Unfortunately for Tarlac's sobriety, that respite didn't last long. Within half an hour, his n'ruhar were again introducing themselves. Hovan wasn't needed often as a translator; with so many anxious to meet their new relative, Tarlac had very limited opportunities for conversation. He soon lost any trace of doubt that he would live up to custom, too, whether he wanted to or not. By the time about a third of those in the gathering hall had introduced themselves, he had a distinct buzz on. He had also come to the firm, if rather woozy, conclusion that these people, his new family, were the finest in the galaxy. Especially the big gray-skinned guy beside him, the brother he'd never had. Before. He was never sure, later, how many more of Ch'kara he did meet. Things were getting blurry and disconnected, and never improved. He did remember singing, probably off-key, and later hanging onto Hovan's arm for support. Hovan felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see a silly grin on Steve's upturned face. The man mumbled something, so slurred Hovan couldn't make it out, then released Hovan's arm and closed unfocussed eyes to slump bonelessly to the floor, still smiling. Looking around at the n'ruhar who had seen Steve's collapse, Hovan translated the Ranger's earlier prediction aloud into Language, then smiled indulgently down at him. "And it seems he was right. He has had a very successful party. Time to pour him, as I promised, into bed." He stooped, picked up the slightly-built man with no difficulty, and turned to Yarra. "I think he'd better sleep in the infirmary tonight, Ka'ruchaya." "I agree. And tell the nurse to let him sleep until he wakes by himself. The Supreme has said he and the First Speaker will wait until Steve is ready to see them." "They do him much honor." Tarlac woke up once during the night, and was vaguely aware of being helped to someplace where he vomited and afterwards collapsed. Then he was carried back to bed, where dim light showed him a reassuring shark-toothed smile before a cool cloth covered his forehead and eyes and he went out again. The next time he woke it was to lights that were too bright. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, wishing he were still unconscious. There was a light touch on his arm, and a musical voice said something he couldn't understand but thought was sympathetic. He didn't want sympathy, he wanted to die. Well, maybe he just wanted anything that would end the misery. He recognized a hangover, though he'd never had one this bad before; while it would end in time, he wouldn't enjoy the next few hours. Then an arm under his head and shoulders raised him and a different voice, Hovan's, said, "Drink." There was a glass at his lips; he obeyed without thought. What he drank was almost too sour to swallow, but within a few minutes he was feeling better. A little bit. "What time is it?" "Midday, twelve and a half hours by your timepiece."