"Why not quit, then?"
"Brink—for one. I like the old guy. I'm indispensable to him—I at least pretend. And I feel loyal."
"Talk it over with him."
"No use. He's got the idea that he's engaged in some sort of holy mission—a personal war against all tyranny, right or left. That he, and we, and guys like us, must keep out in front—from the weapons standpoint—until every tyrant's done for."
"Tyranny, Paul, isn't a gent. It's something inside everybody."
He drew a long, sighing breath and abandoned the subject. Soon, he grinned at me. "Phil, I came as near praying you'd be in town today as I get to prayer. When the telephone operator put me through—I like to fainted with gratitude."
"How much," I asked caustically, "do you want to borrow?" Then I wondered if I ought to lend anybody more money.
He laughed. "Money, a guy like me can always use. Someday, though, I'll take time out and invent a quicker way to make ice cubes, or a better zipper, and get rich and pay you back. I keep a record of the debt on a letter I got from Fermi—a cherished possession."
He would, too, I thought. Get rich and pay back—Ricky. "Hundred bucks?"