His first thought was for the captain. But as he neared Jock Warren's cabin, his hackles rose as if in warning: there was a new odor in the air, slimy and deathly ancient. Then at the far end of the passageway, he saw the back of a tentacled head rise from the steps to the engine room. Yellow flame seemed to pursue him along the corridor as he fled. An emergency hatch that led past the fore-castle to the lifeboats afforded him temporary escape and seconds later he found refuge in a lifeboat.
When his trembling ceased, he started to formulate plans to regain the ship. In the lifeboat, he discovered two force band pistols which he stuck in his belt. If worse came to worse, he could bolt the ship, risking the unknown dangers of a hyper-universe in preference to the skags.
As the narcol-induced fantasies faded from Jock Warren's brain, the skipper became aware his ship had passed minus point. Well, the old tub was on her way now and he'd have to put in an appearance on the deck ... show the lads the old man wasn't scuttled. He splashed cold water on his face, afterwards rubbing his red-blotched skin with a rough towel. Feeling better, he hummed a vulgar space chantey he had learned as an Alpha Centauri midshipman, following which he danced a brief jig that evoked memories of an early cruise to Procyon and a lovely blackeyed wench.
Now completely spruced up, the captain buckled the triple prongs of his white belt, donned his gold-braided space cap and stepped out of the cabin.
A live skag stood at the end of the hall waiting for him.
Doubt and disbelief wrinkled Jock Warren's brow as he stared at the apparition. He knew he was sober because the Star Rover had passed minus point. His mind groped for an explanation of the skag. There was no explanation—but there was a solution.
The captain backed into his cabin, locked the door and then searched through his wardroom locker until he found that most precious of all liquids, a flask of narcol. Several good strong slugs slushed down his parched gullet, before his space-hardened nerves approached reasonably good shape.
His skin flushed and his arteries warmed by the narcol, he became convinced once more that he had suffered an hallucination. Fantasy or no fantasy, there remained only one way to learn for certain. Jock Warren strode into the corridor. There the skag waited. "Blast it!" the captain rumbled. "You're a balmy hallucination. Out of my way, you scummy dream of a scummy planet!"
He lurched towards the creature and his arms attempted to brush away its cobwebby image. Sudden contact with its cold firm flesh electrified him. "Mister Guhn!" his voice rose. "Avast, Mr. Guhn!"