He didn't look at her. He raised his glass to his mouth and shortly afterward the fog rolled in again.
When it rolled out, the unfamiliar taste of black coffee was in his mouth. He shook his head for clarity.
He seemed to be in some working class restaurant. Next to him, in a booth, was a fresh-faced Sub-lieutenant of the—Don squinted at the collar tabs—yes, of the Space Service. A Scout pilot.
Don stuttered, "What's ... goin' ... on?"
The pilot said apologetically, "Sub-lieutenant Pierpont, sir. You seemed so far under the weather, I took over."
"Oh, you did, eh?"
"Well, yes, sir. You were, well, reclining in the gutter, sir. In spite of your, well, appearance, your condition, I recognized you, sir."
"Oh." His stomach was an objecting turmoil.
The Lieutenant said, "Want to try some more of this coffee now, sir? Or maybe some soup or a sandwich?"