrick’s defiant words inflamed Wohl even more. “This is bull, sir,” he said. “Part of the specs on this project included a new series of area and point offensive weapons. I don’t see shit. What is all this? I’ve trained men in seventy degrees below zero without the wetsuit or power unit, and we’ve used helmet-mounted sensors and miniaturized comm gear for years. What’s so special about this system? Because you’ve got compressed air in your boots?”

Patrick held out his left hand, and Jon Masters put a four-foot piece of one-inch galvanized steel pipe in it. Patrick tossed the pipe to Wohl, who caught it easily in one hand. “Take your best shot, Gunny,” Patrick said.

“Excuse me, sir? You mean, hit you?”

“That’s right, Gunny. As hard as you can.”

“Hey, I’m not going to be part of your testing program, sir,” Wohl said. “I came here to see a demonstration, not to get you hurt or injured while Dr Masters takes readings. Get someone else to…”