Since Harry Glenn was only about five-feet-seven or so, and not very hefty, it didn't seem fair to him that he should have to move over. The burly drunk in the black turtle-neck sweater wasn't being ethical about the whole thing. Harry told him so.
“You're not being ethical about the whole thing,” Harry said.
The drunk turned slowly to face him. “Look, buddy, I told you to shove over and give me more room at the bar. Either you do it or I'm going to pitch you out of the door. Got me?”
“I refuse to let you push me around,” Harry said firmly. There was an ethical matter at stake here; he was a small man, and, if anything, it was the other fellow who was taking up too much room.
“Listen, pipsqueak, I mean what I say.” In one smooth motion the big man scooped Harry up, propelled him through the door and out into the street, where, with a majestic flip, he sent him spinning down into the gutter. “Pick on someone you own size next time,” the drunk shouted derisively, and then he went back inside.
Harry remained sprawled out on the street, dangling half over the curb, more humiliated than injured. A couple of people went past as he lay there; he heard their sympathetic clucking, but there was, of course, no attempt to help him to his feet. Not in New York.
Harry drummed his fingers against the tarnished metal rim that ran along the curb. He figured it was wiser just to lie there, letting his anger slowly melt away into a sort of cosmic disgust at the situtation whereby such a bold, proud spirit as his should be allowed to be put into a body so inconsequential, so completely inadequate to contain it, than to go back inside the bar and get clobbered twice as hard.
Finally the rage subsided, and he began to grow more philosophical about the whole thing. There would always be big guys to push the little ones around, and good-looking guys to snap up the girls the homely fellows never got, and there wasn't much that could be done about it.
“That's what you think,” said a small, child-like voice which seemed to emanate from a point about three inches from Harry's left ear.
Harry rolled an eyeball quizzically to the left and saw a tiny figure, no more than an inch or two high, sitting in the gutter astride a curved piece of metal that appeared to be one of a pair of handcuffs. Harry shut his eyes. When he opened them, the figure was still there.
“I'm not drunk,” Harry told himself firmly. “I wasn't in there long enough to get drunk. I am not drunk!”
“Of course you aren't,” the tiny being agreed. Its voice was impossibly high. “But you're tired of being pushed around. And that's why I'm here.”
Harry started to lift himself to his feet, convinced he must have hit his head in the fall, but as he began to stir the little man said, “No, don't get up. It's easier to talk when you're down here on my level.”
“Fair enough,” Harry said. “I'll stay here. It may be safer, anyway, in my condition. Aren't you supposed to be pink, with a long trunk and a tail?”
“Not at all,” the other said. “Don't be facetious. My name is Quork, and you can believe in me or not. I'm a demon by trade.”
At that, Harry emitted one snort that nearly blew the little man away.
“Hey! Cut that out!”
“Sorry,” Harry said. “But you—a demon?”
“I'm a small one,” the demon said, a little crestfallen. “But it's not your place to poke fun at me—you runt.”
“That's very true indeed,” Harry said, reflectively. “I apologize. One small person shouldn't laugh at another. What's your specialty?”
“You,” the demon said. “I'm in charge of small, pushed-around individuals like you—or myself, for that matter. My employers have decided it's time to give you a break.” He indicated the single handcuff lying in the gutter. “Here. This is for you. Put it on.”
He climbed down from the handcuff, and Harry reached out and took it. “What does it do?” he asked.
“It provides complete personality projection,” the demon said, rolling the big words glibly off his forked tongue. “When …