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although the focus was fuzzy. I looked around, found that I was in a strange room, lying on top of a bed and only half dressed.
    That began to bring it back to me. A party aboard ship. Spirits. Lots of spirits. Noise. Nakedness. The Captain in a grass skirt, dancing heartily, and the orchestra keeping step with him. Some of the lady passengers wearing grass skirts and some wearing even less. Rattle of bamboo, boom of drums.
    Drums—
    Those weren’t drums in my head; that was the booming of the worst headache of my life. Why in Ned did I let them—
    Never mind “them.” You did it yourself, chum.
    Yes, but—
    “Yes, but.” Always “Yes, but.” All your life it’s been “Yes, but.” When are you going to straighten up and take full responsibility for your life and all that happens to you?
    Yes, but this isn’t my fault. I’m not A. L. Graham. That isn’t my name. This isn’t my ship.
    It isn’t? You’re not?
    Of course not—
    I sat up to shake off this bad dream. Sitting up was a mistake; my head did not fall off but a stabbing pain at the base of my neck added itself to the throbbing inside my skull. I was wearing black dress trousers and apparently nothing else and I was in a strange room that was rolling slowly.
    Graham’s trousers. Graham’s room. And that long, slow roll was that of a ship with no stabilizers.
    Not a dream. Or if it is, I can’t shake myself out of it. My teeth itched, my feet didn’t fit. Dried sweat all over me except where I was clammy. My armpits—Don’t even think about armpits!
    My mouth needed to have lye dumped into it.
    I remembered everything now. Or almost. The fire pit. Villagers. Chickens scurrying out of the way. The ship that wasn’t my ship—but was. Margrethe—
    Margrethe!
    “ Thy two breasts are like two roes — thou art all fair, my love! ”
    Margrethe among the dancers, her bosom as bare as her feet. Margrethe dancing with that villainous kanaka, and shaking her—
    No wonder I got drunk!
    Stow it, chum! You were drunk before that. All you’ve got against that native lad is that it was he instead of you. You wanted to dance with her yourself. Only you can’t dance.
    Dancing is a snare of Satan.
    And don’t you wish you knew how!
    “— like two roes”! Yes. I do!
    I heard a light tap at the door, then a rattle of keys. Margrethe stuck her head in. “Awake? Good.” She came in, carrying a tray, closed the door, came to me. “Drink this.”
    “What is it?”
    “Tomato juice, mostly. Don’t argue—drink it!”
    “I don’t think I can.”
    “Yes, you can. You must. Do it.”
    I sniffed it, then I took a small sip. To my amazement it did not nauseate me. So I drank some more. After one minor quiver it went down smoothly and lay quietly inside me. Margrethe produced two pills. “Take these. Wash them down with the rest of the tomato juice.”
    “I never take medicine.”
    She sighed, and said something I did not understand. Not English. Not quite. “What did you say?”
    “Just something my grandmother used to say when grandfather argued with her. Mr. Graham, take those pills, They are just aspirin and you need them. If you won’t cooperate, I’ll stop trying to help you. I’ll—I’ll swap you to Astrid, that’s what I’ll do.”
    “Don’t do that.”
    “I will if you keep objecting. Astrid would swap, I know she would. She likes you—she told me you were watching her dance last night.”
    I accepted the pills, washed them down with the rest of the tomato juice—ice-cold and very comforting. “I did until I spotted you. Then I watched you.”
    She smiled for the first time. “Yes? Did you like it?”
    “You were beautiful.” (And your dance was obscene. Your immodest dress and your behavior shocked me out of a year’s growth. I hated it—and I wish I could see it all over again this very instant!) “You are very graceful.”
    The smile grew dimples. “I had hoped that you would like it, sir.”
    “I did. Now stop