Callahan's Secret by Spider Robinson Page A

guessed why, because he said exactly the right thing.
    “There is hope, my friend.” I took my first real good look at him.
    “Thanks, Pyotr. Gawd, you look worse than I do. I must have woken you up, what time is it, I don’t dare turn my head and look.”
    “Much like yesterday. You have slept the clock ‘round, and I have just finished my customary six hours. I admit I do not feel very rested.”
    “You must be coming down with something. Truly, man, you look like I feel.”
    “How do ‘you feel?”
    “Ub-oddly enough, not as bad as I expected to. Those aspirins must have helped. Thanks, brother.”
    Ho ducked his head in what I took to be modesty or shyness.
    “You should take a couple yourself.”
    He shook his head. “I am one of those people who can’t take asp-“
    “No problem, I’ve got the other kind, good for all stomachs.”
    “Thank you, no.”
    “You sure? What time did you say it was?”
    “Normal people are eating their dinners.”
    “Their-dinner!” I sat up, ignoring all agony, got to my feet and staggered headlong out of the mom, down the hall to the kitchen. I wept with joy at the sight of so much food in one place. That, same eerie, voracious hunger of the
    morning’before, except that today I was not going to make Pyotr do the cooking. I was ashamed enough to note that
    he had cleaned up the previous night’s breakner (a compound word fonned along the same lines as “brunch”), apparently before he had gone to sleep.
    I designed a megaomelet and began amassing construction materials. I designed for twin occupants. “Pyotr, you old Slo~ak Samaritan, I know you have this thing about not letting people stand you to a meal the next day, and I can dig that, makes the generosity more pure, but I’ve been with you now close to forty hours and you’ve had bugger all to eat, so what you’re gonna do is sit down and shut up and eat this omelet or I’m gonna shove it up your nose, right?”
    He stared in horror at the growing pile on the cutting board. “Jake, no, thank you! No.”
    “Well, God damn it, Pyotr, I ain’t asking for a structural analysis of your digestion! Just tell me what ingredients to leave out and I’ll double up on the rest.”
    “No, truly-“
    “Damn it, anybody can eat eggs.”
    “Jake, thank you, I truly am not at all hungry.”
    I gave up. By that time all eight eggs had already been cracked, so I cut enough other things to fill an eight-egg omelet anyhow, figuring I’d give the other half to the cats. But to my surprise, when I paused to wipe my mouth, there was nothing left before me that I could legitimately eat except for a piece of ham gristle I had rejected once already. So I ate it, and fmished the pot of coffee, and looked up.
    “Cripes, maybe you really are sick. I’m gonna call Doc Webster-“
    “Thank you, no, Jake, I would appreciate only a ride home, if you please, and to lie down and rest. ‘If you are uptoit….”
    “Hell, I feel practically vertebrate. Only thing still sore is the back of my neck. Just let me shower and change and we’ll hit the road.”
    I pulled up in front of Pyotr’s place, a small dark cottage all by itself about a half a block from Callahan’s Place. I got out with him. “I’ll just come in with you for a second, Pyotr, get you squared away.”
    “You are kind to offer, but I am fme now. I will sleep tonight, and see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Jake-I am glad your guitar is not lost.”
    So I got back into the car and drove the half block to Callahan’s.
     
    “Evenin’, Jake. What’ll it be?”
    “Coffee, please, light and sweet.” Callahan nodded approvingly. “Coming up.”
    Long-Drink snorted next to me. “Can’t take the gaff, huh, youngster?”
    “I guess not, -Drink. These last two mornings I’ve had the first two hangovers of my life. I guess I’m getting old.” “Hah!” The Drink looked suddenly puzzled. “You know, now I come to think of it… huh. I never thought.” “And no one’