"You scared of me?" he asked ominously.
"No, Mike. Of course not. We're shipmates." But it was a lie, a damned big lie. He knew it and I knew it, and I knew that he knew it.
He touched a wet forefinger to the iron. It sizzled.
"My!" he said, sounding like the smooth menace from some telaudio spooky-show. "What a nice red nose you're going to have—if you don't start talking!"
"Mike!" I begged. "You can't do that to me! We're old friends! Remember?"
But he did it. The tip of the iron on the tip of my nose, and it hurt. I yowled, mostly in utter panic rather than pain. My phobia was working overtime.
"Enough?" he asked. "I'll keep it up if I have to."
I thought it over. Crazy as he was, he might throw a dead short across the secondaries. Fission packs won't stand that without exploding. So I talked. Once I tried to give him a bum steer that would cut down the current, but he sensed it and waved the soldering iron at me again.
When he had all the dope he needed he took time out to smear ointment on my nose. It made me look cross-eyed and I still wanted to touch the burn, but he refused to reduce the pressure even enough for me to work one arm loose.
"Sorry, Swede," he chuckled. "It's for your own good. You're insane, so I can't take chances."