"That's better." I released his shoulder; gestured him out of the grav-car. "Let's go inside where we can talk."
The office we ended up in—Gaylord's own, I gathered—had two doors, a desk big enough to skate on, three chairs, psychostructor and reel-case, and a custom voco equipped with scanner and scriber.
As a matter of policy, of maintaining control on all levels, I left my host standing while I took the chair behind the desk.
For an instant his jaw tightened angrily. Then, dodging my eyes and turning quickly, he said, "I'll get the file-reels."
I stopped him midway to the door: "What file-reels, Gaylord?"
"Why, the ones on the thrill-mills, of course." Perplexity at the question drew his brows together as he said it.
"Why?"
"Why—?" Openly startled now, he groped. "Well, it's just—I mean, I thought—"
I said, "Let me tell you the story, Gaylord. Then you decide if we need the reels.