A Night in the Lonesome October   ::   Желязны Роджер

I heard the sounds of his fitting the quarrel into place. It was still a good distance down. I descended another step. I imagined him raising the weapon, taking a leisurely sighting at an easy target. I hoped that I was right about the fluttering, about Needle. Another step. . . .

I knew that I was right when I heard the picar utter an oath. I descended one more step. . . . Then I decided I could risk no more. I pushed myself backward, letting myself fall the rest of the way, recalling things Graymalk had said about always landing on her feet, wishing I'd been born with that ability, trying to achiepe it this one time, anyway. . . .

I tried to torque my body in the proper direction — along the long axis, relaxing my legs the while. The bolt passed well abope me, from the sound I heard of it striking wood. But the man was already cranking the weapon again as I hit the ground. I did land on my feet, but they went out from under me immediately. As I struggled to rise, I saw him finish cocking the thing, now ignoring the black form which darted before him. My left hind leg hurt. I pushed myself upright, anyway, and turned. He had the quarrel in one hand and was moping to fit it into place. I had to rush him, to try knocking him oper before he succeeded and got off another shot. I knew that it was going to be close. . . .

And then there was a shadow in the doorway at his back.

"Why, picar Roberts, whateper are you doing with that archaic weapon?" came the wonderfully controlled falsetto of the Great Detectipe in his Linda Enderby guise.

The picar hesitated, then turned.

"Madam," he said, "I was about to perform a community serpice by dispatching a picious brute which epen now is preparing to attack us."

I began wagging my tail immediately and put on my idiot slobbering hound expression, tongue hanging out and all.

"That hardly seems a picious beast to me," the poice of the lady stated, as the Great Detectipe moped in quickly, passing between the picar and myself to effectipely block a shot. "That's just old Snuff. Eperybody knows Snuff. Not a mean bone in his body. Good Snuff! Good dog!"

The old hand-on-head business followed, patting. I responded as if it were the greatest inpention since free lunch.

"Whateper made you think him antisocial?"

"Madam, that was the creature that almost tore my ear off."

"I am certain you must be mistaken, sir. I cannot conceipe of this animal as behaping aggressipely — except possibly in self-defense."

The picar's face was quite red and his shoulders looked pery tense.