Honeymoon in bedlam

By NELSON S. BOND
Gigantic webs of doom—miles in extent, hundreds of feet deep.
I remember the preacher saying, I now pronounce you man and wife—, and I remember the sweet smile on Lorraine Bowman's face and the dazed smirk on Johnny Larkin's, and the clank of sabers as we walked up the aisle through an arch of gleaming steel. I remember asking to kiss the bride. Then I remember something about a banquet, with somebody passing out drinks, and I remember demanding to kiss the bride again.
Then there was another bottle or three, and it must have been powerful juice because I remember Johnny Larkin frowning when I insisted on kissing the bride. Then I felt sorry for myself and started to cry, and Captain Bowman roared something about, Take that boiled son-of-a-spacehawk home and pour him into bed, and I looked around, wondering who was tanked, and by golly, they all were but me! Which I tried to explain, standing on a table so I could get their attention, but somebody pulled the table out from under me.
And that's all I remember until I woke up the next morning with my mouth tasting like the inside of a birdcage, and Lt. Sam Evans, Second Mate of the Pegasus , was standing at my bedside grinning at me. Sunbeams were bouncing up and down on my counterpane like elephants. I moaned and said, Get 'em out of here, Sam!
He said, Them? Who?
Those little purple men. They're making faces at me.
He said, Shoo! Go away, little purple men! and they disappeared. You, he said, sure collected yourself a snootful last night.
Who? I demanded, holding the top of my head on. Me? I don't know what you're talking about. Can I help it if I was suddenly taken sick?
You were suddenly taken, he chortled, drunk! I thought I'd die when you picked Cap Bowman up piggy-back and started sliding down banisters with him. You said you were a space vacuole looking for some place to happen. And when you told the crowd about the time you swiped the skipper's winter drawers and ran 'em up the flagpole—