Heck functioned rather well after four martinis, but he never remembered much afterward. He did remember vaguely, though, that the little man's head seemed too large. Not freakishly so—just somewhat too large. Nor was the man's small stature something a circus sideshow could make money on. The man was almost but not quite five feet tall, Hector Finch judged.
"I want to see you a moment," he told Heck politely. "If I may."
Hector nodded. He way-laid a waiter and short-stopped two brimfull cocktail glasses which had been heading elsewhere.
"Drink?" he asked the little man.
The little man nodded, took one of the glasses and upended it. He had poured the martini—it was a very dry martini—down his throat without swallowing. That, Hector decided, as they found an unoccupied corner of the convention hall in which were displayed the various electronic products of Weatherby, Inc., for which Heck was a salesman, was a considerable feat.
"I've been watching you," the little man said.
"Oh?" It probably meant, Heck told himself, that the little man was an employee-scout for one of Weatherby's competitors. Such scouts often came to these conventions and had a go at recruiting top-flight sales personnel.
"You're passionate, Hector Finch," the little man said suddenly and unexpectedly.
"I'm which?" Hector asked in surprise.
"Passionate. As a salesman, of course. I wouldn't know about your love life. You truly like to sell things, don't you?"