“Suppose we ought to let him sleep it off?" I pushed someone's slapping hands away from me and opened one eye. Ringed around me were half a dozen faces, looking down—a couple of nurses, a doctor or two, and a j.g. with a thin black mustache and an OOD band on his arm. "Well," said the Officer of the Deck, "welcome back." I tasted something awful in my mouth. "Wha—what happened?" The faces were grave. "You got burned." Apparently being burned was no laughing matter. I groggily made sense of what ...they were telling me. Like the Air Force captain at the Boca Raton field, like the other mysterious victims I had heard whispers about—I had been burned. And it was true enough; they showed me a bright mirror above, and I could see the burns. My shoulders, the base of my neck, a thin line down my back; they were all brilliant scarlet, like a bad sunburn; and they hurt. Something clicked in my fuzzy brain. "Oh," I said, "the Glotch." But they had never heard of "the Glotch." Evidently the Boca Raton name for it was purely local, but the thing was the same, all right.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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