99

Christopher Stasheff

Magnus frowned, trying to make sense out of that.

“Says so on y’r pocket.”

The guard’s face came closer, frowning. “Boy, you are from out of town, aren’t you? E.D.G.A.R. stands for the Eleusinian Drinking and Gambling Addiction Reformatory.”

“Eleusinian?” Then Magnus remembered—in Classical Greece, the cult of Ceres centered around the Eleusinian Mysteries. He wished he hadn’t thought of it—the effort made his headache worse.

He aimed himself at the bunk and fell, groaning,

“Jus’ wanna die.”

But the guard caught him and turned him around so that he sat instead of lying down. ‘“Fraid not just now, pal. You’ve got a visitor. Here, drink this.” A rough hand hauled his head back and shoved a cup at him. Magnus opened his mouth to protest, but fluid gushed over his tongue, and he had to swallow or choke, then swallow again, and again. When the flow stopped, he pushed the cup away with a grimace.

“lyuch! What was that stuff?”

“H&I.”

Magnus peered up at the man’s face, squinting his eyes against the light. “What? H and I?”

“Gemini Hangover and Intoxication Oil, from Castor Epsilon. You had yourself a real time last night, spacer.”

“I’m not—” Magnus cut the words off—he was a spacer now! The realization gave him an odd feeling, perhaps even an exhilarating one—but his body felt so horrible, he would never have noticed. “Analge-

\rt”

SIC’