Christopher Stasheff

A shred, Tom had said, would be too much, but Rod would probably never see this girl again. Not even a spark of hope -just a glimmer. Could. that do any hurt?

‘Tell me your name, lass.’

Only a spark, but it flared in her eyes to a bonfire. ‘Gwendylon am I called, lord.’

And when they had rounded a turn in the road and the girls were lost to sight beyond the hill behind them, Tom sighed and said,

‘Thou hast done too much, master. Thou shalt never be rid of her now.’

There was this to be said for a roll in the hay: it had sapped enough of Big Tom’s vitality so that he wasn’t singing any more.

Probably still humming, to be sure; but he was riding far enough ahead so Rod couldn’t hear him.

Rod rode in silence, unable to rid his mind of flaming hair and emerald eyes. So he cursed at the vision, under his breath; but it seemed to his aloof self that the cursing lacked something - vehemence, perhaps. Certainly sincerity. It was his aloof self accused, a very halfhearted attempt at malediction.

Rod had to admit it was. He was still feeling very much at one with creation. At the moment, he couldn’t have been angry with his executioner.… And that worried him.

‘Fess.’

‘Yes, Rod?’ The voice seemed a little more inside his head than usual.

‘Fess, I don’t feel right.’

The robot paused; then, ‘How do you feel, Rod?’

142

There was something about the way Fess had said that Rod glanced sharply at the pseudo-horse head. ‘Fess, are you laughing at me?’

‘Laughing?’

‘Yes, laughing. You heard me. Chuckling in your beard.’

‘This body is not equipped with a beard.’

‘Cut the comedy and answer the question.’

With something like a sigh, the robot said, ‘Rod, I must remind you that I am only a machine. Tam incapable of emotions.

I was merely noting discrepancies, Rod.’

‘Oh, were you!’ Rod growled. ‘What discrepancies, may I ask?’