“This mortal bids welcome to the great god, Lors,” Danson said, with a faint smirk.
“You speak my language?” Lors asked, puzzled.
“Why not? You speak mine. When they checked my brain, they found that I had a rather high I.Q. Besides, I’ve read all your reading material and decided that you have lousy taste. So I decided to learn the language, and try to make conversation with my watch dogs.”
“You are comfortable?”
Danson nodded. “Wonderful. First rate. Now that I know the language, I’m going to get a deck of cards and teach my jailers how to play draw poker. Then I’m going to win this starship and take it to Washington for analysis.”
“I didn’t come here to jest.”
Danson lit a cigarette and smiled thinly. “Why did you come here?”
“To see you. Are you well taken care of?”
“Certainly. They’ve hooked up my pint sized T.V. set so that I can look at the earth. I’ve been to the Lunar Base ... terrific real estate. A rock pile. Elaborate, but still a rock pile. I eat very well. I sleep occasionally, except that I cannot get used to the total darkness, and I have minor grievances ... like I want to get the hell out of here!” He stood up suddenly and glared at Lors. “Am I happy! Am I content! Hell, yes! I’m so goddam content I’m going stir crazy from it!
“I’m sick of the whole damned mess, [p118] Firstspacer Lors, plain downright sick and...”