Peter

Render reached down to pat the huge head. It accepted the gesture stoically, then turned its gaze up to the Austrian whom Render had asked for a light, as if to say, “Must I endure this indignity?” The man laughed at the expression, snapping shut the engraved lighter on which Render noted the middle initial to be a small v.

“Thank you,” he said, and to the dog: “What is your name?”

“Bismark,” it growled.

Render smiled.

“You remind me of another of your kind,” he told the dog.

“One Sigitiund, by name, a companion and guide to a blind friend of mine, in America.”

“My Bismark is a hunter,” said the young man. “There is no quarry that can outthink him, neither the deer nor the big cats.”

The dog’s ears pricked forward and he stared up at Render with proud, blazing eyes.

“We have hunted in Africa and the northern and southwestern parts of America. Central America, too. He never loses the trail. He never gives up. He is a beautiful brute, and his teeth could have been made in Solingen.”

“You are indeed fortunate to have such a hunting companion.”

“I hunt,” growled the dog. “I follow … Sometimes, I have, the kill …”

“You would not know of the one called Sigmund then, or the woman he guidesMiss Eileen Shallot?” asked Render.

The man shook his head.

“No, Bismark came to me from Massachusetts, but I was never to the Center personally. I am not acquainted with other mutie handlers.”

“I see. Well, thank you for the light. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Good, after, noon …”

Render strolled on up the narrow street, hands in his pockets.

He had excused himself and not said where he was going. This was because he had had no destination in mind. Bartelmetz*

second essay at counseling had almost led him to say things he would later regret. It was easier to take a walk than to continue the conversation.

On a sudden impulse he entered a small shop and bought a cuckoo clock which had caught his eye. He felt certain that Bartelmetz would accept the gift in the proper spirit. He smiled and walked on. And what was that letter to Jill which the desk clerk had made a special trip to their table to deliver at dinnertime? he wondered. It had been forwarded three times, and its return address was that of a law firm. Jill had not even opened it, but had smiled, overtipped the old man, and tucked it into her purse. He would have to hint subtly as to its contents.

His curiosity was so aroused that she would be sure to tell him out of pity.

“The icy pillars of the sky suddenly seemed to sway before him as a cold wind leapt down out of the north. Render hunched his shoulders and drew his head further below his collar. Clutching the cuckoo clock, he hurried back up the street.

That night the serpent which holds its tail in its mouth belched, the Fenris Wolf made a pass at the moon, the little clock said “cuckoo,” and tomorrow came on like Manolete’s last bull, shaking the gate of horn with the bellowed promise to tread a river of lions to sand.

Render promised himself he would lay off the gooey fondue.

Later, much later, when they skipped through the skies in a kite-shaped cruiser, Render looked down upon the darkened Earth dreaming its cities full of stars, looked up at the sky where they were all reflected, looked about him at the tapescreens watching all the people who biinked into them, and at the coffee, tea, and mixed drink dispensers who sent their fluids forth to explore the insides of the people they required to push their buttons, then looked across at Jill, whom the old buildings had compelled to walk among their wallsbecause he knew she felt he should be looking at her thenfelt his seat’s demand that he convert it into a couch, did so, and slept.