We were somewhere around the Serpent Swarm at the edge of the Wunderland system when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe we should switch to autopilot . . . ." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the space outside our transparent hull was full of what looked like huge bandersnatchi, all throbbing and creeping peristaltically and respiring wetly around the ship, which had dropped into plain space just about the time I had ingested these terrible, terrible alkaloids. And a voice was screaming, "Holy Jesus, what are these goddamn Slaver relics?
 

Then it was quiet again. My puppeteer attorney had taken his sash off, and was mixing a Singapore Sling in one of his mouths, stirring it with a swizzle stick held in the other. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring out towards the crimson disc of Centauri B. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to pilot. And give me a beer. I'm starting to turn red." I powered down the fusion drive and turned the Skydiver about. No point mentioning those bandersnatchi, I thought. The poor cowardly bastard will see them soon enough.