"I know. Gosh. They used to kill animals for meat back then. Imagine!"
Cal looked sour-faced, and silence ensued for a moment. Then Tinker's face took on a self-horror.
"Hey. That look isn't natural. What's up?"
"Order me a big, powerful, hardy, pick-me-up," said Tinker. "And I'll tell you—if you really want to know."
"I do and I will," said Cal, wonderingly. He ordered straight palan which Tinker took neat, coughed, and then brightened somewhat.
"Now?" asked Cal.
"Better order another one for you," said Tinker. "Anyway, we had one of those jobs last night."
"What jobs?"
"An almost-incurable."
"Oh," said Cal with a shiver. He ordered two more straight drinks, in preparation. "Go ahead and tell, Tink. You won't be free of it until you spill it."