"I'm here about the garbage," I said. "Damn fools _will_ put the cans
in with the edible. Are you the one called?"
"How's that?"
"I ain't got all the morning!" I shrilled. "You scientist fellers are
all alike. Which way is the watchamacallit--equipment lab?"
"Right along there." He pointed. I didn't bother to thank him. It
wouldn't have been in character.
A thin man with a brush mustache eyed me sharply as I pushed through
the door. I looked at him, nodding absently. "Carry on with your work,"
I said. "The audit will be carried out in such a way as to disturb you
as little as possible. Just show me your voucher file, if you please."
He sighed and waved toward a filing cabinet. I went to it and pulled a
drawer open, glancing about the room. Full shelves were visible through
an inner door.
Twenty minutes later I left the building, carrying a sheet metal
carton containing the electronic components I needed to build a matter
transmitter--except for the parts I'd have to fabricate myself from raw
materials. The load was heavy--too heavy for me to carry very far. I
parked it at the door and waited until a pick-up truck came along.
It pulled over. The driver climbed out and came up the walk to me. "Are
you--uh...?" He scratched his head.
"Right." I waved at my loot. "Put it in the back." He obliged.
Together we rolled toward the gate. The guard held up his hand, came
forward to check the truck. He looked surprised when he saw me.
"Just who are you, fella?" he said.
I didn't like tampering with people any more than I had to. It was a
lot like stealing from a blind man: easy, but nothing to feel proud of.
I gave him a light touch--just the suggestion that what I would say
would be full of deep meaning.
"You know--the regular Wednesday shipment," I said darkly. "Keep it
quiet. We're all relying on you."
"Sure thing," he said, stepping back. We gunned through the gate. I
glanced back to see him looking after the truck, thinking about the
Wednesday shipment on a Friday. He decided it was logical, nodded his
head and forgot the whole thing.
V
I'd been riding high for a couple of hours, enjoying the success of the
tricks I'd stolen from the Gool. Now I suddenly felt like something the
student morticians had been practicing on. I guided my driver through a
second-rate residential section, looking for an M.D. shingle on a front
lawn.
The one I found didn't inspire much confidence--you could hardly see it
for the weeds--but I didn't want to make a big splash. I had to have an
assist from my driver to make it to the front door. He got me inside,
parked my box beside me and went off to finish his rounds, under the
impression that it had been a dull morning.
The doctor was a seedy, seventyish G.P. with a gross tremor of the
hands that a good belt of Scotch would have helped. He looked at me
as though I'd interrupted something that was either more fun or paid
better than anything I was likely to come up with.
"I need my dressing changed, Doc," I said. "And maybe a shot to keep me
going."
"I'm not a dope peddler," he snapped. "You've got the wrong place."
"Just a little medication--whatever's usual. It's a burn."
"Who told you to come here?"