“Because you violated the most fundamental obligation of a professional man. No respectable professional would ever use his specialty to prey on the innocence of a non-associate professional.”
“So I made a fool of you.”
Cimon turned away. “Please leave. There will be no further communication between us, outside the most necessary business, for the duration of the trip.”
“If I go,” said Sheffield, “the rest of the boys may get to hear about this.”
Cimon started. “You’re going to repeat our little affair?” A cold smile rested on his lips, then went its transient and contemptuous way. “You’ll broadcast the dastard you were.”
“Oh. I doubt they’ll take it seriously. Everyone knows psychologists will have their little jokes. Besides they’ll be so busy laughing at you. You know—the very impressive Dr. Cimon scared into a sore throat and howling for mercy after a few mystic words of gibberish.”
“Who’d believe you?” cried Cimon.
Sheffield lifted his right hand. Between thumb and forefinger was a small rectangular object, studded with a line of control toggles.
“Pocket recorder,” he said. He touched one of the toggles and Ci-mon’s voice was suddenly saying, “Well, now, Dr. Sheffield, what is it?”
It sounded pompous, peremptory, and even a little smug.