That seemed like a good question. I thought about it for a while.
Finally I said, "Haven't got one. Town's jam packed. Left my bag at the
Bahnhof. I don't think we'll ever make it, Arth. How many we got to go?"
"Lost track," Arth said. "You can come home with me."
We drank to that and the fog rolled in again.
When the fog rolled out, it was daylight. Bright, glaring, awful
daylight. I was sprawled, complete with clothes, on one of twin beds. On
the other bed, also completely clothed, was Arth.
That sun was too much. I stumbled up from the bed, staggered to the
window and fumbled around for a blind or curtain. There was none.
Behind me a voice said in horror, "Who ... how ... oh, _Wodo_, where'd
you come from?"
I got a quick impression, looking out the window, that the Germans were
certainly the most modern, futuristic people in the world. But I
couldn't stand the light. "Where's the shade," I moaned.
Arth did something and the window went opaque.
"That's quite a gadget," I groaned. "If I didn't feel so lousy, I'd
appreciate it."
Arth was sitting on the edge of the bed holding his bald head in his
hands. "I remember now," he sorrowed. "You didn't have a hotel. What a
stupidity. I'll be phased. Phased all the way down."
"You haven't got a handful of aspirin, have you?" I asked him.
"Just a minute," Arth said, staggering erect and heading for what
undoubtedly was a bathroom. "Stay where you are. Don't move. Don't touch
anything."
"All right," I told him plaintively. "I'm clean. I won't mess up the
place. All I've got is a hangover, not lice."
Arth was gone. He came back in two or three minutes, box of pills in
hand. "Here, take one of these."