"Are you feeling better, Bert?"
"Never worse," I told him gloomily. "Why the crape on the victuals? Are they that bad?"
I whipped off the napkin, took one gander at my so-called "lunch," and bleated like a branded sheep.
"Great monsoons of Mars—what the hell is this?"
"Shhh!" hushed Enderby. "Poached eggs, Sparks."
"I can see them!" I hollered. I stared at the pair of baleful, golden horrors-on-toast. "And they can see me, too! Take 'em away!"
"I can see them!" I hollered. I stared at the pair of baleful golden horrors-on-toast. "And they can see me, too!"