“I did,” Gallegher said. “Listen—”
“Mr. Hopper is busy.”
“Tell him,” Gallegher said wildly, “that I’ve got what he wanted.”
That did it. Hopper focused in, a buffalo of a man with a mane of gray hair, intolerant jet-black eyes, and a beak of a nose. He thrust his jutting jaw toward the screen and bellowed, “Gallegher? For two pins I’d—” He changed his tune abruptly. “You called Trench, eh? I thought that’d do the trick. You know I can send you to prison, don’t you?”
“Well, maybe—”
“Maybe nothing! Do you think I come personally to see every crackpot inventor who does some work for me? If I hadn’t been told dver and over that you were the best man in your field, I’d have slapped an injunction on you days ago!”
Inventor?
“The fact is,” Gallegher began mildly, “I’ve been ill—”
“In a pig’s eye,” Hopper said coarsely. “You were drunk as a lord. I don’t pay men for drinking. Did you forget those thousand credits were only part payment—with nine thousand more to come?”
“Why… why, n-no. Uh… nine thousand?”