"That's no team," I said, sitting down, "that's a machine."
"Be that as it may," he said, "you must wonder why we are here."
"Not at all," I said. "You're not on my property." I was saying
whatever came into my mind. I think my idea was to discomfit him
and provoke him into saying something he didn't plan to--something
revealing.
He kept tossing the ball from hand to hand. It was about the size of a
handball, hard and black but apparently not rubber.
He revealed nothing. "The dew is heavy in the morning," he said,
looking at my soaked clothing. "And you've got a nasty scratch. Would
you like something for it?"
"What have you got?" I asked. "Mendicants?" I was freely associating,
having nothing better in mind.
"Oh, yes. Medicants _and_ mendicants. Menders and vendors and buttons
and bows. Pills and potions and ankle-length hose."
I decided this was part of an attempt to hypnotize me and looked away
from his tossing ball.
"And Mendes-France," I said, "and Hugh Gaitskell and Krishna Menon."
"Not to mention Sam Kent," he said. "Here, catch."
He tossed the ball to me and in reflex I caught it.