After the Morning meeting, but how long after?

Who: Wowbagger
Where: He wishes he knew...somewhere on the ship
Wowbagger woke woefully. He opned his eyes. Well, he thought he
opned his eyes. Doesn't one usually see something when one's eyes are
opened? He moved his hand in front of his face and saw nothing, yet
his senses told him he had properly repositioned his limb.
Perhaps his sensorymotor humunculous has gone to Fushal? Perhaps he
sustained injury to his angual gyrus or cannot see due to a blow to
his head. He motioned to feel his eyes. Yes he felt them. Ah...
Yes, perhaps that was the problem.
Wowbagger opened his eyes. He immediatley pined to pop a coin and
reached for one. Damn! He wanted to know how the Hell it was he
found himself so often without any clothes but never when it was
actually any fun!
Still, he saw little. perhps as light light seeped under what
appeared to be a doorway, a threshhold. He stood and immediately
slammed his head on what he surmised was an overhead (certainly)
shelf. After a few moments of self-castigation, re rerose with his
hands above him, feeling his way first.
He found a way to stand in the small space between unknown objects.
He fished for a light. What would he find? WOuld he find himself in
a box with dehydrated alien coprses? Would he find he was
sequestered with a ticking nuclear device. (Didn't some knucklehead
American President insist they were nucular?) WOuld he find an
unconscious blond beauty, waiting to be awoken by him for want only
of a kiss and a gentle hand? His hand found a switch.
Brooms. Brooms and solvents. Shelves. A closet. A closet?!
he looked for clothes and, propped in the corner on a mop he did find
an apron. No coveralls? No overall, No jumpers or raingear? An
apron? With frills? It stunk of a set-up. It stunk of a conspiracy.
It stunk of cheap French perfume.
His watch was gone along with everythibng else. he had no idea how
long he had been out but, upon examination, he moticed a mark on his
arm. A small wound as though a hypo had been used and none-too-
carefully so.
He had left the Captain's Meeting and had planned on getting his
department ready for the work to come. He had planned on working on
the Smartgun at intervals as he set his department to work. He knew
when to go for the cash and when to go for staying alive and wanted
to create a modified version, NOT the commercial version he would
suddenly come, sereptitiously, on the market later (with the key
codes under his control and commerce, of course) but a shipsafe
version to offer to the tactical officer.
He remembered setting to work. He remembered that and...and...nothing
more. Perhaps he could scan for missing remnants but he felt sure he
would find nothing. He would check the Science Division video but he
felt sure, again, he would find nothing incriminating.
Why simply not kill him? Why? Perhaps it was better to discredit him.
Why? This must have something to do with the Smartgun and FOE
circuits. If he was dead and his plans were found by authorities,
they might be used. It could not be guarantee they would be found by
those most desirous of them. But, if he were discreditied, his plans
become laughable.
Then, it might be an ex-girlfriend. OH, what's that?...a nickle on
the floor. He picked it up and popped it into his mouth, gathered up
the apron, wrapped it as tightly around himself as he could and tied
it in the back.
Laughable? Him? He discredited? Impossible. Even with his change in
identity, he was far too respected. As a scientist. As a person. A
humanitarian. A cool-thinking, level-headed scientist. The very
thought of him being laughable was...laughable.
And he exited the closet wearing his perfumed, pink frilly french
apron.
If he had only known what was written on his back.
<tag...anyone walking by>