Death Twelve Something, somewhere, was nagging me with an idea. It wasn't a clear idea, but I knew it was a very unpleasant one. I tried to avoid it as long as possible. But it kept on nagging. Finally, I had to admit I knew what it was. Eyes, it said. You have to open your eyes. I did. I didn't want to, but I did. Familiar double-lidded eyes, in a familiar Oriental face, stared down at me. They blinked, then the mouth curved upward in a wholly scrutable smile of relief. Another face, this one black, and just as familiar, came into vision. Also smiling. "Hey, Carter," the Oriental face said, "do you always go to sleep this early in the evening? I mean, we didn't even eat dinner yet." I raised my head and groaned. Pains shot through my skull until I thought my eyeballs were going to pop out. Gingerly, tentatively, I reached hand to skull. It encountered a large bandage. "I feel," I said, with difficulty, "like a man who's had his scalp parted by a bullet from a Sten gun." "Probably because you're a man who's just had his scalp parted by a bullet from a Sten gun," suggested Li Chin.
