He remembered meeting Parks. And getting thrown out by the bartender. Then what?
Oh, yeah. He’d gone to the Shark’s for a bottle. From there on, it was mostly gone. He remembered a fight or something, but that was all that registered.
The medic in the sick bay fired two shots from a hypo-gun into both arms, but Clayton ignored the slight sting.
“Where am I?”
“Real original. Here, take these.” He handed Clayton a couple of capsules, and gave him a glass of water to wash them down with.
When the water hit his stomach, there was an immediate reaction.
“Oh, Christ!” the medic said. “Get a mop, somebody. Here, bud; heave into this.” He put a basin on the table in front of Clayton.
It took them the better part of an hour to get Clayton awake enough to realize what was going on and where he was. Even then, he was plenty groggy.
It was the First Officer of the STS-52 who finally got the story straight. As soon as Clayton was in condition, the medic and the quartermaster officer who had found him took him up to the First Officer’s compartment.