a powerful, brutal fighter, the victor of a dozen rough-house brawls. And Milan - he had the hands of a pianist, fingers like a girl! Hw^/Hinch would bet his life that Milan had never felt a bunch of knuckles bouncing off that ugly nose of his. And the thought never occurred to him that he had already bet his life.Cocking his head a little on one side, Milan looked at him curiously, sighed and said, 'First it's my music, and then it's because you've had to work late into the night, and now ... now it's personal, to the point that you insult me and even measure your physical strength against mine, like an opponent... as if you could ever be an opponent. Or is it all just jealousy?'And suddenly it sank into Hinch's less than enormous brain that while he'd thought all of these things, he hadn't actually voiced any of them - not even about the music! Was he that easy to read?But he was tired of all this, and so, changing the subject he said, 'What's that about the job not being finished? I mean, you wouldn't be trying to avoid paying me - would you?' And the threat in his words, the way he growled them, was obvious.'Not at all,' Milan told him. 'Payment is most certainly, very definitely due. And you shall have it. But out there - on the outside of the dome, just a little to the left of this open window here - there's a spot you missed. And I suffer from this affliction: I can't deal with too much sunlight. My eyes and my skin are vulnerable. And so, you see, while sunshine may find my window, it must never find me. The work must be finished, to my satisfaction. That was our contract, Mr Hinch.'God damn this weird bastard! Hinch thought, as he paced to the window, leaned out (but carefully,) and looked to the left. But: 'God?' said Milan, from close behind. 'Your god, Mr Hinch? Well, if there is such a Being - and if his sphere of influence is as extensive as you suppose - I think you may safely assume that he "damned" me a very long time ago.''Eh?' said Hinch, looking back into the dome, surprised by and wondering at the sudden change in Milan's tone of voice. Milan moved or flowed closer; his slim fingers were strong where they came down on Hindi's hand, trapping it on the window sill. And leaning closer still, with his face just inches away, he smiled and hissed, 'You don't much care for heights, do you, Mr Hinch? In fact you care for them even less than you care for me, or for my music.''What the bloody ... ?' Hinch looked into eyes that were no longer black or feral but uniformly red, flaring like lamps.''Bloody?' the other repeated him, his voice a phlegmy gurgle now, full of lust, and his breath a hot, coppery stench in Hindi's face. 'Ah, yesssss! But not your blood, not this time, Mr Hinch. Your blood is unworthy. You are unworthy!''Jesus Christ!' Hinch gasped, choked, tried to draw away -and failed.'Call on who or whatever you like.' Milan continued to pin him to the window ledge, and moved his free hand to the back of Hinch's thick neck. 'No one and nothing can help you now.''You're a fucking madman!' Hinch jerked and wriggled, but he couldn't pull free. The other's strength was unbelievable.'And you ... you are nothing!' Milan told him, continuing to smile, or at least doing something with his face.
Hinch saw it, but didn't believe it: the way Milan's lips curled back and away from his elongating jaws, the teeth curving up through his splitting gums, his ridged, convoluted nose flattening back, while his nostrils gaped and sniffed. And the red blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Then Milan freed Hinch's hand in order to clench his fist andhit him in his ribs - such a blow that Hinch, burly as he was, was lifted from his feet. At the same time, Milan hoisted him by the scruff of the neck and tilted him forward; concerted movements designed to topple him into space.And as the shrieking Hinch flipped out into the night, so the Thing that looked like a man released him.Hinch fell, but only for a moment. Then his shriek became a gasp as he came down on his belly