“Dammit to hell!” came the whining yelp from the
60
The Emoman
ground. “You got me into this. You’ve got to help me. Please.” The voice paused. “You’ve got to sell me another dose!”
“I don’t have to sell you anything,” Sawbill replied quietly. He stopped at a section of line that seemed a little frayed, gave it an extra coat of wax. “I can make trouble for you—” “So can a bumblebee—” Sawbill sighed, “if his coordinates in relation to the center of the universe do not coincide with mine. But come on board and I’ll listen to you.”
Jordan climbed on board. He was panting heavily. His visage was not a comforting thing to look upon. His face was dirty. He wiped absently at a particularly greasy spot under one eye. The gesture had the effect of redistributing the muck evenly across his cheek. He slumped into the pilot’s seat behind the many-spoked wheel and groaned.
“I’ve had other things on my mind,” he said. “Were you satisfied with what you paid for?” Saw-bill asked.
For a moment Jordan seemed to brighten. A combination of feelings, none of them holy, came into his eyes.
“Yes. It was everything you promised. But afterward—why couldn’t you have given me a stronger dose, one for longer than thirty-six hours?”
“I gave you the maximum for a person of your type.”
“How do you presume to know what ‘type’ I am?” Jordan asked belligerently.
Sawbill looked up from his waxing. “If I’d given you a stronger dose or told you to take the seven at slightly shorter intervals you would have been harmed —you might even have died.” “I don’t believe you.”