forward, he yelped and panic-steered away from the edge of the arroyo that he had been about to send the rover crashing into. But in avoiding catastrophe, he turned into the beast's next attack, catching its full force. The vehicle almost upended.
Now he was in a pickle, stuck on a perilous track between two certain disasters. The beast seemed to sense this and kept hemming him in, forcing him to hug the rim of the little canyon.
He briefly considered making a dash for broken terrain, but that was a bad risk. The beast was too fast. The only alternative was to go down into the canyon. The trick was finding a slope that the rover could handle, yet steep enough to discourage the beast from following. The possibility cheered him; he could not imagine the bulky animal rappeling down the canyon wall in pursuit.
It was an agonizing quarter mile or so until he found a suitable entry point. The sheer wall of the canyon suddenly flared out into a slope strewn with talus and a few huge boulders. He steered right and sent the vehicle over the edge and down the steep incline.
The rover began to slide, but the tires ballooned out and came alive, pseudopods grasping for purchase. A major landslide began in front of the vehicle, a minor one to the rear.
Things went well at first, but Gene gradually lost control. The vehicle turned sideways and began to slide uncontrollably, its semi-intelligent automatic systems fighting to maintain a grip on the impossible slope.
He had misjudged the grade; it was too steep. Worse, the rover was veering off the ramp of rubble, heading for a sharp drop.
The vehicle tipped, righted itself, then hit a boulder, stopping momentarily. The boulder had other ideas; dislodged from its precarious position on the slope, it began to roll. The rover followed suit, joining the general landslide.
The amoebalike tires completely lost their grip. The vehicle began to roll over on its sideâand that was the last thing Gene knew.
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Long Island
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Sheila thought that Trent looked exactly what a prince should look like. For one thing, he was terribly handsome. His pale hair was the color of fresh butter, his eyes the hue of the sky on a bright afternoon. His features were strong, the cleft chin firm; classic princely features. But there was more to him, something in his bearing that bespoke a high-born status.
Just like a prince, she thought. She had been distantly in love with him since their first meeting.
She sat back and took a sip of wine. Sure, he was probably three hundred years old, but what's age got to do with it? He sure as heck didn't look three hundred years old. More likely thirty-five. Forty at the most. It was magic, of course.
âLike the wine?â Trent asked, settling into an armchair across from the sofa.
âIt's wonderful,â Sheila said. âWhat is it?"
âIt's a special California vintage cabernet, limited issue. I have some friends in the wine business out there."
âIt's great."
Trent pivoted in his chair. âUh ... Snowclaw? You sure you won't have anything?"
âThanks,â Snowclaw said, turning away from a view of the woods. âBut I don't go for that smelly flower water you human folks drink. No offense."
Trent laughed. âNone taken."
Anyone who had seen Snowclaw in the castle would never have recognized him. Instead of being a huge quasi-ursine biped covered in fur, Snowclaw was now a rather large human male with snow-white hair and the musculature of a professional bodybuilder. He wore a white shirt, red tie, charcoal slacks, and navy-blue blazer. His size 15 black pumps shone with a gloss.
Sheila's spell had done the trick. Snowclaw looked unusualâeven for a weight lifter, he was enormousâbut acceptable.
âTo get back to business,â Trent said. âGranting that Gene is here on Earth, locating him might be a little problematical if someone with magical abilities kidnapped him."
âWell, that's
Now he was in a pickle, stuck on a perilous track between two certain disasters. The beast seemed to sense this and kept hemming him in, forcing him to hug the rim of the little canyon.
He briefly considered making a dash for broken terrain, but that was a bad risk. The beast was too fast. The only alternative was to go down into the canyon. The trick was finding a slope that the rover could handle, yet steep enough to discourage the beast from following. The possibility cheered him; he could not imagine the bulky animal rappeling down the canyon wall in pursuit.
It was an agonizing quarter mile or so until he found a suitable entry point. The sheer wall of the canyon suddenly flared out into a slope strewn with talus and a few huge boulders. He steered right and sent the vehicle over the edge and down the steep incline.
The rover began to slide, but the tires ballooned out and came alive, pseudopods grasping for purchase. A major landslide began in front of the vehicle, a minor one to the rear.
Things went well at first, but Gene gradually lost control. The vehicle turned sideways and began to slide uncontrollably, its semi-intelligent automatic systems fighting to maintain a grip on the impossible slope.
He had misjudged the grade; it was too steep. Worse, the rover was veering off the ramp of rubble, heading for a sharp drop.
The vehicle tipped, righted itself, then hit a boulder, stopping momentarily. The boulder had other ideas; dislodged from its precarious position on the slope, it began to roll. The rover followed suit, joining the general landslide.
The amoebalike tires completely lost their grip. The vehicle began to roll over on its sideâand that was the last thing Gene knew.
Â
Â
Â
Long Island
Â
Sheila thought that Trent looked exactly what a prince should look like. For one thing, he was terribly handsome. His pale hair was the color of fresh butter, his eyes the hue of the sky on a bright afternoon. His features were strong, the cleft chin firm; classic princely features. But there was more to him, something in his bearing that bespoke a high-born status.
Just like a prince, she thought. She had been distantly in love with him since their first meeting.
She sat back and took a sip of wine. Sure, he was probably three hundred years old, but what's age got to do with it? He sure as heck didn't look three hundred years old. More likely thirty-five. Forty at the most. It was magic, of course.
âLike the wine?â Trent asked, settling into an armchair across from the sofa.
âIt's wonderful,â Sheila said. âWhat is it?"
âIt's a special California vintage cabernet, limited issue. I have some friends in the wine business out there."
âIt's great."
Trent pivoted in his chair. âUh ... Snowclaw? You sure you won't have anything?"
âThanks,â Snowclaw said, turning away from a view of the woods. âBut I don't go for that smelly flower water you human folks drink. No offense."
Trent laughed. âNone taken."
Anyone who had seen Snowclaw in the castle would never have recognized him. Instead of being a huge quasi-ursine biped covered in fur, Snowclaw was now a rather large human male with snow-white hair and the musculature of a professional bodybuilder. He wore a white shirt, red tie, charcoal slacks, and navy-blue blazer. His size 15 black pumps shone with a gloss.
Sheila's spell had done the trick. Snowclaw looked unusualâeven for a weight lifter, he was enormousâbut acceptable.
âTo get back to business,â Trent said. âGranting that Gene is here on Earth, locating him might be a little problematical if someone with magical abilities kidnapped him."
âWell, that's
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