"We'll see," Bolgar said grimly. "Can I use your razor?"
Pulley shrugged. "Once more won't matter. I'd give a thousand credits for a straight-edge and a strop."
"Fat chance," Bolgar said. He peeled off the coat of his gun-metal gray uniform and flung it on the bed. Then he went to the brown-spotted sink and turned the only faucet that worked. The trickle of icy water that emerged ran copper.
"Ion gun," he said crisply.
Pulley extracted the device from his waist, and tossed it to his barrack-mate.
Bolgar ran a count on the water. It was clear.
"Razor," he said.
Pulley threw that, too. The metal was as rotten green as the man's eternal medal. Bolgar looked at it disgustedly, running a thumb along the blade without breaking skin.
"Couldn't cut lard," he said with a snort. But he started the painful shaving process.