"The jail hasn't been improved much, either," Marc observed. "You hurt?"
"Of course not!" Toffee said, obviously surprised that anyone should ever think of her as anything but indestructible. "I'm still intact."
A dreadful moaning sounded from deep under a pile of debris, and Toffee turned, stepped over the door that was hanging undecidedly by a single bent hinge, and leaned forward in a listening attitude.
"What is it?" Marc asked. "It sounds like a lost soul."
"It is," Toffee said. "It's your drunken cell mate. He's giving voice."
"I wish he wouldn't be so damned generous with it. He's fairly lavishing voice."
"Must be down pretty deep," Toffee mused. "We can't leave him there."
"Why not?"
"I don't know for sure," Toffee replied uncertainly. "But I'm pretty certain it isn't just the thing to do." She started in the general direction of the noise. "Take heart!" she called. "We're coming!"
"Don't bother!" the voice called back weakly. "It's not very nice down here. You wouldn't like it at all. Just pass down a bottle and go away."