Johnson winced, as the first of the blows fell. The picture on the screen seemed far away, but the memory of physical pain was suddenly freshened. As hands and feet lashed out, repeatedly, raining down a storm of punishment on the quivering mass of flesh in the center of the picture, once-tortured nerves twinged in sympathy.
"Brutal little monsters, aren't they?" said Cavendish.
"I got back at them," said Johnson. "Every last one of them. I was the last kid they beat up."
"Mmmm. Still, that didn't change the fact that you had already received a nasty beating yourself. No matter how sweet revenge, wouldn't it have been sweeter to have avoided the beating altogether?"
Johnson massaged his crippled hand as he watched the tortured boy make a break away from his tormentors. A foot shot out, and the boy went sprawling. His chin hit the pavement; only the adult saw the biggest of the tormentors bring booted foot down on pathetic fingers. The foot twisted, and the man looked away.
"Shut it off!" he shouted.
"Certainly." Cavendish reached out and the screen went dead. Getting up, he went to the bar in the corner of the room and returned with a tumbler half-full of amber liquid. "Here, you need this."
Johnson tossed off the drink, gasping as the liquor burned its way down to his stomach. "Ahhhh!" He wiped his mouth on the back of his good hand.
"What do you think of my little machine, Mr. Johnson?" Cavendish settled himself behind a cluttered desk, hands folded over his paunch, looking extremely satisfied with himself. Pointed mustache and faintly slanted eyes heightened the effect of a cat with a stolen canary.