He turned and pointed the hammer at Jordan. “So you want to buy anger, hmm? What kind of anger?”
“There are different kinds?”
Sawbill picked up another couple of nails. “Different kinds? There are so many different kinds as there are foolish young men in the universe. There’s uncertain anger, which is dark pits filled with thorns. There’s jealous anger, which is honey and syrup all blended together and spoiled. There’s the anger of unhappiness, which is the texture of polished chalcedony. There’s the anger of helplessness, which is like sour milk to a babe. There’s the anger of ignorance, which is the space between the stars. And the anger of creative genius, which is the grandest anger of them all and more than the sum of any two others. But I can’t sell it to you because I’m always well out of it.”
“That’s not the kind I want,” said Jasper Jordan. “I have money and I’m not offensive to look upon. I need something to boost me down the road a bit. To
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The Emoman
activate the navigational gyro in my spirit. To move me.”
“Then you don’t need anger; you need a psychiatrist,” Sawbill replied evenly.
“I don’t want to change the way I feel. I want to indulge in it, to glory in it. I didn’t come for what I need. I came for what I want. What I want is anger. Good strong, biting, cleansing, wave-breaking, glass-shattering anger. The mate of hate. Seven-league-boot anger. Do you understand?” He was not quite pleading.
“Why, surely,” said Sawbill, driving home another nail. “That’s called righteous anger and I always keep plenty of that in stock. Come aboard.”