Val Kenton came to with the acrid bite of neutralizing gas twisting his stomach in violent nausea. He retched, turned on his side, reaching automatically for the gas-pipe. His hand encountered nothing, and he opened dazed eyes, stared uncomprehendingly around.
"Leave me alone!" he snarled, "I paid your bloody money for a private booth!"
A heavy palm smashed across his face, brought him, raging, to his feet. He lashed out with both hands, felt a grip of steel on his shoulder whirl him and throw him back to the laced-steel bunk.
"Sober up, Kenton," a hard voice snapped, "I haven't got time to waste."
Val Kenton came slowly to a sitting position, rubbed his aching forehead with his hand, finally forced his bleary eyes to focus on the uniformed man standing so grimly before him.
The man was blocky, his grizzled hair a stiff shock above a craggy face. He wore the uniform of an S.P. colonel, with the triple bars that only a charter member of the Space Patrol could wear. His eyes were unfriendly as he stared at the unshaven, younger man before him, but deep in their gray depths was a terrified panic that he could not completely conceal.
"Snap out of it, Kenton," he barked.
Val Kenton swayed drunkenly to his feet, saluted insolently.
"Captain Val Kenton, of the Cruiser Pegasus, reporting for duty, sir," he said blurrily, mockingly, "Day's orders, sir?"
He stared about the cell, hate growing in his eyes, the jut of his chin becoming even more stubborn. His hand fumbled for a cigarette, and he lit it with a glow-lighter, as his gaze grew speculative.