A door slid open in the wall in a way that Joe had never seen a door operate before. This here California.
The clothes on the newcomer were wrong, too. For the first time, Joe Prantera began to sense an alienness—a something that was awfully wrong.
The other spoke precisely and slowly, the way a highly educated man speaks a language which he reads and writes fluently but has little occasion to practice vocally. "You have recovered?"
Joe Prantera looked at the other expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck was one of these foreign doctors, like.
The newcomer said, "You have undoubtedly been through a most harrowing experience. If you have any untoward symptoms, possibly I could be of assistance."
Joe couldn't figure out how he stood. For one thing, there should have been some kind of police guard.
The other said, "Perhaps a bit of stimulant?"
Joe said flatly, "I wanta lawyer."
The newcomer frowned at him. "A lawyer?"
"I'm not sayin' nothin'. Not until I get a mouthpiece."