He was, too. “The stuff’ was a little green capsule. “Only five hunnerd,” he wheedled. “Maybe the last one on board. Ya wanta touch down wit’ the shakes? Nah! This’ll straighten ya out fer landing-” “Landing where?” I yelled. “What’s all this about? I don’t know, and I don’t want your dope. Just tell me where I am and what I’m supposed to have signed up for and I’ll take it from there!” He looked at me closely and said: “Ya got it bad. A hit in the head, maybe? Well, Punchy, yer in the Number Six Hold of the Labor Freighter Thomas R. Malthus. Wind and weather, immaterial. Course, 273 degrees. Speed 300, destination Costa Rica, cargo slobs like you and me for the Chlorella plantations.” It was the rigmarole of a relieved watch officer, or a savage parody of it “You’re-” I hesitated. “Downgraded,” he finished bitterly, and stared at the green capsule in the palm of his hand. Abruptly he gulped it and went on: “I’m gonna hit the comeback trail, though.” A sparkle crept into his eyes. “I’m gonna introduce new and efficient methods in the plantations. I’ll be a foreman in a week. I’ll be works manager in a month. I’ll be a director in a year. And then I’m gonna buy the Cunard Line and plate all their rockets with solid gold. Nothing but first-class accommodations. Nothing but the best for my passengers. I always kept her smooth on the Atlantic run. I’ll build you a gold-plated imperial suite aboard my flag ship, Punchy. The best is none too good for my friend Punchy. If you don’t like gold I’ll get platinum. If you don’t like-” I inched away and he didn’t notice. He kept babbling his hop-head litany. It made me glad I’d never taken to the stuff. I came to a bulkhead and sat down hopelessly, leaning against it. Somebody sat down beside me and said “Hello there” in a cozy voice. “Hello,” I said. “Say, are we really headed for Costa? How can I get to see a ship’s officer? This is all a mistake.” “Oh,” said the man, “why worry about it? Live and let live. Eat, drink, and be merry is my motto.” “Take your God-damned hands off me!” I told him. He became shrill and abusive, and I got up and walked on, stumbling over legs and torsos. It occurred to me that I’d never really known any consumers except during the brief periods when they were serving me. I wanted very badly to get out of Number Six Hold. I wanted to get
back to New York, find out what kind of stunt Runstead had pulled and why, get back to Kathy, and my friendship with Jack O’Shea, and my big job at Fowler Schocken. I had things to do. One of the red lights said Crash Emergency Exit. I thought of the hundreds of people jammed in the hold trying to crowd out through the door, and shuddered, “Excuse me, my friend,” somebody said hoarsely to me. “You’d better move.” He began to throw up, and apparently airsickness containers weren’t issued aboard labor freighters. I rolled the emergency door open and slid through. “Well?” growled a huge Detective Agency guard. “I want to see a ship’s officer,” I said. “I’m here by some mistake. My name is Mitchell Courtenay. I’m a copysmith with the Fowler Schocken Associates.” “The number,” he snapped. “16-156-187,” I told him, and I admit that there was a little pride in my voice. You can lose money and health and friendship, but they can’t take a low Social Security number away from you . . . He was rolling up my sleeve, not roughly. The next moment I went spinning against the bulkhead with my face burning from a ham-handed slap. “Get back between decks, Punchy!” the guard roared. “Yer not on an excursion and I don’t like yer funny talk!” I stared incredulously at the pit of my elbow. The tatto read: “1304-9974-1416-156-187723.” My own number was buried in it, but the inks matched perfectly. The style of lettering was very slightly off-not enough for anybody to notice but me. “Waddaya waitin’ for?” the guard said. “You seen yer number before, ain’t ya?” “No,” I said evenly, but my legs were quivering. I was scared- terribly scared. “I never saw this number before. It’s been tattooed around my real number. I’m Courtenay, I tell you. I can prove it. I’ll pay you-” I fumbled in my pockets and found no money. I abruptly realized that I was wearing a strange and shabby suit of Universal apparel, stained with food and worse. “So pay,” the guard said impassively. “I’ll pay you later,” I told him. “Just get me to somebody responsible-” A natty young flight lieutenant in Panagra uniform popped into the narrow corridor. “What’s going on here?” he demanded of the guard. “The hatchway light’s still on. Can’t you keep order between