"Ye're ghostly, lad," rumbled the long-faced Scotchman, pushing down the impatient derelict. "Were ye lost long in the sand?"
"I don't know. A long time ... a long ... time...." Thorne lay still for a while, his hand over his eyes.
There was a strange, puzzled look in Fraser's eyes as he watched the man who had once been his friend. Jeff Thorne had been among the best of five worlds, and now....
"Could I get ye anything, lad?" he asked, gently. The other shook his head.
"I feel all right," he said, finally. "Dead-tired, but all right."
"Pumped water into ye," Fraser grinned. "Soaked ye in it. Ye lay in ma bath near five hours, out and all. Does wonders up here."
"You must have worked miracles, Joy," acknowledged Thorne, wonderingly. "What did you do? I know I was dying."
The rocket captain looked down, flushing miserably. He picked at a fleck on his purple tunic.
"Well, lad, you know ... we hear things in the trade. I knew ... you drank t'ang. So I remembered I had a bottle. Stuff in the armory for trading, ye remember. You had half a glass."
Thorne smiled wryly. "Yes? Thanks, Fraser. You took a risk, dispensing the stuff without a permit, but the patient—" His eyes widened and he came suddenly to his elbow, disregarding Fraser's attempt to thrust him down in the bunk again. "Half a glass, you said?"