"You don't? He seemed to know you. Say-maybe you aren't that guy I was supposed to see."
"But I am. I have been expecting you―in a way. Joe. Joe― Oh!" Diktor chuckled. "It had slipped my mind for a moment. He told you to call him Joe, didn't he?"
"Isn't it his name?"
"It's as good a name as any other. Here we are." He ushered Wilson into a small, but cheerful, room. It contained no furniture of any sort, but the floor was soft and warm as live flesh. "Sit down. I'll be back in a moment."
Bob looked around for something to sit on, then turned to ask Diktor for a chair. But Diktor was gone, furthermore the door through which they had entered was gone. Bob sat down on the comfortable floor and tried not to worry.
Diktor returned promptly. Wilson saw the door dilate to let him in, but did not catch on to how it was done. Diktor was carrying a carafe, which gurgled pleasantly, and a cup. "Mud in your eye," he said heartily and poured a good four fingers. "Drink up."
Bob accepted the cup. "Aren't you drinking?"
"Presently. I want to attend to your wounds first."
"O. K." Wilson tossed off the first drink in almost indecent haste- it was good stuff, a little like Scotch, he decided, but smoother and not as dry-while Diktor worked deftly with salves that smarted at first, then soothed. "Mind if I have another?"
"Help yourself."