The heat continued to build up in his fevered body until suddenly the dam broke, and sweat fairly gushed from him. The relief was tremendous but only momentary.
The girl's voice came on again, apparently with the flick of a recorder, play-back switch, "—gives such fine regulation of the body's thermal lag is a relatively new development in space-travel. Before its advent, passengers invariably arrived at their destination with high irritability from the thermal monotony.
"So the delightful comfort you now enjoy is just one more modern service rendered by your host, the progressive Delta Spaceways Corporation, Interplanetary.
"This being the last shot you received—in booth number seven—we will now move on to a description and explanation of the free-flight sensations you are now experience—"
Booth number seven!
The significance finally soaked into Pauker's mind. Booth number seven was where he had fled for concealment and received a double dose of drug injection! It was no wonder he was suffering the excessive lag in thermal adjustment!
Already, the comforting coolness of the moving air on his sweat soaked body was becoming too sharp. The chill rippled up from his groin, raised the hackles of his neck-hair and diffused into his limbs like a gelid syrup. A trickle of mucous dropped from his nasal passages and stung his throat. He tried to roll his head, to hawk. It was hopeless. The lassitude that held his limbs prevented the smallest motion.
Only his breathing seemed within his control, and a minute later he was fervently grateful. A bubble gathered deep in his trachea, and he coughed. The irritation increased, and he coughed again, a dry, hacking cough.
What kind of torment had he let himself in for, he wondered? Was he forced to lie here shivering or roasting for nine months?