For all of that he was not ancient. The streaks of black in his otherwise iron-gray hair were plentiful and not the product of cosmetics. In back the hair was gathered into a single pigtail by an odd arrangement of leather bindings. A single solid-gold ring pierced his right ear. He had thick gray eyebrows that had been intended for a much larger man. They shaded equally gray eyes. His nose was long and slightly hooked. His mouth and lips were thin and clenched tightly. His whole expression was full of star space and vinegar.
“What makes you think I could sell you anger, feller me lad?”
“You are the man they call Sawbill,” said the too-young man. It was not a question.
“I’m the man some call Sawbill. I’m often called other things and many of them are better. Some are worse. Sawbill will do.”
Facing Sawbill, the too-young man was not all that young. The gulf between them, though, was one that some people might have called age.
His metallic red jumpsuit flashed in the morning sun. “Then you’re the one I want, all right. I am not without resources. Or brains. I’ve checked on you
The Emoman
thoroughly. Oh, very carefully, very quietly. You needn’t worry at all.”
“I wasn’t. But go on.” Sawbill was rummaging through a small keg of metal pinions, variously shaped and sized.
“You weren’t easy to locate—I’ll give you that. But I knew how to find you. It’s all a matter of asking the right question in the right places. And if you have money and know a few people in expedient locations —on the Port immigration board, for example—you can find out just about anything. I want to make a purchase, Sawbill.”