"Not long. Just until I can get a body."
George found that remark a little confusing. It didn't belong in the script about the time machine. He felt as if he'd switched channels in the middle of the first act and tuned in on a murder mystery.
He leaned across the table and said in a low tone, "If you're figurin' on gettin' a hired gun to kill somebody, you'd better not talk about it in here. Too public."
"On the contrary, it would have to be a living body. But perhaps you're right. We could talk more freely in my compartment. Would you care to join me there, George? We could have some refreshment sent in."
"Sure would. Got a lot of questions I'd like to ask you. You see, I'm the curious type and I hang around mostly with a bunch of young punks that don't know nothin' except about the fights and the World's Series. Since my legs give out on me, I don't get around much. To tell you the truth, this is the first time I ever met a fellow from—elsewhen."
"Is it really?" Sandane said politely. "Well, then, you should find it quite interesting. What shall we have to drink?"
"Bourbon always suits me."
"Bourbon? One of the royal families?"
"Hell, no. You're in America, Sandy, the good old U.S.A. We don't have no royal families. Bourbon is a drink. Whiskey, spiritus frumenti, hard liquor."
"Fine. We shall order two flagons of it."