“I was coming to visit you, but now you can pay me a call,” Fay was saying. “There are two matters I want to—”
Gusterson stiffened. “My God, they’re all hunchbacked!” he yelled.
“Shh! Of course they are,” Fay whispered reprovingly. “They’re all wearing their ticklers. But you don’t need to be insulting about it.”
“I’m gettin’ out o’ here.” Gusterson turned to flee as if from five thousand Richard the Thirds.
“Oh no you’re not,” Fay amended, drawing him back with one hand. Somehow, underground, the little man seemed to carry more weight. “You’re having cocktails in my thinking box. Besides, climbing a down escaladder will give you a heart attack.”
In his home habitat Gusterson was about as easy to handle as a rogue rhinoceros, but away from it—and especially if underground—he became more like a pliable elephant. All his bones dropped out through his feet, as he described it to Daisy. So now he submitted miserably as Fay surveyed him up and down, switched off his blinking headlamp (“That coalminer caper is corny, Gussy.”) and then—surprisingly—rapidly stuffed his belt-bag under the right shoulder of Gusterson’s coat and buttoned the latter to hold it in place.
“So you won’t stand out,” he explained. Another swift survey. “You’ll do. Come on, Gussy. I got lots to brief you on.” Three rapid paces and then Gusterson’s feet would have gone out from under him except that Fay gave him a mighty shove. The small man sprang onto the slidewalk after him and then they were skimming effortlessly side by side.
Gusterson felt frightened and twice as hunchbacked as the slidestanders around him—morally as well as physically.
Nevertheless he countered bravely, “I got things to brief you on. I got six pages of cautions on ti—”
“Shh!” Fay stopped him. “Let’s use my hushbox.”