I grinned then, and said, "Carshon. Carton. Old boy. Do you know that telenosis therapy is no sonofabitchin' good on alcoholics?"
Carson Newell sat back down, frowning.
I stumbled to a chair by the corner of his desk and gripped the arms tightly.
"Telenosis therapy," I repeated, "is just no—"
"Snap out of it," Newell barked. "It's no good on dumb animals, either, and you're probably out of range by now, anyway."
He took a small bottle from his desk and tossed a yellow Anti-Alch pill across the desk to me. I popped it into my mouth.
It didn't take long to work. A few minutes later, still weak and a little trembly, I said, "Would have thought of that myself, if I hadn't been so damn drunk."
The boss grunted. "Now what's this business about telenosis?"
"Somebody's been using it on me," I said. "Maliciously. Damn near drowned in a lake of blood from a water faucet."
"Couldn't have been DTs?"