Dr. Bloodmoney Read Online Free PDF Page B

kind of electronic contraption he had either built or intended to build—Stuart could not tell which, and he certainly did not care. It did not matter to him what Hoppy built, what crazy ideas emanated from the little man’s brain. No doubt it’s something sick, Stuart said to himself. Some crank gadget, like a perpetual motion machine … maybe a perpetual motion cart for him to ride on. He laughed at that idea, pleased with it. I have to tell that to Lightheiser, he decided. Hoppy’s perpetual motion—and then he thought, His phocomobile. At that, Stuart laughed aloud.
    Hoppy heard him laugh, and evidently thought he was laughing at something which he himself was saying. “Hey, Stuart,” he called, “come on over and join me and I’ll buy you a beer.”
    The moron, Stuart thought. Doesn’t he know Fergesson would never let us have a beer on our lunch hour? It’s a rule; if we have a beer we’re supposed to never come back to the store and he’ll mail us our check.
    “Listen,” he said to the phoce, turning around in his seat, “when you’ve worked for Fergesson a little longer you’ll know better than to say something stupid like that.”
    Flushing, the phoce murmured, “What do you mean?”
    The frycook said, “Fergesson don’t allow his employees to drink; it’s against his religion, isn’t it, Stuart?”
    “That’s right,” Stuart said. “And you better learn that.”
    “I wasn’t aware of that,” the phoce said, “and anyhow I wasn’t going to have a beer myself. But I don’t see what right an employer has to tell his employees what they can’t have on their own time. It’s their lunch hour and they should have a beer if they want it.” His voice was sharp, full of grim indignation. He was no longer kidding.
    Stuart said, “He doesn’t want his salesmen coming in smelling like a brewery; I think that’s his right. It’d offend some old lady customer.”
    “I can see that for the salesmen like you,” Hoppy said, “but I’m not a salesman; I’m a repairman, and I’d have a beer if I wanted it.”
    The frycook looked uneasy. “Now look, Hoppy—” he began.
    “You’re too young to have a beer,” Stuart said. Now everyone in the place was listening and watching.
    The phoce had flushed a deep red. “I’m of age,” he said in a quiet, taut voice.
    “Don’t serve him any beer,” Connie, the waitress, said to the frycook. “He’s just a kid.”
    Reaching into his pocket with his extensor, Hoppy brought out his wallet; he laid it open on the counter. “I’m twenty-one,” he said.
    Stuart laughed. “Bull.” He must have some phony identification in there, he realized. The nut printed it himself or forged it or something. He has to be exactly like everyone; he’s got an obsession about it.
    Examining the identification in the wallet, the frycook said, “Yeah, it says he’s of age. But Hoppy, remember that other time you were in here and I served you a beer; remember—”
    “You have to serve me,” the phoce said.
    Grunting, the frycook went and got a bottle of Hamm’s beer, which he placed, unopened, before Hoppy.
    “An opener,” the phoce said.
    The frycook went and got an opener; he tossed it on the counter, and Hoppy pried open the bottle.
    Taking a deep breath, the phoce drank the beer.
    What’s going on? Stuart wondered, noticing the way that the frycook and Connie—and even a couple of the patrons—were watching Hoppy. Does he pass out or something? Goes berserk, maybe? He felt repelled and at the same time deeply uneasy. I wish I was through with my food, he thought; I wish I was out of here. Whatever it is, I don’t want to be a witness to it. I’m going back to the shop and watch the rocket again, he decided. I’m going to watch Dangerfield’s flight, something vital to America, not this freak; I don’t have time to waste on this.
    But he stayed where he was, because something was happening some peculiar thing involving Hoppy Harrington; he