The older man was taller than the young man, and his good eye and the false eye — which was in fact a light micro-pistol — stared down at the young man as he pulled a couple of ammunition belts from the floor and slung them over the older man's shoulders. The young man grimaced as Cullis looked at him; he reached up and turned the older man's face away, then from a breast pocket in the too-big field-marshal's jacket extracted what looked like — and was — an armoured eye-patch. He fitted the strap carefully over the taller man's grey, crew-cut head.

"My god!" Cullis gasped, "I've gone blind!"

The young man reached up and adjusted the eye patch. "Your pardon. Wrong eye."

"That's better." The older man drew himself up, taking a deep breath. "Where are the bastards?" his voice was still slurred; it made you want to clear your throat.

"I can't see them. They're probably still outside. The shower yesterday is keeping the dust down." The young man put another gun into Cullis" arms.

"The bastards."

"Yes, Cullis." A couple of ammunition boxes were added to the guns cradled in the older man's arms.

"The filthy bastards."

"That's right, Cullis."

"The… Hmm, you know, I could do with a drink." Cullis swayed. He looked down at the weapons cradled in his arms, apparently trying to puzzle out how they had appeared there.

The young man turned round to lift more guns from the pile, but changed his mind when he heard a large clattering, breaking noise behind him.

"Shit," Cullis muttered, from the floor.

The young man went over to the bottle-strewn sideboard. He loaded up with as many full bottles as he could find and returned to where Cullis was snoring peacefully under a pile of guns, boxes, ammunition belts and the dark-splintered remains of a formal banqueting chair. He cleared the debris off the older man and undid a couple of buttons on the too-large field-marshal's jacket, then stuffed the bottles inside, between jacket and shirt.