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Show Anting Alone Page 2n They leaned even further forward. It all became clear in a flash: these guys were living in Kansas, too. Had been doing so for Christ knows how many scores of years. Here were these aging radiclibs, dying of Kansan boredom; dying for some belated sixties (or thirties) political ferment and excitement in their lives; dying to know what those G-men (okay, state G-men, not federal G-men; but G-men in any case) were after this big redheaded monster for. They needed some K. B. I. in their lives, too, even more urgently than they needed to see a graduate student squirm under the pins and needles of their administrative wrath. (Perhaps an exchange could be worked out.) Sam was their only contact with the life of the gonads. That's why they hadn't gone over Dr. Abraham's head and fired Sam or expelled him or whatever a long time ago. He had a sort of inverted leverage here in this K. B. I. thing, if he cared to use it. "Kaybeeeye," said Sam, really fast. Three chairs squeaked, three medium-sized guts smooshed harder against the table. He decided that he was too drunk to ply this leverage right now. He could've made up some tale of armed insurrection in the popcorn fields, but he didn't care to at the moment. Maybe in a few minutes or so. "I'm tired of you guys," said Sam. "I've sounded your shallows. Give me a ride to Mini Mart so I can buy me a Make-a-Shake to act as a buffer between my stomach lining and this cheap wine of yours." "They have ice cream here, Sammy," they said, falling all over each other to get Clyde Barrow here a menu. |