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Updated: June 14, 2025
They caught Feldman's eyes, and he bent closer. There should be no black dots on the skin of a man who died of space-stomach. And there should have been cyanosis.... He swore and bent down to find the wrecks of his shoes. He couldn't worry about anything now but getting away from here before the attendant made trouble.
Sometimes, even at this stage, massage could help. It was harder without liberal supplies of hot water, but the massage was the really important treatment. It was the trembling of Feldman's hands that stopped him. He no longer had the strength or the certainty to make the massage effective. He was glaring at his hands in self-disgust when the legal doctor arrived. The man was old and tired.
Jones, of the title company, had packed up his papers, and then after Henry D. Feldman had followed the others into the adjoining room and had closed the door behind him, Uncle Mosha touched the button on Feldman's desk. "Go out and buy for me an evening paper," he said to the boy who responded. "Say," the boy replied, "there was a doctor waiting to see you for more than half an hour."
The two grabbed Feldman's arms and dragged him along as the chief began pulling his way forward through the tubes up towards the control section of the ship. Feldman took a quick glance at their faces and made no effort to resist; they obviously would have enjoyed any chance to subdue him. They were stopped twice by minor officers, then sent on.
Now, when it came to money matters, Henry D. Feldman's language could be colloquial to the point of slang. "What's biting you now?" he said. "I ain't going to charge you too much. Leave it to me, and if I deliver the goods it will cost you two hundred and fifty dollars." Leon sighed heavily, but he intended getting Louis back at all costs, not, however, to exceed ten thirty-three, thirty-three.
His eyes darted to Feldman's tobacco sack and there was animal appeal in them. Feldman hesitated, then reluctantly rolled a smoke. He held the cigarette while the spaceman took a long, gasping drag on it. He smoked the remainder himself, letting the harsh tobacco burn against his lungs and sicken his empty stomach.
"Nobody compels you to stay here and listen to 'em, Rothschild," Abe interrupted. "And, anyhow, Rothschild, you could make it more money if instead you stayed here you would go downtown to Henry D. Feldman's office and sue this here Rashkin in the courts for your commission. I was telling Feldman all about it this morning, and he says you got it a good case."
Passengers and officers on the big tubs were given the equivalent of gravity in spinning compartments, but the crews rode "free". The lucky crewmen lived through their accidents, got space-stomach now and then, and recovered. Nobody cared about the others. Feldman's ticket was work-stamped for the Navaho, and nobody questioned his identity.
Feldman's father had stuck by the rule but had questioned it. Feldman learned not to question in medical school. He scored second in Medical Ethics only to Christina Ryan. He had never figured why she singled him out for her attentions, but he gloried in both those attentions and the results. He became automatically a rising young man, the favorite of the daughter of the Lobby president.
"Good morning." Ike Herzog's interview with Henry D. Feldman was short and very much to his satisfaction, for when he emerged from Feldman's sanctum, to find Abe Potash waiting without, he could not forbear a broad smile. Abe nodded perfunctorily and a moment later was closeted with the oracle. "Mr.
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