Somebody shoved a paper at him. "Sign this!"
"What is it?" McLeod asked, finding his voice.
"A receipt. For two thousand dollars. Sign it."
McLeod looked the paper over, then looked up at the burly man who had shoved it at him. "Fifty thousand Galactic credits! What is this for?"
"The royalty check for your unprintably qualified book has come in, Funny Man. The Government is taking ninety-eight per cent for income taxes. Sign!"
McLeod pushed the paper back across the desk. "No. I won't. You can confiscate my money. I can't stop that, I guess. But I won't give it legal sanction by signing anything. I don't even see the two thousand dollars this is supposed to be a receipt for."
Jackson, who was standing behind McLeod, grabbed his arm and twisted. "Sign!" His voice was a snarl in McLeod's ear.
Eventually, of course, he signed.
"'Nother beer, Mac?" asked the bartender with a friendly smile.