even more difficult
process, but Malone knew it had to be managed. Somehow he got his feet
firmly planted on the floor and sat up.

It had been a remarkable feat, he told himself. He deserved a medal.

That reminded him of the night before. He had been thinking quite a
lot about the medals he deserved for various feats. He had even
awarded some of them to himself, in the shape of liquid decoctions.

He remembered all that quite well. There were a lot of cloudy things
in his mind, but from all the testimony he could gather, he imagined
that he'd had quite a time the night before. Quite a wonderful time,
as a matter of fact.

Not that that reflection did anything for him now. As he opened his
eyes, one at a time, he thought of Boyd. Once, long ago, ages and ages
ago, he had had to wake Boyd up, and he recalled how rough he had been
about it. That had been unforgivable.

He made a mental note to apologize to Boyd the next time he saw
him--if he could ever see again. Now, he knew how Boyd had felt. And
it was terrible.

Still sitting on the bed, he told himself that, in spite of
everything, he was lucky. To judge by his vague memories, he'd had
quite a time the night before, and if the hangover was payment for it,
then he was willing to accept the payment. Almost. Because it had
really been a terrific time. The only nagging thought in his mind was
that there had been something vital he'd forgotten.

"Tickets," he said aloud, and was surprised that his voice was
audible. As a matter of fact, it was too audible; the noise made him
wince slightly. He shifted his position very quietly.

And he hadn't forgotten the tickets. No. He distinctly remembered
going to see _The Hot Seat_, and finding seats, and actually sitting
through the show with Dorothy at his side. He couldn't honestly say
that he remembered much of the show itself, but that couldn't be the
important thing he'd forgotten. By no means.

He had heard that it was a good show, though. Sometime, he reminded
himself, he would have to get tickets and actually see it.

He checked through the evening. Drinks. Dinner ... he had had dinner,
hadn't he? Yes, he had. He recalled a broiled sea bass looking up at
him with mournful eyes. He couldn't have dreamed anything like that.

And then the theater, and after that some more drinks ... and so on,
and so on, and so on, right to his arrival back in his hotel room, at
four-thirty in the morning, on a bright, boiled c