“A joyful evening,” said Kors loudly in red and himself laughed at what he said.
“Vitor, why are you doing that,” Nikto told him inwardly, but Kors continued to smile insolently, pretending not to hear him. The doctor looked at them, two black warriors in leather clothes, hung with weapons, in some shock.
“I… I… support the policies of the new Head of the town Sigmer and the idea of independence for the red underground people,” he said quickly.
“Underground?” Snorted Kors. “What kind of stupid definition do you give to our world? Why underground? Do you think we all live underground here?”
“This is what the reds from the Upper World think, sir,” justified the doctor, “for them our world is a huge cave in which we live, yes.”
“Okay, let’s skip their silly fabrications and geographic cretinism, we have come on business and for help,” Kors said sharply, and, slightly leaning towards the doctor, carefully looked at the rectangular badge attached to his medical gown at chest level.
“Doctor Cartmer,” he grinned.
“For help?”
“My name is Vitor Kors, and this is my son, and I want you to give us medicine for him.”
“He is ill?”
“Yes.”
“What is with him?”
“He has…” Kors was a little delayed with the answer, remembering the name on the red, “hepatitis. And we need the drugs of the Upper. The best.”
“Hmm, and what kind of hepatitis does he have, what form?”
“What do you mean, the form?”
“Hepatitis is different.”
“Really?”
“You don’t know what kind of hepatitis he has and ask for medicine, not really knowing anything about his illness?”
“Listen, Cartmer, it's your job to know about diseases, I'm not a doctor.”
And the doctor smiled condescendingly:
“I have noticed. Well, we need to find out first what happened to him. Establish a diagnosis and then seek medication. It’s strange that you don’t know his diagnosis. Maybe he doesn't have hepatitis at all, but something else? You would first figure it out…”
Kors suddenly abruptly drew his sword from its scabbard, forcing Nikto and the doctor to recoil from him in different directions, but he simply thrust the hilt into the doctor’s hands:
“Hold and make me an eight, show me a banal eight, well? Why don't you do it?”
The doctor turned pale:
“But… but. I'm not a warrior!”
“I'm not a doctor, damn it!” Shouted Kors. “And I don't have to know all the forms of your fucking hepatitis! You are too proud of your knowledge and medical subtleties here! You look at us with superiority! You see, he knows all forms of hepatitis, but we don’t! Let me now make you fight my son and see how you know all the intricacies of swordsmanship! What, you don’t know anything? So why the hell am I supposed to know your job?”
Cartmer was dumbfounded, and he carefully held out his sword to Kors.
“Take it, please. I am sorry if I was wrong.”
Kors made an arrogant and displeased face and took the sword from the doctor:
“That's it.”
He looked around the room. In Cartmer’s large and bright cabinet, in tall glass cases, there were many hermetically sealed containers, in which all kinds of human organs, embryos and babies with anomalies and other wonders were kept.
Kors looked sideways at the can from which, it seemed, a human eyeball was also staring at him:
“What the shit?”
“This is a unique collection of human organs, healthy and damaged by diseases. I have been collecting it for many years,” the doctor answered, not without pride.
