Amy shrugged. “So why couldn’t we connect him up with the power station? It’s been done. The Major knows that—he was in the Pentagon when they switched all the aircraft warning net over from computer to prosthetic control. So why couldn’t we do the same thing with our power station and release forty men for other assignments? This thing could work day, night, Sundays—what’s the difference when you’re just a brain in a sardine can?”
Clatter-rattle-bang.
She looked startled. “Oh. I forgot he was listening.”
“No deal,” I said.
She said: “A hundred and fifty thousand?”
A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I considered that for a while. Arthur clattered warningly.
“Well,” I temporized, “I’d have to be sure he was getting into good hands—”
The typewriter thrashed wildly. The sheet of paper fluttered out of the carriage. He’d used it up. Automatically I picked it up—it was covered with imprecations, self-pity and threats—and started to put a new one in.
“No,” I said, bending over the typewriter, “I guess I couldn’t sell him. It just wouldn’t be right—”
That was my mistake; it was the wrong time for me to say that, because I had taken my eyes off her.