Roxie instructed him, “and think of England.” Burton struggled to sit up in the office chair. “Who’s bringing up the steam-truck? Tell me it isn’t O’Shaughnessy.” Roxie plucked another pellet from Burton’s side and tossed it to the plascrete floor, where it hit with a gentle plink. “You object to giving the wheel of a steam-truck to a man who’s been drinking?” Burton snarled against the pain and spat on the floor to clear his head. “I object to giving it to him.” “Not to worry, then,” she told him, wrapping a bandage around his chest. “Poe’s driving.” “Ekwensu’s slippery shell!” Burton cursed. “Let’s hope the wretch lives long enough to get back here.” “Captain Burton,” Roxie looked at him reproachfully. “Don’t be a sore loser.” She wrapped some sort of cloth around him as a bandage. It had the sting of alcohol. Burton growled and grumbled wordlessly, but nodded. “It’s my nature, Mrs. Snow… Mrs. Young… I was never cut out for the soft conversation of the civilized.”
