"Do you want—" Harmon began, one hand reaching toward his coat pocket.
Nick saw the movement starting. Harmon uttered a squeal of pain as the heavy gun barrel chopped down with bone-crushing force. He moaned and clutched his injured hand while Nick returned the gun to his belt and dipped into the overlord's pocket.
He whistled under his breath as he saw the small metal box, and a feeling of uneasy longing swept through him. Day and night that box had remained on a small table in the lower hallway, presided over by an orderly who opened it to anyone who asked. The Gravinol was given freely to any Mec, but its method of distribution was a clever psychological trick to emphasize the dependence of each individual upon the Martian Exploitation Company.
Automatically he dropped it inside his tattered shirt.
"To your ship, Harmon. Get moving!"
"But you can't—"
"I said move!"
The overlord gasped, more from the indignity than from pain, as Nick's water-soaked boot met his trousers.
"I am The Man!" he tried to bluster.
"I know." Nick's answer was coldly venomous.