"Bad?" asked Don as he caught the flailing feet.
"Seven stitches, no fracture," said the doctor.
"How's the other one?"
"Unconscious, but unharmed. Both asleep in bed, thank God. So was I. Where were—? You're Channing and were all doped up with gravanol and adhesive. Thank yourself a god for that, too. I'm going to need both of my nurses and we'll all need you."
"Hope I can do some good," said Don.
"You'd better. Or any good I can do will be wasted. Better start right now. Here," the doctor produced a set of keys, "these will unlock anything in the ship but the purser's safe. You'll need 'em. Now get along and do something and leave the body-mending to me. Scram!"
"Can you make out all right?"
"As best I can. But you're needed to get us help. If you can't, no man in the Solar System can. You're in the position of a man who can not afford to help in succoring the wounded and dying. It'll be tough, but there it is. Get cutting. And for Heaven's sake, get us two things: Light and a floor. I couldn't do more than slap on tape whilst floating in air. See you later, Channing, and good luck."
The nurse squirmed, groaned, and opened her eyes. "What happened?" she asked, blinking into the doctor's flashlight.
"Tell you later, Jen. Get Fern out of her coma in the ward and then we'll map out a plan. Channing, get out of here!"