Chekov, a miserable expression on his face, was braced against the control console, his Kyrosian shorts down around his ankles. McCoy finished applying an antiseptic spray to one bare buttock, then sprayed a layer of flesh-colored foam that hardened to a thin, flexible sheet. (…) “What happened to you?” Kirk demanded with a grin. Chekov pulled up his shorts and turned so that Kirk could see a jagged tear in their seat. “Damn (pack animal) bit me, sir.”