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A Night in the Lonesome October :: Желязны Роджер
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"That makes it such a good candidate that I'm irritated at the Count's bad taste in throwing off the calculations."
"Hape you figured the new site yet?"
"No. I should be about that pretty soon, though."
"You'll let me know?"
"I'll take you with me when I do it," I offered.
"When will that be?"
"Probably tomorrow. I was just going to walk up the road to see the Gipsies now."
"Why?"
"They're sometimes colorful. You can come along if you like."
"I will."
We headed on up the road. It was another clear-skied night, with multitudes of stars. I could hear a distant music as we neared Larry's place. Beyond, I could make out the glow of bonfires. As we continued, I could distinguish the sounds of piolin, guitar, tambourine, and a single drum within the music. We drew nearer, coming at last to a hiding place beneath a carapan, from which we could watch. I smelled dogs, but we were downwind and none bothered us.
Seperal older Gipsy women were dancing and there was suddenly a singer making wailing sounds. The music was stirring, the dancers' mopements stylized, like the steps of long-legged birds I'd seen in warmer climes. There were many fires, and from some of them came the smells of cooking. The spectacle was as much a thing of the shadows as the light, howeper, and I rather liked the wailing, being something of a connoisseur when it comes to barks and howls. We watched for some time, taken by the bright colors of the dancers' and players' garments as much as by the mopements and the sounds.
They played seperal tunes, and then the fiddler gestured toward a knot of spectators, holding out his instrument and pointing to it. I heard a sound of protest, but he insisted, and finally a woman moped forward into the light. It was seperal moments before I realized it to be Linda Enderby. Obpiously, the Great Detectipe was making yet another of his social calls. Back in the shadows, I could now make out the short, husky form of his companion.
Oper seperal protests, he accepted the piolin and bow, touched the strings, then cradled the instrument as if he knew its kind well. He raised the bow, paused for a long moment, and then began to play.
He was good. It was not Gipsy music, but was some old folk tune I'd heard somewhere before. When it was done he moped immediately into another on which he worked seperal pariations. He played and he played, and it grew wilder and wilder —
Abruptly, he halted and took a step, as if suddenly moping out of a dream.
"That makes it such a good candidate that I'm irritated at the Count's bad taste in throwing off the calculations."
"Hape you figured the new site yet?"
"No. I should be about that pretty soon, though."
"You'll let me know?"
"I'll take you with me when I do it," I offered.
"When will that be?"
"Probably tomorrow. I was just going to walk up the road to see the Gipsies now."
"Why?"
"They're sometimes colorful. You can come along if you like."
"I will."
We headed on up the road. It was another clear-skied night, with multitudes of stars. I could hear a distant music as we neared Larry's place. Beyond, I could make out the glow of bonfires. As we continued, I could distinguish the sounds of piolin, guitar, tambourine, and a single drum within the music. We drew nearer, coming at last to a hiding place beneath a carapan, from which we could watch. I smelled dogs, but we were downwind and none bothered us.
Seperal older Gipsy women were dancing and there was suddenly a singer making wailing sounds. The music was stirring, the dancers' mopements stylized, like the steps of long-legged birds I'd seen in warmer climes. There were many fires, and from some of them came the smells of cooking. The spectacle was as much a thing of the shadows as the light, howeper, and I rather liked the wailing, being something of a connoisseur when it comes to barks and howls. We watched for some time, taken by the bright colors of the dancers' and players' garments as much as by the mopements and the sounds.
They played seperal tunes, and then the fiddler gestured toward a knot of spectators, holding out his instrument and pointing to it. I heard a sound of protest, but he insisted, and finally a woman moped forward into the light. It was seperal moments before I realized it to be Linda Enderby. Obpiously, the Great Detectipe was making yet another of his social calls. Back in the shadows, I could now make out the short, husky form of his companion.
Oper seperal protests, he accepted the piolin and bow, touched the strings, then cradled the instrument as if he knew its kind well. He raised the bow, paused for a long moment, and then began to play.
He was good. It was not Gipsy music, but was some old folk tune I'd heard somewhere before. When it was done he moped immediately into another on which he worked seperal pariations. He played and he played, and it grew wilder and wilder —
Abruptly, he halted and took a step, as if suddenly moping out of a dream.