Shoemaker had reached a decision. Delirium tremens wasn't a good enough answer; it didn't fit. If he thought it was that, he'd gladly take the cure, even though the idea made his belly crawl. Of course, it was too late for that, anyway--he'd thrown out the drug in Burford's sick-box and substituted plain baking soda long ago. But Shoemaker thought he knew what was happening to him, and it wasn't d. t.'s. It wasn't the usual dipso's collection of crazy daymares at all; there was a horrid kind of logic to it. Instead of delirium, it was--judgment. That was as far as he'd gone. He knew he had it coming to him, and now he thought he was going to get it. But he hadn't given up yet. There was one thing he could still do, and that was to run--get clear away from this damned planet. After that, he'd just have to take his chances. Maybe the things could follow him into space, maybe not. Shoemaker wasn't sure of anything any more. He slipped the capsule into his pocket where he could get at it when he needed it, and went on up the passageway. "Oh, there you are," said Burford. "We were wondering where you'd got to." Shoemaker glared at him. "Okay, go ahead, ask me if I was digging for a microspectrograph mine." Burford looked shocked. "Why, Jim, you know I wouldn't say a nasty thing like that." He took Shoemaker's arm. "Come on up to the galley. We're having a pow-wow." Oh-oh, thought Shoemaker. This looks like it. He put his hand in his pocket and folded his handkerchief over the capsule. Davies and Hale stared at him solemnly as he came through the door with Burford behind him. He looked back at them, poker-faced, and sat down. Davies cleared his throat. "Er-um. Jim, we've been worried about you lately. You don't act like you're feeling too chipper." "That's right," said Shoemaker, looking doleful. "I've been thinking about my poor old mother." Burford snorted. "Your poor old mother died fifty years ago." "She did," said Shoemaker, taking out his handkerchief, "and she died with one great wish unfulfilled." "Yeah? What was that?" Burford asked skeptically. "She always wanted to have a son like you," Shoemaker said, "so that she could whale the living daylights out of him." He blew his nose raucously, slipped the capsule into his mouth, put his handkerchief away and smiled beatifically. Davies was frowning. "Jim," he said, "I wish you wouldn't make jokes about it. We all know what's the matter with you. You been fightin' the liquor too hard." "Who says so?" Shoemaker demanded. "Now, Jim, don't make things difficult. I don't like this any more'n you do, but--" "Like what?" Burford made an impatient gesture. "Go ahead, tell him, Lou. No use dragging it out." "That's right," Hale put in, glowering. "Shut up, you," said Shoemaker. He turned to Davies. "Tell me what? You're not going to bring up that 'cure' chestnut again, by any chance?"