rest among the cabbages except for a couple kept for tomorrow’s meals. Esther crocheted wallets of netting to be slung over Yigal’s back. Water was a problem. In relatively unpolluted places it could be extracted from plants or drawn from eastward-running streams; a transport might have filters in good condition, but some would have to be carried in clay jugs.
The children sorted their belongings. “Keep all drugs and medicines,” Sven said. “Light clothes that cover your arms and legs, ponchos. You don’t need warm things because the temperature in the forest holds steady. Maybe a couple of blankets in case we camp in a clearing.”
Koz’s idol was, of course, a must. “You carry it,” said Esther, “but dump that heavy stuff you’re wearing. Mother Shrinigasa will forgive you when you get back.”
“If,” said Koz.
“See if those boiling bags have sprung a leak, we’ll need them for cooking. Check the alcohol.”
“How do you get that?” Mitzi asked.
“Ferment it from fruit.”
“Can you drink it?”
“If you don’t mind getting sick. Put that stuff away now, Shirvanian, it’s time to sleep.”
In the morning the cock crowed. The metal cock. Shirvanian had gotten up at dawn to finish the work; it screeched and flapped among Sven’s arms as he was exercising, still showing some affinity for human life. Sven righted himself and watched.
The bird was crested and plumed as an imperial eagle; Shirvanian had used the extra neck to lengthen the gimpy leg, set the misplaced wing where it belonged, added an animal’s cry. It still had a slightly mutated look, for Shirvanian, hating waste, had set the two superfluous eyes above the others so that they formed two pairs, like Sven’s arms. Still, it did not look malevolent, but like the novel toy of a Renaissance king.
Shirvanian leaned on the doorway, rapt in self-admiration. Sven said, “That’d be really something for a kid to play with.”
“The beak’s a metal cutter. The claws are magnetic, and it’s erg-shielded. If it hits a vulnerable spot it can do damage.”
Sven blinked at Boy Genius.
“You didn’t think I was doing all that for fun, did you?”
Sven backed away, and the beautiful metal bird went on crowing in the glinting sunlight, scratched savagely in the hard earth.
Everyone admired it, at a distance and with respect. Koz brought out his idol and prayed for a successful journey. Then Shirvanian sent it. There was no launching ceremony. It ran in perfect balance, flapping and screeching, disappeared among the blotchy greens. Shirvanian sighed. Chances were, it would never be admired again.
“Did you shield against erg heat and light sensors?” Sven asked.
“No. That just makes things more interesting.”
Half an hour later, they stopped in the midst of their preparations at the sound of ergs clashing and grinding, noise half muffled in the forest depths. Except Shirvanian, busy packing cabbage sprouts and ferns for Yigal. “Ergs out hunting ...”
Ringing crunch, shriek of backing treads—
“Banged into each other, and didn’t catch it either,” Shirvanian sniggered.
ERG-DAHLGREN PINNED Black’s Knight with 7. B-N5.
Dahlgren echoed the threat and stared at the ancient trilobites with their fork-tailed miters. The sides of the board stood as mirrors.
The blued metal arms of the silver erg rippled down the curve of her front. YOU ARE PLAYING A STRANGE GAME, DAHLGREN. SURELY NOT AN IMAGINATIVE ONE.
“I have not played for nine years ... this set is a zoological exhibit.” Pride shut his mouth. Desperation opened it again. “I am thinking of my son. He cannot harm you. Why is it necessary for you to kill him?” He gripped the edge of the table.
Erg-Dahlgren paralleled his movements, searched his eyes for directions in reproducing the harrowed eaves of his brows.
YOUR SON WILL NOT STAY IN HIS CORNER. HE IS A DAHLGREN.
“I am no longer a Dahlgren. In all those years you rendered that out of me.”
WE
The children sorted their belongings. “Keep all drugs and medicines,” Sven said. “Light clothes that cover your arms and legs, ponchos. You don’t need warm things because the temperature in the forest holds steady. Maybe a couple of blankets in case we camp in a clearing.”
Koz’s idol was, of course, a must. “You carry it,” said Esther, “but dump that heavy stuff you’re wearing. Mother Shrinigasa will forgive you when you get back.”
“If,” said Koz.
“See if those boiling bags have sprung a leak, we’ll need them for cooking. Check the alcohol.”
“How do you get that?” Mitzi asked.
“Ferment it from fruit.”
“Can you drink it?”
“If you don’t mind getting sick. Put that stuff away now, Shirvanian, it’s time to sleep.”
In the morning the cock crowed. The metal cock. Shirvanian had gotten up at dawn to finish the work; it screeched and flapped among Sven’s arms as he was exercising, still showing some affinity for human life. Sven righted himself and watched.
The bird was crested and plumed as an imperial eagle; Shirvanian had used the extra neck to lengthen the gimpy leg, set the misplaced wing where it belonged, added an animal’s cry. It still had a slightly mutated look, for Shirvanian, hating waste, had set the two superfluous eyes above the others so that they formed two pairs, like Sven’s arms. Still, it did not look malevolent, but like the novel toy of a Renaissance king.
Shirvanian leaned on the doorway, rapt in self-admiration. Sven said, “That’d be really something for a kid to play with.”
“The beak’s a metal cutter. The claws are magnetic, and it’s erg-shielded. If it hits a vulnerable spot it can do damage.”
Sven blinked at Boy Genius.
“You didn’t think I was doing all that for fun, did you?”
Sven backed away, and the beautiful metal bird went on crowing in the glinting sunlight, scratched savagely in the hard earth.
Everyone admired it, at a distance and with respect. Koz brought out his idol and prayed for a successful journey. Then Shirvanian sent it. There was no launching ceremony. It ran in perfect balance, flapping and screeching, disappeared among the blotchy greens. Shirvanian sighed. Chances were, it would never be admired again.
“Did you shield against erg heat and light sensors?” Sven asked.
“No. That just makes things more interesting.”
Half an hour later, they stopped in the midst of their preparations at the sound of ergs clashing and grinding, noise half muffled in the forest depths. Except Shirvanian, busy packing cabbage sprouts and ferns for Yigal. “Ergs out hunting ...”
Ringing crunch, shriek of backing treads—
“Banged into each other, and didn’t catch it either,” Shirvanian sniggered.
ERG-DAHLGREN PINNED Black’s Knight with 7. B-N5.
Dahlgren echoed the threat and stared at the ancient trilobites with their fork-tailed miters. The sides of the board stood as mirrors.
The blued metal arms of the silver erg rippled down the curve of her front. YOU ARE PLAYING A STRANGE GAME, DAHLGREN. SURELY NOT AN IMAGINATIVE ONE.
“I have not played for nine years ... this set is a zoological exhibit.” Pride shut his mouth. Desperation opened it again. “I am thinking of my son. He cannot harm you. Why is it necessary for you to kill him?” He gripped the edge of the table.
Erg-Dahlgren paralleled his movements, searched his eyes for directions in reproducing the harrowed eaves of his brows.
YOUR SON WILL NOT STAY IN HIS CORNER. HE IS A DAHLGREN.
“I am no longer a Dahlgren. In all those years you rendered that out of me.”
WE
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