“Nossir, I don’t think so, sir. Looks like somebody clonked him on the head, but he’s breathin’ all right.”
Mike knelt over the man and took his pulse. The heartbeat was regular and steady, if a trifle weak. Mike ran a hand over Breckwell’s head.
“There’s a knot there the size of a golf ball, but I don’t think anything’s broken,” he said.
Footsteps came running down the hall, and six men of the power crew came pouring in the door. They slowed to a halt when they saw their commanding officer was already there.
“A couple of you take care of Breckwell—Leister, Knox—move him to one side. Bathe his face with water. No, wait; you can’t do that till we get the pumps moving again. Just watch him.”
One of the men coughed a little. “What he needs is a good slug of hooch.”
“I agree,” said Mike evenly. “Too bad there isn’t any aboard. But do what you think is best; I’m going to be too busy to keep an eye on you. I won’t be able to watch you at all, so you’ll be on your own.”
“Yessir,” said the man who had spoken. He hid his grin and took out at a run, heading for wherever it was he kept his bottle hidden.
“Dunstan, you and Ghihara get out and watch the halls. If any other officer comes this way, sing out.”
“Yessir!” came the twin chorus.