Description wrangling - Kaleidoscope, in edit
Young resisted the urge to sigh. He could hear a familiar tone in her voice. She’d been crying, and now she was masking that with professional concern about something else. God, this ship. This ship, this whole cock-eyed mission, was like a bad French farce. Never one crisis at a time, always a whole bunch of interlinked bad patches, utterly devoid of respite. And him in the middle, like the patient stooge, taking all the hits.
He stared out at the silent ships. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, I have Dr Rush here in the infirmary. He’s not well.”
I could have told you that. The man’s been sick for a long time, if you ask me.