Here he beamed at Lorraine. "—the natural sugar was broken down into carbon dioxide, glycerin, succinic acid, and—er—"
"Urr?" repeated Bowman curiously. "What's that? A new element? Never heard of it."
"And—er—" said Johnny sheepishly, "alcohol! You see, that's why the sailors and I were a trifle—confused—by the atmosphere surrounding us—"
"Confused your hat!" I told him. "You were stewed! But it all makes sense now. The fermentation naturally continued. It loosened up the sticky goo, our blasts dragged us out of the trap. But, say! That alky odor is still all through the ship. We can't air the joint while we're traveling through space. Do you think—?"
But he didn't hear me. For this, after all, was the honeymoon trip of Johnny Larkin. And now, the danger over, he had reverted to type. He and Lorraine looked like a brace of intertwined pretzels.
The skipper coughed. He said, "Sparks? Maybe we—"
I gasped, "Gosh, yes! This red on my face ain't sunburn!"
So, folks, that was that. Oh—one thing more. I was right. That alky odor didn't leave the ship. Don't ask me how we ever got back to Long Island Spaceport.
They told me later we zig-zagged in by way of Mercury and Luna. I wouldn't know. It was just one, long, delirious dream to me. I was two weeks coming out of it.