And there he is, millions of miles from nowhere, empty space all around him, no more spare parts, tools that practically break in his hands—and not a single, living soul he can hustle.
And here am I, walking up and down in my nine-by-six office, thinking about it, and I’m laughing my head off. Because it’s just possible, it just could happen, that what goes wrong with his ship is one of the half-dozen or so job-lots of really bad electronic equipment that I personally, me, Bernie the Faust, that I sold to that surplus store at one time or another.
That’s all I’d ask. Just to have it happen that way.
Faust. He’d have Faust from me then. Right in the face, Faust. On the head, splitting it open, Faust.
Faust he wants? Faust I’d give him!