As for words I was trying to grope.

“Good buddy,” I cried, “you could surely oblige me

By turnin’ me on to some dope!”

With a bigfat smile he took ahold of my hand,

And we flew down the sky in a flash,

And the first thing I saw in the land where he took me

Was a whole solid mountain of hash!

All the trees was a-bloomin’ with pink ’n’ purple pills,

Whur the Romilar River flowed by,

To the magic mushrooms as wild as a rainbow,

So pretty that I wanted to cry.

All the girls come to greet us, so sweet in slow motion,

Morning glories woven into their hair,

Bringin’ great big handfuls of snowy cocaine,

All their dope they were eager to share.

Well we dallied for days, just a-ballin’ and smokin’,

In the flowering Panama Red,

Just piggin’ on peyote and nutmeg tea,

And those brownies so kind to your head.

Now I could’ve passed that good time forever,

And I really was fixing to stay,

But you know that

jinni turned out, t’be a narco man,

And he busted me right whur I lay.

And he took me back, to this cold, cold world,

‘N’ now m’ prison’s whurever I be…

And I dream of the days back in Doperland

And I wonder, will I ever go free?

The singer is Seaman Bodine, of the U.S. destroyer John E. Badass, and he’s the contact Säure is here to see. The Badass is docked in Cuxhaven and Bodine is semi-AWOL, having hit Berlin night before last for the first time since the early weeks of American occupation. “Things are so tight, man,” he’s groaning, “Potsdam, I couldn’t believe it over there. Remember how the Wilhelmplatz used to be? Watches, wine, jewels, cameras, heroin, fur coats, everything in the world. Nobody gave a shit, right? You ought to see it now. Russian security all over the place. Big mean customers. You couldn’t get near it.”

“Isn’t there supposed to be something going on over there?” sez Slothrop. He’s heard scuttlebutt. “A conference or some shit?”

“They’re deciding how to cut up Germany,” sez Säure. “All the Powers. They should call in the Germans, Kerl, we’ve been doing that for centuries.”

“You couldn’t get a gnat in there now, man,” Seaman Bodine shaking his head, dexterously rolling a reefer one-handed on a cigarette paper he has first torn, with straightfaced bravura, in half.

“Ah,” smiles Säure, flinging an arm over Slothrop, “but what if Rocketman can?”

Bodine looks over, skeptical. “That’s Rocketman?”

“More or less,” sez Slothrop, “but I’m not sure I want to go into that Potsdam, right now….”

“If you only knew!” cries Bodine. “Listen, Ace, right this minute, hardly 15 miles away, there is six kilos! of pure, top-grade Nepalese hashish! Scored it from my buddy in the CBI, government seals ’n’ everything, buried it myself back in May, so safe nobody’ll ever find it without a map. All you got to do is fly over there or whatever it is you do, just go in and get it.”