A ZLOOR FOR YOUR TROUBLE, by Mack ReynoldsI was sitting on the cot in the little room at the rear of my hangarage, where I keep my equipment and most of my trophies, and cleaning my .257 Roberts when the knock came at the door. It was a sharp, decisive knock. Then the door opened and I saw Westley Marks for the first time. It didn’t excite me.
He said, “Mr. Napoleon Prescott?”
I began to say, “Everybody calls me Nap,” but then I didn’t. There was something about this guy that didn’t click with me. Say what you will against snap judgments, I still take my love at first sight and enmity often the same way.
For one thing, he gave me the impression of looking for trouble; he was about six foot two and he had what he obviously thought was an aristocratic face. His nose was the type that used
