“You’re drunk.”
“I’m trying,” Galloway corrected. “But I’ve built up an awful resistance over a period of years. It takes time. Your call’s already set me back two and a half drinks. I must put an extension on the siphon, so I can Winchell and guzzle at the same time.”
Vanning almost chattered incoherently into the mike. “My suitcase! What happened to it? I want it back.”
“Well, I haven’t got it.”
“Can’t you find out where it is?”
“Dunno. Tell me the details. I’ll see what I can figure out.” Vanning complied, revising his story as caution prompted. “O. K.,” Galloway said at last, rather unwillingly. “I hate working out theories, but just as a favor… My diagnosis will cost you fifty credits.”
“What? Now listen—”
“Fifty credits,” Galloway repeated unflinchingly. “Or no prognosis.”
“How do I know you can get it back for me?”
“Chances are I can’t. Still, maybe… I’ll have to go over to Mechanistra and use some of their machines. They charge a good bit, too. But I’ll need forty-brain-power calculators—”