Erickson’s Scandinavian stubbornness was just gathering for another try at the argument when the waiter arrived with the drinks. He set them down with a triumphant flourish. “There you are, suh!”
“Want to roll for them, Izzy?” Harper inquired.
“Don’ mind if I do.”
The Negro produced a leather dice cup and Harper rolled. He selected his combinations with care and managed to get four aces and jack in three rolls. Israfel took the cup. He rolled in the grand manner with a backwards twist to his wrist. His score finished at five kings, and he courteously accepted the price of six drinks. Harper stirred the engraved cubes with his forefinger.
“Izzy,” he asked, “are these the same dice I rolled with?”
“Why, Mistuh Harper!” The black’s expression was pained.
“Skip it,” Harper conceded. “I should know better than to gamble with you. I haven’t won a roll from you in six weeks. What did you start to say, Gus?”
“I was just going to say that there ought to be a better way to get energy out of-” But they were joined again, this time by something very seductive in an evening gown that appeared to have been sprayed on her lush figure. She was young, perhaps nineteen or twenty. “You boys lonely?” she asked as she flowed into a chair.
“Nice of you to ask, but we’re not,” Erickson denied with patient politeness. He jerked a thumb at a solitary figure seated across the room. “Go talk to Hannigan; he’s not busy.”
She followed his gesture with her eyes, and answered with faint scorn, “Him? He’s no use. He’s been like that for three weeks-hasn’t spoken to a soul. If you ask me, I’d say that he was cracking up.”
“That so?” he observed noncommittally. “Here-” He fished out a five-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Buy yourself a drink. Maybe we’ll look you up later.”
“Thanks, boys.” The money disappeared under her clothing, and she stood up. “Just ask for Edith.”
“Hannigan does look bad,” Harper considered, noting the brooding stare and apathetic attitude, “and he has been awfully stand-offish lately, for him. Do you suppose we’re obliged to report him?”
“Don’t let it worry you,” advised Erickson, “there’s a spotter on the job now. Look.” Harper followed his companion’s eyes and recognized Dr. Mott of the psychological staff. He was leaning against the far end of the bar and nursing a tall glass, which gave him protective coloration. But his stance was such that his field of vision included not only Hannigan, but Erickson and Harper as well.
“Yeah, and he’s studying us as well,” Harper added.’ “Damn it to hell, why does it make my back hair rise just to lay eyes on one of them?”
The question was rhetorical, Erickson ignored it. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested, “and have dinner some where else.”
“O.K.”
DeLancey himself waited on them as they left. “Going so soon, gentlemen?” he asked, in a voice that implied that their departure would leave him no reason to stay open. “Beautiful lobster thermidor tonight. If you do not like it, you need not pay.” He smiled brightly.
“No sea food, Lance,” Harper told him, “not tonight. Tell me-why do you stick around here when you know that the pile is bound to get you in the long run? Aren’t you afraid of it?”
The tavern keeper’s eyebrows shot up. “Afraid of this pile? But it is my friend!”
“Makes you money, eh?”
“Oh, I do not mean that.” He leaned toward them confidentially. “Five years ago I come here to make some money quickly for my family before my cancer of the stomach, it kills me. At the clinic, with the wonderful new radiants you gentlemen make with the aid of the Big Bomb, I am cured-I live again. No, I am not afraid of the pile; it is my good friend.”
“Suppose it blows up?”
“When the good Lord needs me, he will take me.” He crossed himself quickly.
As they turned away, Erickson commented in a low voice to Harper. “There’s your answer, Cal-if all us engineers had his faith, the job wouldn’t get us down.”