Clayton pulled himself up by holding to the man's arm. The effort made
him dizzy and nauseated.

The other man said: "Take him down to sick bay, Casey. Get some thiamin
into him."

Clayton didn't struggle as they led him down to the sick bay. He was
trying to clear his head. Where was he? He must have been pretty drunk
last night.

He remembered meeting Parks. And getting thrown out by the bartender.
Then what?

Oh, yeah. He'd gone to the Shark's for a bottle. From there on, it was
mostly gone. He remembered a fight or something, but that was all that
registered.

The medic in the sick bay fired two shots from a hypo-gun into both
arms, but Clayton ignored the slight sting.

"Where am I?"

"Real original. Here, take these." He handed Clayton a couple of
capsules, and gave him a glass of water to wash them down with.

When the water hit his stomach, there was an immediate reaction.

"Oh, Christ!" the medic said. "Get a mop, somebody. Here, bud; heave
into this." He put a basin on the table in front of Clayton.

It took them the better part of an hour to get Clayton awake enough to
realize what was going on and where he was. Even then, he was plenty
groggy.

* * * * *

It was the First Officer of the STS-52 who finally got the story
straight. As soon as Clayton was in condition, the medic and the
quartermaster officer who had found him took him up to the First
Officer's compartment.

"I was checking through the stores this morning when I found this man.
He was asleep, dead drunk, behind the crates."

"He was drunk, all right," supplied the medic. "I found this in his
pocket." He flipped a booklet to the First Officer.

The First was a young man, not older than twenty-eight with
tough-looking gray eyes. He looked over the booklet.

"Where did you get Parkinson's ID booklet? And his uniform?"

Clayton looked down at his clothes in wonder. "I don't know."

"You _don't know_? That's a hell of an answer."

"Well, I was drunk," Clayton said defensively. "A man doesn't know what
he's doing when he's drunk." He frowned in concentration. He knew he'd
have to think up some story.

"I kind of remember we made a bet. I bet him I could get on the ship.
Sure--I remember, now. That's what happened; I bet him I could get on
the ship and we traded clothes."

"Where is he now?"

"At my place, sleeping it off, I guess."

"Without his oxy-mask?"

"Oh, I gave him my oxidation