Klaus Ekstrom dragged himself into Phoenvartis Monday at 9 a.m. He felt terrible and didn"t look much better. A thirty-minute shower and two pots of coffee weren"t much of a remedy. What the hell had he done over the weekend? The last thing he remembered was the gal from Archives stopping by his apartment and making a pitcher of margaritas. He was blasted before she arrived but thought he was sober enough to have at least one drink and then play kissy-face with her.
God, he hoped she left before he passed out and soiled himself. It was the end of his career if she recorded his sorry-ass passed out like a skid-row drunk. He hoped the extra world credits he tossed her way for services rendered each week were also enough to keep her mouth shut. Maybe he would do something nice for her today
