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From a distance, another voice said: “Who is it?”

The blurred face said: “I don’t know. He was asleep behind these cases. I think he’s drunk.”

Clayton wasn’t drunk–he was sick. His head felt like hell. Where the devil was he?

“Get up, bud. Come on, get up!”

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 pills for the mask.”

The First shook his head. “That sounds like the kind of trick Parkinson would pull, all right. I’ll have to write it up and turn you both in to the authorities when we hit Earth.” He eyed Clayton. “What’s your name?”

“Cartwright. Sam Cartwright,” Clayton said without batting an eye.

“Volunteer or convicted colonist?”

“Volunteer.”

The First looked at him for a long moment, disbelief in his eyes.

It didn’t matter. Volunteer or convict, there was no place Clayton could go. From the officer’s viewpoint, he was as safely imprisoned in the spaceship as he would be on Mars or a prison on Earth.

* * * * *

The First wrote in the log book, and then said: “Well, we’re one man short in the kitchen. You wanted to take Parkinson’s place; brother, you’ve got it–without pay.” He paused for a moment.

“You know, of course,” he said judiciously, “that you’ll be shipped back to Mars immediately. And you’ll have to work out your passage both ways–it will be deducted from your pay.”