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I'd even thought, if he stopped drinking, he might make a success as a private detective at Port Sandor, on Fenris! I wondered what color my face had gotten now, and I started looking around for a crack in the floor, to trickle gently and unobtrusively into. And it should have been obvious to me, maybe not that he was an Executive Special, but that he was certainly no drunken barfly.
It had started showing after they had landed on Amaterasu. He had begun to dress more neatly and speak more grammatically; to look and act more like a spaceman and less like a barfly. His men had begun to jump to obey when he gave an order. He had opposed the raid on Beowulf, but that had been the dying struggle of the chicken-thief he had been.
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