out of the bunk and discovered he couldn’t tell the floor
from the ceiling. The floor found him.
“Wot was that?” said a distant voice.
He struggled to get up. “I don’t…” He reached for the
railing of the lower bunk and tried to pull himself upright.
“Wheresh the… ?” Somehow he managed to drag him-
self to a standing position. He stood there on shaky knees
that felt determined to go their own way, exclusive of any
contrariwise instructions from his brain.
“Whash wrong with me?” he moaned.
Two faces appeared in the doorway, one above the other.
Both were blurred.
“Shee-it,” said Roseroar. “He’s drunk! Ah didn’t see
him get into any liquor.”
“Nor did I,” said Mudge, trying to push past her.
“Give me room, you bloody great amazon!” He put his
hands on Jon-Tom’s shoulders and gripped hard. Jon-Tom
staggered backward.
“Blister me for a brown vole if you’re not. Where’d you
find the hootch, guv’nor?”
“What hoosh?” Jon-Tom replied thickly. “I didn’t…”
The floor almost went out from under him. “Say, whoosh
driving thish bush?”
A disgusted Mudge stepped back. “Can’t abide anyone
who can’t ‘old ‘is booze.”
92
Alan Dean Foster
“Leave him fo now,” said Roseroar. “We’ll have to
handle this ourselves.” They turned to leave.
“Hey, wait!” Jon-Tom yelled. He took a step forward,
and the boat, sly and tricky craft that it was, deliberately
yanked the floor out from under him. He slammed into the
door, hung on for dear life.
Mudge was right, he realized through the glassy haze
that had formed over his eyeballs. I am drunk. Try as he