"Why? You're doing okay."
"There's all that stuff I missed. I wish I hadn't."
"Like what?"
"Well… Algebra. I never learned algebra."
"What the fuck good's algebra?"
"I don't know and I never will, because I didn't learn it. I sometimes look at people on the street and say, `Gee, I'll bet they all know algebra,' and it makes me feel kind of inferior."
"Well, I don't know algebra and it doesn't make feel a damn bit inferior."
"Give it time," Croyd said.
The Kid suddenly became aware that Croyd was looking at him strangely.
"You're going back to school right now," Croyd told him, "and you're going to study your ass off for the rest of the day, and you're going to do your homework tonight, and you're going to like it."
"I'll make better time if I fly," the Kid said, and he transformed into a pterodactyl, hopped several times, and glided away.
"Pick up some clothes on the way!" Croyd shouted after him.
"Just what the hell is going on here?"
Croyd turned and beheld a uniformed officer who had just crossed to their island.
"Go fuck yourself!" he snarled.
The man began unbuckling his belt.
"Stop! Cancel that," Croyd said. "Buckle up. Forget you saw us and go walk up another street."
Devil John stared as the man obeyed.
"Croyd, how are you doing those things?" he asked. "That's my power, this time around."
"Then, you could just make me give you the body, couldn't you?"
Croyd shook the bag down and fastened it. When he finished gagging, he nodded.
"Yeah. And I'll get it one way or another, too. But I don't feel like cheating a fellow working stiff today. My offer's still good."
"Seven grand?"
"Six."
"You said seven."
"Yeah, but it's not all here now."
"That's your fault, not mine. You stopped me."
"But you put the thing down where the dogs could get it."
"Yes, but how was I supposed to- Hey, that's a bar and grill on the corner."
"You're right."
"Care to discuss this over lunch and a couple of brews?"
"Now that you mention it, I've a bit of an appetite," Croyd said.
They took the table by the window and set the bag on the empty chair. Croyd visited the men's room and washed his hands several times while Devil John procured a pair of beers.
When he returned he ordered a half-dozen sandwiches. Darlingfoot did the same.
"Who're you working for?" he asked.
"I don't know," Croyd answered. "I'm doing it through a third party."
"Complicated. I wonder what they all want the thing for?" Croyd shook his head.
"Beats me. I hope there's enough of him left to collect on."
"That's one of the reasons I'm willing to deal. I think my guys wanted him in better shape than this. They might try to welsh on me. Better a bird in the hand, you know? I don't trust them all that much. Bunch of kooks."
"Say, did he have any possessions?"
"Nope. No belongings at all."
The sandwiches arrived and they began eating. After a while, Darlingfoot glanced several times at the bag, then remarked, "You know, that thing looks bigger."
Croyd studied it a moment.
"It's just settling and shifting," he said.
They finished, then ordered two more beers. "No, damn it! It is bigger!" Darlingfoot insisted. Croyd looked again. It seemed to swell even as he watched.
"You're right," he acknowledged. "It must be gases from the-uh-decomposition."
He extended a finger as if to poke it, thought better of it and lowered his hand.
"So what do you say? Seven grand?"
"I think six is fair-the shape he's in."
"But they knew what they were asking for. You've got to expect this sort of thing with stiffs."
"A certain amount, yes. But you've got to admit you bounced him around a hell of a lot, too."
"That's true, but a regular one could take it better. How was I to know this guy was a special case?"
"By looking at him. He was little and fragile."
"He felt pretty sturdy when I snatched him. What say we split the difference? Sixty-five hundred?"
"I don't know…"
Other diners began glancing in their direction as the bag continued to swell. They finished their beers.
"Another round?"
"Why not?"
"Waiter!"
Their waiter, who had been clearing a recently vacated table, ambled over, a stack of dishes and utensils in his hands. "What can I get-" he began, when the edge of a steak knife, protruding from the pile of crockery, brushed against the swollen bag. "My God!" he finished, as a whooshing sound, accompanied by an odor that might have been compounded of sewer gas and slaughterhouse effluvia filled the immediate vicinity and spread like an escaped experiment in chemical warfare throughout the room.
"Excuse me," the waiter said, and he turned and hurried off.
There followed a series of gasps from other diners, moments later.
"Use your power, Croyd!" Devil John whispered.
"Hurry!"
"I don't know if I can do a whole roomful…"
"Try!"
Croyd concentrated on the others:
There was a small accident. Nothing important. Now you will forget it. You smell nothing unusual. Return to your meals and do not look in this direction again. You will not notice anything that we do. There is nothing to be seen here. Or smelled.
The other patrons turned away, resumed eating, talking.
"You did it," Devil John remarked in a peculiar voice.
Croyd looked back and discovered that the man was pinching his nostrils shut.
"Did you spill something?" Croyd asked him.
"No. "
"Uh-oh. Hear that?"
Darlingfoot leaned to the side and bent low.
"Oh damn!" he said. "The bag's collapsed and he's running out the slash that guy made. Hey, kill my sense of smell too, will you?"
Croyd closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
"That's better," he heard moments later as Darlingfoot reached cut and uprighted the bag, which made a sloshing, gurgling noise.
Croyd looked to the floor and beheld a huge puddle resembling spilled stew. He gagged slightly and looked away.
"What do you want to do now, Croyd? Leave the mess and take the rest, or what?"
"I think I'm obliged to take everything I can."
Devil John quirked an eyebrow and smiled.
"Well," he said, "go sixty-five hundred and I'll help you get it all together in a manageable form."
"Its a deal."
"Then, cover me if you can so the people in the kitchen don't notice me."
"I'll try. What are you going to do?"
"Trust me."
Darlingfoot rose, passed the top of the bag to Croyd, and limped back to the kitchen. He was gone for several minutes and when he returned his arms were full.
He unscrewed the top from a large empty pickle jar and set it on the floor beside the chair.
"Now if you'll just tilt the bag so the opening is right over the jar," he said, "I'll raise the bottom and we can pour him into it."
Croyd complied and the jar was well over half-full before the trickle ceased.
"Now what?" he asked, screwing on the lid.
Darlingfoot took the first from a stack of napkins he had brought with him and opened a small white bundle.
"Doggie bags," he said. "I'll just get all the solid stuff up off the floor and into them."
"Then what?"
"I've got a nice, fresh trash-can liner, too," he explained, stooping. "It should all fit inside with no trouble."
"Could you hurry?" Croyd said. "I can't control my own sense of smell."