Clayton got up and went outside toward the ship.
“Wake up! Hey, you! Wake up!”
Somebody was slapping his cheeks. Clayton opened his eyes and looked at the blurred face over his own.
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.