King Of Zunga

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«Blast,» said J, and dropped the sheaf of papers down on the desk in front of him. It took an effort for him not to throw them, down, or even throw them across the room.

From behind the broad, polished desk, Lord Leighton stared at J. The scientist was bent forward in the pose that made his hunchback and his polio-twisted frame most comfortable for him. His gnarled, knob-jointed hands were splayed out on the varnished desk top. It seemed to J that for a moment there was a fleeting look of sympathy on Lord Leighton's gnomelike face. But it vanished quickly, and was replaced by the man's usual professional detachment.

The scientist shrugged his humped shoulders and said quietly, «It's not my fault, old chap. Really it isn't.»

J sighed: «I know, damn it!» His dignified civil servant's face broke into a wry grin. «I suppose the one we could blame is Richard himself, if we wanted to.» That made even Lord Leighton smile, at the incongruity of the idea.

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