 What is Doc's profession?
"Sure," the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc's arthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose, one finger at a time. If a half dozen winos in Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have been wanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. Doc's thin frame, layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side. All my great-grandfathers have it. I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse three doors down. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, for all I knew. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-specked flophouse doors. The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one of those little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance. I found I couldn't focus both my mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so I concentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow their habit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They told everything I needed to know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation. When I got to thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old man around North America for nothing, I remembered who he was. I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work I had once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc.
 Scientist
 Scientist  Addict  Book collector  Doctor