Now that the noise of the catastrophe had died away they could hear
again the drip of water. And that sound tortured Val's dry throat. A
glass of cool water--He turned his head restlessly.
"If we only had a light," came Ricky's wish.
"The flash is probably buried."
"Val, will--will it be fun?"
"What?" he demanded, suddenly alert at her tone. Had the dark and their
trouble made her light-headed?
"Being a ghost. We--we could walk the hall with Great-uncle Rick; he
wouldn't begrudge us that."
"Ricky! Stop it!"
Her answering laugh, though shaky, was sane enough.
"I do pick the wrong times to display my sense of humor, don't I? Val,
is it so very bad?"
Something within him crumbled at that question.
"Not so good, Lady," he replied in spite of the resolutions he had made.
She brushed back the hair glued by perspiration to his forehead. Ricky
was not gold, he thought, for gold is a rather dirty thing. But she was
all steel, as clean and shining as a blade fresh from the hands of a
master armorer. He made a great effort and found that he could move his
right arm an inch or two. Concentrating all his strength there, he
wriggled it back and forth until he could draw it free from the
wreckage. But his left shoulder and side were numb save for the pain
which came and went.
"Got my arm free," Val told her exultantly and reached up to feel for
her in the dark.
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