I didn't like tampering with people any more than I had to. It was a lot like stealing from a blind man: easy, but nothing to feel proud of. I gave him a light touch--just the suggestion that what I would say would be full of deep meaning. "You know--the regular Wednesday shipment," I said darkly. "Keep it quiet. We're all relying on you." "Sure thing," he said, stepping back. We gunned through the gate. I glanced back to see him looking after the truck, thinking about the Wednesday shipment on a Friday. He decided it was logical, nodded his head and forgot the whole thing. V I'd been riding high for a couple of hours, enjoying the success of the tricks I'd stolen from the Gool. Now I suddenly felt like something the student morticians had been practicing on. I guided my driver through a second-rate residential section, looking for an M.D. shingle on a front lawn. The one I found didn't inspire much confidence--you could hardly see it for the weeds--but I didn't want to make a big splash. I had to have an assist from my driver to make it to the front door. He got me inside, parked my box beside me and went off to finish his rounds, under the impression that it had been a dull morning. The doctor was a seedy, seventyish G.P. with a gross tremor of the hands that a good belt of Scotch would have helped. He looked at me as though I'd interrupted something that was either more fun or paid better than anything I was likely to come up with. "I need my dressing changed, Doc," I said. "And maybe a shot to keep me going." "I'm not a dope peddler," he snapped. "You've got the wrong place." "Just a little medication--whatever's usual. It's a burn." "Who told you to come here?" I looked at him meaningfully. "The word gets around." He glared at me, gnashed his plates, then gestured toward a black-varnished door. "Go right in there." He gaped at my arm when the bandages were off. I took a quick glance and wished I hadn't. "How did you do this?" "Smoking in bed," I said. "Have you got ... something that...." He caught me before I hit the floor, got me into a chair. Then he had that Scotch he'd been wanting, gave me a shot as an after-thought, and looked at me narrowly. "I suppose you fell out of that same bed and broke your leg," he said. "Right. Hell of a dangerous bed." "I'll be right back." He turned to the door. "Don't go away. I'll just ... get some gauze." "Better stay here, Doc. There's plenty of gauze right on that table." "See here--" "Skip it, doc. I know all about you." "What?" "I said _all_ about you." He set to work then; a guilty conscience is a tough argument to answer. He plastered my arm with something and rewrapped it, then looked the leg over and made a couple of adjustments to the brace. He clucked over the stitches in my scalp, dabbed something on them that hurt like hell, then shoved an old-fashioned stickpin needle into my good arm.