Crawford stared in a strange fascination at the slender, spatulated fingers spidering his hairy calves. "No. No pain."
"Then why so stiff?" Huerta pressed a spot just below his knee. The strength of his grip was surprising. Then, still holding the kneecap between thumb and forefinger, he looked up. It was the same thing, again, those eyes. The pupils took on an oblique felinity, and the odd little lights flaring beneath the surface. And he began to talk, in that soft, bored, insinuating tone. "Nerve ends, you understand. Pressures. As I said, deranged. Nucleus. So on. Hm? Pain?"
"No—no—"
Perhaps it was the gusty vehemence in Crawford's voice which caused Huerta to look up. For a moment their glances met. Huerta's pupils seemed to dilate slightly. Sure, thought Crawford, go ahead, make it good, and he tried to feel the sarcasm, but somehow he couldn't, because the effect of those eyes was real, distinct, eerie.
"No pain?
"No. No pain. No!"
Those eyes again. Contracting. Little lights flaring and dying. Just for an instant. The probing fingers. That sibilant, insistent voice.
"Here, perhaps? The flesh looks rather badly healed. Feel that? Pain?"
"No!"
"Take it easy, Crawford. I'm trying to help. Here?"