the small hours of the morning, especially considering that he’d had other offers. Several of the less grotesque femmefans had hinted at a willingness to add a night with an Eminent Pro to their list of celebrity memorabilia. Dungannon usually declined these offers for a variety of reasons: proofs of age could be faked, and lawsuits were a nuisance; some of the girls might carry the
Andromeda Strain
as well as having read it; and, most daunting of all, he could never go through with such an encounter without imagining the evening written up in a grubby fanzine. “Is Runewind’s Sword a Dirk? A Blow-by-Blow Account of Appin Dungannon’s Bedside Manner.” The very thought of such an article could cripple his strongest lust. And since the fen had no more privacy sense than a bee and no knowledge of copyright, such an article once written would be reprinted by every zine in fandom. It would be harder to kill than the ax man in
Friday the Thirteenth
. Sleep alone, thought Appin Dungannon, safety first. He hated the fen too much to give them such a weapon. Might aswell give a chimp a hand grenade.
Tratyn Runewind gazed down at the mighty Runesword in his scarred left hand. At his feet, the gold-tressed warrior princess cowered, awaiting the inevitable blow. She would not plead for her life. Hers was a proud race, one that died with lips bubbling laughter and froths of heartsblood. She was very young
.
With a sigh of regret for the death-tide that flowed between them, Tratyn Runewind sheathed the red-tipped blade. “Live to fight again, my fair one,” he said, pulling her to her feet
.
The girl-general narrowed round blue eyes in suspicious disbelief. What could the Celtic dog mean to do with her? Did he not know that she would grasp her own death gladly before she would submit to such as him?
Runewind gave her a gentle push in the direction of the dragon-prowed longships. “Perhaps we will meet again in the woof of time. Go now.”
Fingering the hilt of his Runesword, Tratyn Runewind watched his enemy scramble down the path like a frightened and bewildered child
.
When she reached the bend in the rock cliff, she turned and looked at him, hesitantly lifting her small white hand
.
“Another time,” whispered the warrior
.
There were corrections to make, and other details to be attended to, but they could wait until he was sober. Appin Dungannon retrieved his disk,yawned, and watched the monitor screen go dark. And so to bed.
Marion yawned. “Well, what did you think of your evening in Middle Earth?”
Jay Omega finished arranging the contents of his pockets on the dresser top. “Well, I wouldn’t want to live there,” he grinned.
“No. I don’t suppose you would. But then you happen to be particularly well suited for this planet, lucky for you.” She sat down beside him on the bed and began to rub his back.
“You seem to get along pretty well yourself,” he pointed out, arching a shoulder blade.
“Just like my cat,” she laughed, scratching the shoulder. “Are you going to purr?—I suppose I do get along well these days, but it was an acquired skill. In high school I was too smart and too puppy-fat to be anything but miserable. That was what made the SF group so appealing: we were all outcasts together. Even after all these years it stays with me. I can’t help feeling that I get along in the world only because I learned what was expected and how to go about things. Like Marco Polo in China—functioning, but not really belonging. You, on the other hand, seem to have been born knowing how to cope.”
Jay Omega nodded. “Like an IBM computer with BASIC built into its ROM. No programming for it necessary.”
“Whatever that means,” frowned Marion. “I suppose so. You enjoy all the things that other people consider necessary evils—yard work, meetings, teaching undergrads. I used to think you were a saint, but after knowing you a
Andromeda Strain
as well as having read it; and, most daunting of all, he could never go through with such an encounter without imagining the evening written up in a grubby fanzine. “Is Runewind’s Sword a Dirk? A Blow-by-Blow Account of Appin Dungannon’s Bedside Manner.” The very thought of such an article could cripple his strongest lust. And since the fen had no more privacy sense than a bee and no knowledge of copyright, such an article once written would be reprinted by every zine in fandom. It would be harder to kill than the ax man in
Friday the Thirteenth
. Sleep alone, thought Appin Dungannon, safety first. He hated the fen too much to give them such a weapon. Might aswell give a chimp a hand grenade.
Tratyn Runewind gazed down at the mighty Runesword in his scarred left hand. At his feet, the gold-tressed warrior princess cowered, awaiting the inevitable blow. She would not plead for her life. Hers was a proud race, one that died with lips bubbling laughter and froths of heartsblood. She was very young
.
With a sigh of regret for the death-tide that flowed between them, Tratyn Runewind sheathed the red-tipped blade. “Live to fight again, my fair one,” he said, pulling her to her feet
.
The girl-general narrowed round blue eyes in suspicious disbelief. What could the Celtic dog mean to do with her? Did he not know that she would grasp her own death gladly before she would submit to such as him?
Runewind gave her a gentle push in the direction of the dragon-prowed longships. “Perhaps we will meet again in the woof of time. Go now.”
Fingering the hilt of his Runesword, Tratyn Runewind watched his enemy scramble down the path like a frightened and bewildered child
.
When she reached the bend in the rock cliff, she turned and looked at him, hesitantly lifting her small white hand
.
“Another time,” whispered the warrior
.
There were corrections to make, and other details to be attended to, but they could wait until he was sober. Appin Dungannon retrieved his disk,yawned, and watched the monitor screen go dark. And so to bed.
Marion yawned. “Well, what did you think of your evening in Middle Earth?”
Jay Omega finished arranging the contents of his pockets on the dresser top. “Well, I wouldn’t want to live there,” he grinned.
“No. I don’t suppose you would. But then you happen to be particularly well suited for this planet, lucky for you.” She sat down beside him on the bed and began to rub his back.
“You seem to get along pretty well yourself,” he pointed out, arching a shoulder blade.
“Just like my cat,” she laughed, scratching the shoulder. “Are you going to purr?—I suppose I do get along well these days, but it was an acquired skill. In high school I was too smart and too puppy-fat to be anything but miserable. That was what made the SF group so appealing: we were all outcasts together. Even after all these years it stays with me. I can’t help feeling that I get along in the world only because I learned what was expected and how to go about things. Like Marco Polo in China—functioning, but not really belonging. You, on the other hand, seem to have been born knowing how to cope.”
Jay Omega nodded. “Like an IBM computer with BASIC built into its ROM. No programming for it necessary.”
“Whatever that means,” frowned Marion. “I suppose so. You enjoy all the things that other people consider necessary evils—yard work, meetings, teaching undergrads. I used to think you were a saint, but after knowing you a
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