Clane held his hands out to Phels, who ignored them, speaking to me with heavy sarcasm.
“Better take them yourself this time, so you’ll be sure it’s been done right.”
I was mad clean through—of course it was my own fault—but I was pigheaded enough to go through with anything, particularly anything that would hurt somebody’s feelings; so I said:
“That’s not a bad idea!”
I walked over and took hold of one of Clane’s hands. I’d never taken a fingerprint before, but I had seen it done often enough to throw a bluff. I started to ink Clane’s fingers and found that I was holding them wrong—my own fingers were in the way.
Then I came back to earth. The balls of Clane’s fingers were too smooth—or rather, too slick—without the slight clinging feeling that belongs to flesh. I turned his hand over so fast that I nearly upset him and looked at the fingers. I don’t know what I had expected to find but I didn’t find anything—not anything that I could name.
“Phels,” I called, “look here!”
He forgot his injured feelings and bent to look at Clane’s hand.
“I’ll be—” he began, and then the two of us were busy for a few minutes taking Clane down and sitting on him, while O’Hara quieted Farr, who had also gone suddenly into action.
When things were peaceful again Phels examined Clane’s hands carefully, scratching the fingers with a fingernail.
He jumped up, leaving me to hold Clane, and paying no attention to my, “What is it?” got a cloth and some liquid, and washed the fingers