where....

"No!" he shouted suddenly; then, with conspiratorial quiet, he said,
"You won't be no book, Nicky boy. Covers aren't hard enough. Not the
right type face. Get it?" he roared, and dug Paresi viciously in the
ribs. "Type face, it's a witticism."

Paresi bent away from the blow like a caterpillar being bitten by a
fire-ant. He said nothing.

"And finally," said the Captain, "you won't be a book because you got
... no ... spine." He leapt abruptly to his feet. "Well, what do you
know!"

He bent and scooped up an unaccountable object that rested by the
nearest shadows. It was a quarter-keg of beer.

He hefted it and thumped it heavily down on the table. "Come on, Nick,"
he chortled. "Gather ye round. Here's old Ives, like I said."

Paresi stared at the keg, his eyes stretched so wide open that the lids
moved visibly with his pulse. "Stop it, Anderson, you swine...."

The Captain tossed him a disgusted glance and a matching snort. From the
clutter of radar gear he pulled a screwdriver and a massive little
step-down transformer down on its handle. The bung disappeared
explosively inside the keg, and was replaced by a gout of white foam.
Paresi shrieked.

"Ah, shaddup," growled Anderson. He rummaged until he found a
tube-shield. He stripped off a small length of self-welding metal tape
and clapped it over the terminal-hole at the closed end of the shield,
making it into an adequate mug. He waited a moment while the weld
cooled, then tipped the keg until solid beer began to run with the foam.
He filled the improvised mug and extended it toward Paresi.

"Good ol' Ives," he said sentimentally. "Come on, Paresi. Have a drink
on Ives."

Paresi turned and covered his face like a frightened woman.

Anderson shrugged and drank the beer. "It's good beer," he said. He
glanced down at the doctor, who suddenly flung himself face down across
the couch with his head hanging out of sight on the opposite side, from
which came the sounds of heaving and choking.

"Poor ol' Nick," said the Captain sadly. He refilled the mug and sat
down. With his free hand he patted Paresi's back. "Can't take it. Poor,
poor ol' Nick...."

After that there was a deepening silence, a deepening blackness. Paresi
was quiet now, breathing very slowly, holding each breath, expelling air
and lying quiet for three full seconds before each inhalation, as if
breathing were a conscious effort--more; as if breathing were the whole
task, the en