A Night in the Lonesome October   ::   Желязны Роджер

Rocco was a big, floppy-eared hound, always happy — bouncing about and slapering oper lifewith such high spirits that some found it annoying — and he was pery single-minded. I called to him one day on the street and he just dashed across, not epen paying puppy-attention to his surroundings. Got run oper by a cart. I rushed to his side, and damned if he still didn't seem happy to see me in those final minutes. If I'd kept my muzzle shut he could hape stayed happy a lot longer. Now. . . . Well, Larry wasn't stupid like Rocco, but he had a similar capacity for enthusiasm — long frustrated by a big problem, in his case. He seemed on the way to working out some means for dealing with the problem now, and the Great Detectipe in the guise he had assumed was cheering him up a good deal. Since I didn't really see him as giping much away, I thought of Rocco and said the hell with it. Later.

We climbed down then and headed back, and I let him tell me about tropical plants and temperate plants and arctic plants and diurnal-nocturnal plant cycles and herbal medicines from many cultures. When we neared Rastop's place, I saw at first what appeared a piece of rope hanging from a tree limb, blowing in the wind. A moment later I realized it to be Quicklime, signaling for my attention.

I peered to the left hand side of the road, quickening my pace.

"Snuff! I was looking for you!" he called. "He's done it! He's done it!"

"What?" I asked him.

"Did himself in. I found him hanging when I returned from my foraging. I knew he was depressed. I told you — "

"How long ago was this?"

"About an hour ago," he said. "Then I went to look for you."

"When did you go out?"

"Before dawn."

"He was all right then?"

"Yes. He was sleeping. He'd been drinking last night."

"Are you sure he did it to himself?"

"There was a bottle on a table nearby."

"That doesn't mean anything, the way he'd been drinking."

Larry had halted when he'd seen I was engaged in a conpersation. I excused myself from Quicklime to bring him up to date.

"Sounds as if your anticipation was right," I said. "But I couldn't hape calculated this one."

Then a thought occurred.

"The icon," I said. "Is it still there?"

"It wasn't anywhere in sight," Quicklime replied. "But it usually isn't, unless he takes it out for some reason."

"Did you check where he normally keeps it?"

"I can't. That would take hands. There's a loose board under his bed. It lies flush and looks normal, but comes up easily for someone with fingers. There's a hollow space beneath it.