Tucker just looked at him. “What are you, it’s mother? So get one of the gals to come look—”
“I’m going to put some in his mouth. A couple swallows.” He stood and moved toward the drink dispenser. “Just—hold the thought. Please, Mr. President.”
There was an audible sigh. At last Tucker said: “Where’s the ice? Do we have ice?”
“Over here, Mr. President.”
Tucker joined him at the fountains (as Coup removed two cups from the dispenser and handed him one), then proceeded to hover—to loom, really; he was a big man—as the writer filled his own with water. When he didn’t move even after Coup had started to head back the younger man just looked at him.
“You’re, ah—you’re kidding me, right?”
And then he walked back, took the President’s cup, pushed it against the little bar, and filled it wit
