Seven flights, up, up, up. He stumbled, he sprawled upon a landing; his breath rose painfully from the caverns of his lungs. He panted, raced up, as if in fear.
Half way he said: "She can't get me—not her!"
To his amazement, they were still there. The Captain, too. And nit-wit Willy. Some sodden. Some half awake. A fetid odor, as of vomit.
"Come in," Kewpie said.
"Welcome home," said Feathers.
"Did the trollop make you?" asked Verne.
"I'm drunk," said Ken.
Marge opened an eye. "I smoke marajuana," he announced.
On the table was a half empty bottle of gin. Ken poured it down his gullet. He fell on the bed, room tip-tilted against him.
"Get off a me," said Feathers. "I wanta snooze." Whirligig world—silly world. "Poor Gracey," the Captain was saying. "Washed up."
Zigzag fire, arches of lighted lamps before his eyes. Words—Love is beauty, and love of Howard could have been beauty, if only he had known.
What chance had he had? In Texas, a farm boy he should have been. Consort to cattle. Pigs. Sheep.
"He's just a rotten old fag," Feathers said, close to his ear.
"Too bad he can't dance no more," said the Captain.
"Who can't dance?" Ken asked quietly. "Who can't dance?"
He sat up.
"Who can't dance?" he demanded. "Who can't dance?"
He tried to stand up.
