He collided heavily with a Soviet officer. The other man, whose uniform could be felt — heavy, warm, and epauletted — as Dugan grabbed his shoulder, stepped back with an oath and said:
"You drunken fool! Get back to your quarters! What are you looking for—?"
Thick-voiced Dugan replied, "Number Eighteen. I'm a plumber, comrade general, a plumber, got to fix a leak in the sprinkler. Need tools."
The colonel shook Dugan, holding him tightly by the upper arms, rocking him back and forth vigorously until Dugan's head almost snapped off. The violent motion made the drug strike home and in a single surging thrill of well-being Dugan felt himself come back to normal: physical, mental normal. He was ready again to fight.
But he kept his voice thick until the colonel, with surprising practical sense, walked him back to Number Eighteen, showed him the tool locker, and then stood over him, waiting for Dugan to plumb away at his plumbing. In a low, sheepish, but more sober voice Dugan said to the colonel:
"Comrade Colonel, I'm better now. It was just three little drinks. And such good vodka, too. If the Comrade Colonel will excuse me, I will rest a minute and will then do my work and I will go back to quarters and I will not go outside any more unless I have to and I hope the Colonel will not report it because tomorrow is May Day and I am usually a very careful man and I am even a member of the Communist Party and if the Colonel will wait a minute until we can go over to where there is a bright light I will show the Comrade Colonel my Communist Party membership card and my Trades Union card and my passes and all—"
While talking, Dugan was eyeing the man's position. If the colonel did not go away soon, he would have to be chopped down with the side of a hand — a process which, to be effective, meant killing in about one case out of ten. Dugan had no wish to kill human beings unnecessarily, but he was prepared to drop the colonel to the ground and, with the Russian stranger unconscious, to stuff him into the tool locker. Dugan himself had already gotten a large pair of parallel-jaw pliers, an excellent German monkey wrench, and a short length of steel which he could use for a crowbar. Best of all, he had found a hooded flashlight, where the beam could be controlled by shutters with a little fingertip control on the side. It was an aperture just like the aperture openings on the cheap, indestructible tough little Brownie Kodaks of his childhood.
The colonel looked down at Dugan and the assortment of tools. With contemptuous kindliness he said: "All right, get your work done. But get back to quarters and sleep off that jag before you get in trouble. I haven't got the time to admire your papers… Good night, comrade."
"Good night, Comrade Colonel," said Dugan humbly. The colonel left, disappearing rapidly into the night.
Dugan took stock.