The spaceman had been cleaned up and bandaged by the native medicos. Kinton saw that his left thigh was probably broken. Other dressings suggested cracked ribs and lacerations on the head and shoulders. The man was dark-haired but pale of skin, with a jutting chin and a nose that had been flattened in some earlier mishap. The flaring set of his ears somehow emphasized an overall leanness. Even in sleep, his mouth was thin and hard.
"Thrown across the controls after his belt broke loose?" Kinton guessed.
"I bow to your wisdom, George," said the plump Tepoktan doctor who appeared to be in charge.
Kinton could not remember him, but everyone on the planet addressed the Terran by the sound they fondly thought to be his first name.
"This is Doctor Chuxolkhee," murmured Klaft.
Kinton made the accepted gesture of greeting with one hand and said, "You seem to have treated him very expertly."
Chuxolkhee ruffled the scales around his neck with pleasure.
"I have studied Terran physiology," he admitted complacently. "From your records and drawings, of course, George, for I have not yet had the good fortune to visit you."
"We must arrange a visit soon," said Kinton. "Klaft will—"
He broke off at the sound from the patient.