"HUH?" He shouted, sitting up in the plastic comfy plastic cot he had been sleeping in. How long had he been asleep? "What is Blake Madison doing?" he suddenly inquired aloud, to his own surprise. "Why," he thought, "just catching up on some well-deserved shut-eye in a vinyl coccoon on a f#cking alien space craft is all!!" He rubbed his eyes vigorously. The dull glowing interior of the extraterrestrial fusilage refused to disappear. Blake wondered about the guy in his dream. The big red-headed lumberjack guy from the folkie camp. He remembered the big good-natured grin, then the eyes filled with shock and fear, and then Blake had shot him, and...Madison touched the fingers of his right hand to his lips, smelled and tasted cordite from the gun flash residue there. "It's not a dream," he whispered, then said again loudly "what am I doing?!"
Stiffly, he rose from the cot, placed both feet on the eerily vibrating deck of the alien craft, and muttered "I've got to stop me."