grass was growing, and considering all the violence with which the thorned vines had attacked St. Cyr, the garden might very well have swallowed the beast.
When he turned front again he saw Hirschel running toward him, carrying what appeared to be a rifle. So it was Hirschel, after all. It was that simple. Somehow, Hirschel had obtained a trained wolf that he was using to do his dirty work—straight out of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Any self-respecting detective should have been familiar with the ruse. Of course, in that story there had been no shattered sound lying around like broken glass, and there had not been trees growing right up through the top of the sky… He had a lot more to contend with here than Holmes ever had.
Hirschel stopped and bent over him.
"Very neat," St. Cyr said.
Then he passed out.
NINE:
Bloodhounds
When he sat straight
up
in bed, chased awake by the stalker on the broken road, Tina was there to quiet him. She pushed gently against his chest until he lay down again, then sat on the edge of the water mattress.
"How do you feel?"
He licked his lips and found them salty. The inside of his mouth was dry and tasted like dust. "A drink?" he asked.
She got him water, watched him drink, asked if he wanted more, took the glass back into the bathroom when he said he was done. He watched her go, well enough to be fascinated by the movement of her tight round behind.
When she returned, he said, "Where's Hirschel?"
"In the garden, with Inspector Rainy. They've been scouring the area where it happened."
"Is he under arrest?"
She looked surprised. "Whatever for?"
"Wasn't he the one who tried to kill me—he and his trained wolf?"
She started to smile, stopped, said, "If it hadn't been for Uncle Hirschel, you might be dead. He heard you screaming for help, and when he thought he might not reach you in time, he fired his rifle in hopes he would scare off whatever was after you."
''What was he doing there with a rifle in the first place?" He didn't want to sound quarrelsome, but he did. His head ached so badly that he almost reached up
to see if it was all there.
"He was on his way across the gardens. He intended to go down into the valley to hunt for deer, some of the small fast ones that he's never been lucky with so far."
"He saw the wolf?"
"He says not. It was gone when he reached you."
St. Cyr raised his right hand and reached for the wounded left shoulder; he encountered a thick mass of bandages. He did not have any pain in his shoulder. All the pain was in his head, smack in the center of his forehead. He raised his good hand and felt his forehead, but couldn't find anything out of place, any hole or foot-long arrow sticking out of his skull.
He said, "What did the doctor say about my arm? Claw wound?"
"There wasn't any doctor here," Tina said. "Not, at least, in the sense you mean. We have an autodoc in the library. We fed you into it, asked for a diagnosis, and let the robotic surgeons do the rest."
"How long have I been out?"
She looked at her watch. "Hirschel found you at ten-thirty. You've been unconscious slightly more than six hours. It's now twenty minutes of five."
"What hit me?"
"Drugs of some sort. Inspector Rainy knows all about that. I'll let him fill you in."
St. Cyr suddenly reached to his chest, felt the lines of a human body. "What happened to the shell?"
"We had to take it off to put you in the autodoc receival tray. Hell of a delay figuring out how to remove it. You could have bled to death."
"Will you help me up?"
"Of course not!" she snapped. "Jesus, you're a first-class masochist!"
He smiled, though he didn't want to smile. "I have a job to do; I get a high by-the-day fee."
"You're too racked up to go running around the garden any more just now. Relax."
"I wasn't going to run anywhere. But I could do some clearer thinking if I had the bio-computer data banks to help."
She stood up and crossed the room to the easy chair, picked up the shell
When he turned front again he saw Hirschel running toward him, carrying what appeared to be a rifle. So it was Hirschel, after all. It was that simple. Somehow, Hirschel had obtained a trained wolf that he was using to do his dirty work—straight out of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Any self-respecting detective should have been familiar with the ruse. Of course, in that story there had been no shattered sound lying around like broken glass, and there had not been trees growing right up through the top of the sky… He had a lot more to contend with here than Holmes ever had.
Hirschel stopped and bent over him.
"Very neat," St. Cyr said.
Then he passed out.
NINE:
Bloodhounds
When he sat straight
up
in bed, chased awake by the stalker on the broken road, Tina was there to quiet him. She pushed gently against his chest until he lay down again, then sat on the edge of the water mattress.
"How do you feel?"
He licked his lips and found them salty. The inside of his mouth was dry and tasted like dust. "A drink?" he asked.
She got him water, watched him drink, asked if he wanted more, took the glass back into the bathroom when he said he was done. He watched her go, well enough to be fascinated by the movement of her tight round behind.
When she returned, he said, "Where's Hirschel?"
"In the garden, with Inspector Rainy. They've been scouring the area where it happened."
"Is he under arrest?"
She looked surprised. "Whatever for?"
"Wasn't he the one who tried to kill me—he and his trained wolf?"
She started to smile, stopped, said, "If it hadn't been for Uncle Hirschel, you might be dead. He heard you screaming for help, and when he thought he might not reach you in time, he fired his rifle in hopes he would scare off whatever was after you."
''What was he doing there with a rifle in the first place?" He didn't want to sound quarrelsome, but he did. His head ached so badly that he almost reached up
to see if it was all there.
"He was on his way across the gardens. He intended to go down into the valley to hunt for deer, some of the small fast ones that he's never been lucky with so far."
"He saw the wolf?"
"He says not. It was gone when he reached you."
St. Cyr raised his right hand and reached for the wounded left shoulder; he encountered a thick mass of bandages. He did not have any pain in his shoulder. All the pain was in his head, smack in the center of his forehead. He raised his good hand and felt his forehead, but couldn't find anything out of place, any hole or foot-long arrow sticking out of his skull.
He said, "What did the doctor say about my arm? Claw wound?"
"There wasn't any doctor here," Tina said. "Not, at least, in the sense you mean. We have an autodoc in the library. We fed you into it, asked for a diagnosis, and let the robotic surgeons do the rest."
"How long have I been out?"
She looked at her watch. "Hirschel found you at ten-thirty. You've been unconscious slightly more than six hours. It's now twenty minutes of five."
"What hit me?"
"Drugs of some sort. Inspector Rainy knows all about that. I'll let him fill you in."
St. Cyr suddenly reached to his chest, felt the lines of a human body. "What happened to the shell?"
"We had to take it off to put you in the autodoc receival tray. Hell of a delay figuring out how to remove it. You could have bled to death."
"Will you help me up?"
"Of course not!" she snapped. "Jesus, you're a first-class masochist!"
He smiled, though he didn't want to smile. "I have a job to do; I get a high by-the-day fee."
"You're too racked up to go running around the garden any more just now. Relax."
"I wasn't going to run anywhere. But I could do some clearer thinking if I had the bio-computer data banks to help."
She stood up and crossed the room to the easy chair, picked up the shell
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