Martin got out of his chair.
“You should never try to be clever with me, Roberts. I respect the frank demands of the body. Petty intrigues disgust me. Your intricate desires have overruled your intelligence. As an invert I respected you. As a subverter I find you intolerable.”
Roberts walked toward him, motioning, his head shaking. His shining black hair fell across his face which had turned from red to a lurid purple. The white part of his eyes took on the same color. His appearance was that of some monster in a fable.
“I’ll—” he said, “I’ll not—I’ll not—” his head bobbed up and down. “I will never let you——”
“You’re prodding yourself sick,” said Martin in disgust. “You’re jarring the very devil out of yourself,” he flung at him and left the room, his shoulders swaying.
Martin went to a liquor store and bought a gallon of wine. In his room, he sat down on the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes and began to drink. Half-drunken, he lay back and soon fell asleep.
He awoke in the late morning. He knew his position. The contact had been broken. Sick from the evening’s drinking he got out of bed and looked at his face in the mirror. His cheeks were pale and there was an unhealthy expression in his eyes. He felt his heart. Its methodical, heavy beat disturbed him. He poured a glass of wine and drank it swiftly. The nerves deadened. His apprehension died and he stood again before the mirror, regarding himself calmly. He shaved and dressed, took another glass of wine and went out, going directly to the typographical plant.
His former employer was writing. Martin looked at him vaguely, hesitating before his desk.
“What is it, young man?” asked Jackson, glancing up with impatience.