"But defending your—"
Barbara's scorn was high. "Look, Dusty, ever since we were sighted off-shore in the Buccaneer I haven't had a shred of virtue and everybody knows it."
"Trouble is that we can't even run," grumbled Dusty. "This is your apartment."
Barbara looked down at Scyth. "Damned nuisance," she said.
The damned nuisance groaned. The sound was hollow and weak but it seemed to ring through the room like the cry of a wailing ghost.
Barbara cried: "He's alive—"
"—not dead!" blurted Dusty. "Get water and stuff."
Slowly they stretched Scyth out on his back, and Barbara went for her first aid kit while Dusty slid off Scyth's jacket and ripped the shirt free. The wound looked frightful, but some sponging with hot water and alcohol reduced the horror to a weeping hole that tried to breathe blood in and out. It was low on one side, somewhere near the floating ribs on the right.
"Flesh wound?" asked Dusty hopefully.