"I wanted to hire you for a rather lengthy period," he told me.
"I'm all booked up for the next six months."
"This is something rather special."
"It always is when somebody wants you to cancel a job with a regular
client."
He didn't like me any better than I liked him, that was obvious. He
said, "This comes under the heading of work for the government."
I told him, "There are other professional hunters. Some of them nearly
as good as I am." The last was sarcastic.
"Possibly better," he said, "but none of them are your size."
* * * * *
I could feel my face approaching the color of my hair at that one.
"Keep my size out of it," I snapped. I indicated with a thumb a little
statuette on my desk. "The guy my mother named me after was pint size
too. He got along all right."
He looked over at Bonaparte. "Ummm," he said. "Napoleon was a big name
once--but he's only a bust now."
"Listen," I told him, "you're asking for a bust yourself. Why don't you
run along? I'm busy."
He ignored me, found a chair that had nothing but a few magazines on
it, tossed them to the floor and sat down. "Your name was brought up
because you're the smallest professional hunter on Earth. It'd save a
few thousand credits in getting you to Mars and back."
That stopped me. "What in kert are you talking about?" I growled.
"The government wants a specimen, at least one, of a zloor."
"A what?"
"A zloor," he repeated. "A small Martian animal."