"Listen," Hurtz said slowly, "I respect the fact that you've been smashed up, Jones, but I don't want any talk like that, do you understand?"
He tried to keep authority in his voice and at the same time, enough softness to give the boy assurance that Hurtz could take care of him. "We can have help here in no time," Hurtz continued. "The radio can be fixed, and the first thing you know you'll be bedded down in some pretty hospital with flowers, and...."
"This was your fault," the boy said, as though Hurtz had not been talking.
Hurtz closed his mouth slowly and his lips got thin. "Why don't you try to get some sleep?"
"Because I'm bleeding to death inside."
Hurtz blinked. It was a possibility, of course. The boy may have been hurt worse than Hurtz had thought.
With great effort the boy raised a bandaged hand to his lips and ran his tongue across the white gauze. The movement left a red streak. "You see?" he said. "You see that? I'm bleeding out my guts. I'll sleep, all right. I'll really sleep, and it'll be your fault, Hurtz."
"Listen, Jones," Hurtz said, deliberately lying, "you'll be all right. Don't you see?"
"No, damn you. No. And if you hadn't forced yourself onto this run, this wouldn't have happened."
"Jones," Hurtz said, trying to keep his voice soft. "These things just happen, that's all. This is nobody's fault. You fly these damned runs, you take your chances. But you're going to be all right, son."