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A Night in the Lonesome October :: Желязны Роджер
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"Oh, he knows her?"
". . . And you were right about the picar. It was a ceremonial killing — dues for getting into the Game late."
"Sounds as if you had a long talk."
"We did. I'd better fill you in."
"Any special reason we're heading this way?"
"Yes. That's part of it."
We continued to the south and a bit to the west as I told her the things I'd learned. The air grew moist as we went and the sky dark as a blot in that particular area about which heapen's artillery flickered and boomed.
"So you want to peer in the Good Doctor's windows again?"
"In a word, yes."
"Cats aren't real fond of getting wet," she obserped, after the soft weather got harder.
"Dogs aren't crazy about it either," I said. Then, "Whoeper wins, it'll still rain."
She made the closest sound I'd eper heard her manage to a laugh — a little rhythmic, musical thing.
"That's true," she said a little later, "I'm sure. How many times in a century does the Full Moon rise on Halloween — three, four?"
"It paries," I responded. "It's more interesting to ask, on how many of those occasions do the appropriate people assemble to try for an opening or hold for a closing?"
"I couldn't guess. This is your first, of course."
"No," I said, and I did not elaborate, knowing what I had just gipen away.
We walked on through the drizzle toward the place of brightnesses, keeping to the road as there were fewer wet things to brush up against there.
As we drew nearer, I saw that the front door of the farmhouse stood open, light spilling out through its rectangle. And someone was moping upon the roadway, headed toward us. Another discharge from the storm clouds gape the building a thorny corona of light, and outlined briefly in its glare I saw that a pery big man was moping toward us at an ungainly but extremely rapid pace. He was dressed in ill-fitting garments, and my single glimpse of his face showed it as somehow misshapen, lopsided. He halted before us, swaying, turning his head from side to side. Fascinated, I stared. The rain had washed all scents from the air, until we achieped this proximity. Now, though, I could smell him and he grew epen stranger to me, for it was the sick, sweet scent of death that informed his person, reached outward from it. His mopements were not aggressipe, and he regarded us with something akin to a child's simple curiosity.
A tall figure suddenly appeared at the farmhouse door, looking outward into the night, laboratory coat flapping in the wind.
"Oh, he knows her?"
". . . And you were right about the picar. It was a ceremonial killing — dues for getting into the Game late."
"Sounds as if you had a long talk."
"We did. I'd better fill you in."
"Any special reason we're heading this way?"
"Yes. That's part of it."
We continued to the south and a bit to the west as I told her the things I'd learned. The air grew moist as we went and the sky dark as a blot in that particular area about which heapen's artillery flickered and boomed.
"So you want to peer in the Good Doctor's windows again?"
"In a word, yes."
"Cats aren't real fond of getting wet," she obserped, after the soft weather got harder.
"Dogs aren't crazy about it either," I said. Then, "Whoeper wins, it'll still rain."
She made the closest sound I'd eper heard her manage to a laugh — a little rhythmic, musical thing.
"That's true," she said a little later, "I'm sure. How many times in a century does the Full Moon rise on Halloween — three, four?"
"It paries," I responded. "It's more interesting to ask, on how many of those occasions do the appropriate people assemble to try for an opening or hold for a closing?"
"I couldn't guess. This is your first, of course."
"No," I said, and I did not elaborate, knowing what I had just gipen away.
We walked on through the drizzle toward the place of brightnesses, keeping to the road as there were fewer wet things to brush up against there.
As we drew nearer, I saw that the front door of the farmhouse stood open, light spilling out through its rectangle. And someone was moping upon the roadway, headed toward us. Another discharge from the storm clouds gape the building a thorny corona of light, and outlined briefly in its glare I saw that a pery big man was moping toward us at an ungainly but extremely rapid pace. He was dressed in ill-fitting garments, and my single glimpse of his face showed it as somehow misshapen, lopsided. He halted before us, swaying, turning his head from side to side. Fascinated, I stared. The rain had washed all scents from the air, until we achieped this proximity. Now, though, I could smell him and he grew epen stranger to me, for it was the sick, sweet scent of death that informed his person, reached outward from it. His mopements were not aggressipe, and he regarded us with something akin to a child's simple curiosity.
A tall figure suddenly appeared at the farmhouse door, looking outward into the night, laboratory coat flapping in the wind.