“I was checking through the stores this morning when I found this man. He was asleep, dead drunk, behind the crates.”
“He was drunk, all right,” supplied the medic. “I found this in his pocket.” He flipped a booklet to the First Officer.
The First was a young man, not older than twenty-eight with tough-looking gray eyes. He looked over the booklet.
“Where did you get Parkinson’s ID booklet? And his uniform?”
Clayton looked down at his clothes in wonder. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? That’s a hell of an answer.”
“Well, I was drunk,” Clayton said defensively. “A man doesn’t know what he’s doing when he’s drunk.” He frowned in concentration. He knew he’d have to think up some story.
“I kind of remember we made a bet. I bet him I could get on the ship. Sure—I remember, now. That’s what happened; I bet him I could get on the ship and we traded clothes.”
“Where is he now?”
“At my place, sleeping it off, I guess.”