"The police won't help you. You're dead, remember? Or was it somebody else's records you were looking up last night?"
He whirled on her, his eyes blazing. "Get out of here," he said, "before I throw you out."
The girl's face was contemptuous. "Sit down, buddy," she said. "You Retreads really think you're God Almighty, don't you? Walk out all shiny and new, and you think you own the world, with your pretty Free Agent stripe and all the tripe that goes with it."
Comprehension began to seep through now. The girl's voice was bitter. Griffin sat down, watching the girl closely. "What have you got against Free Agents?"
"Plenty, buster."
"Like what, for instance?"
"Like the way the Hoffman Center sets itself up as judge and jury and makes a chosen people out of you. Not out of me. Oh, no, I won't stand a chance when the time comes. Not my old man, either. He tried for a retread, and they turned him down flat. Psychopathic inferior, they called him. He had to die. I'll have to die, too. But sooner or later they're going to find something wrong with the setup, and when they do, all hell is going to break loose, and they'll cut it out altogether, just like they tried to do at the first, and then there won't be any more snakes like you walking around with your pretty green stripes. Just one thing's got to go wrong, that's all." Her face was bitter. "How does it feel to be the Lord Master, buster? What are you so scared of? Or hasn't it been all it's cracked up to be?"
Griffin closed his eyes tiredly. "I think we'll get along better if you'll just state your business and get out. What do you want?"
"I want you, buddy."
"What do you know about me?" His eyes snapped open sharply.