They left Joe in the ship and dragged Mike before Slan. That gigantic figure sat in regal splendor at the end of a long corridor that ran the length of the vessel. On either side of Mike, as he stumbled toward the throne which seemed miles away, uniformed giants stood at attention. Had he stretched his arm he might have been able to rap a belt buckle. The sensation of being a pygmy increased as he approached Slan.
Grouped around Slan, whose throne was on a platform several feet high, stood members of what seemed to be a retinue. They sneered and snickered as Mike drew near, and Mike had to strain his neck and blurred eyes to see them.
"Are you ready to begin?" Slan asked in a voice that nearly deafened Mike.
"We'll murder ya, ya bums," Mike answered belligerently. His whiskey-fogged mind somehow assumed Joe was still by his side.
"Very well, then." And Slan extended an arm toward Mike, thumb pointed up.
Mike promptly repeated the gesture, except that he pointed his thumb down.
Slan reached for a huge flagon of red liquid, which he poured slowly onto the floor. Mike stared, then reached into a hip pocket and produced a bottle of whiskey, swallowed some and vigorously smacked his lips. Then he held the bottle out to Slan, grinning broadly.
Slan reached into a bag at his side, took out a handful of colored pebbles, and scattered them on the floor. Mike scrambled after them and stuffed them into his pocket, then struggled erect, panting with the exertion.
Slan arose from his throne, stepped off the platform, and towered over Mike.