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clinging to him like a shadow cloak. Explain! His command strikes the other
like a whip. Young god .. - and the older gods fear you. You are not ready to
face them. . . by their own laws they cannot strike you down. . , but will
tempt you to your own destruction. . . or to attack them all. . .
The perpetual day turns sudden dark, brooding smoke-yellow dusk, with the
swiftness of a razor knife slicing day into night, and the thunder rolls in
from the west and down the hillside like a war wagon to shake the cottage. The
windows chatter with each quick drumroll.
Gil Nash freezes whiter than the white roads to Aurore, whiter than the white
roofs of Sybernal, whiter than the snows of winter and the sands of Sahara.
Nash's eyes dart toward the clouds. Martel throws a mental shell around
himself, trying to gather all the energy he can, but as he draws he feels the
golden bolt descending from the clouds in a blaze.  Mr. Martel. . . Mr.
Martel. . . Coldness, wetness. . , water across his face.  What..,
He opens his eyes. He is sprawled on the deck on his back, looking up at the
circular charred hole in the roof, and at the gray face of Mrs. Alderson.
He checks himself over, lets his unsteady perceptions review his body. The
report is sound. No overt injuries. He sits up, concentrating on keeping
everything in focus.
The chair where Nash has been sitting is a heap of ashes. The one where Martel
sat is untouched. There is no sign of the demigod who called himself Nash, nor
any remains.
 Thought there weren't any thunderstorms on Aurore, Mrs. Alderson. He sits
up.
 There aren't, less the gods are involved. You be messing with what you
oughtn't, young man?
Probably, thinks Martel.  Don't think so, but the fellow 1 met at the beach
may have been.
Martel stands up, uses the back of his hand to wipe the water off his
forehead.
The table lies on its side, the beaker next to it. The beer mug a glassy lump
now, is coated with the ashes from the fired chair, and has rolled almost to
Martel's feet.
The landlady follows his glances, sees the melted mug, connects it with the
ashes of the chair and the hole in the roof, and gasps.
 Called himself Gil Nash. Swam out of the water and asked if he could have a
beer. Didn't see any harm in it. He seemed nice enough.
 And that goes to show you, Mr. Martel, what happens on Aurore when strange
people arrive from the sea. Like as not he was a ruined demigod trying to
escape his just punishment. Lucky as not you're an innocent. Knowing mortals
who help the wicked uns, the gods have no mercy on them.
Martel shakes his head slowly. No innocent, just fast enough with an energy
screen. . . and yet. . . how long was he unconscious? Certainly long enough
for anyone disposed to do him in to do so.
What had Nash said? Tempting him to strike out? He shakes his head again, more
violently. No striking out, period!
 Luck, I guess, he answers the waiting woman.  I'll pay, as soon as 1 can,
for the damage. Not on purpose, but, as you said, 1 should have known better.
 No, Mr. Martel, How would you know, being new and all? it's not that i'm
short on funds. You are, and I should have warned you. Just be a mite bit more
careful what strangers you strike up with. Time comes and you'll sense the
queer ones,
 I will. Certainly will.
He sweeps the ashes into a bag, where he deposits the lump of glass that had
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been a mug, and carries the bag out to the recycling pickup next to the coast
road below Mrs. Alderson's house. By the time he climbs back up the long
steps, she has rearranged the porch furniture and placed an-
other chair next to the table. Except for the hole in the roof and a darker
shade of decking where Nash's chair had been, the setting is again as it had
been-
Most people, reflects Martel, wouldn't see the difference unless they looked
up. And who makes a habit of looking up?
 Thank you again, Mrs. Alderson. The words feel awkward, but he doesn't know
what else to say.
 No problem, Mr. Martel. We all have to get used to new places, now, don't
we?
He nods, trying to repress a smile. Some individuals, like Mrs. Alderson, like
Rathe Firien, have a down-to-earth friendliness that puts everything in
perspective. Rathe .. . He purses his lips.  Do you have a directory? For
Sybernal? .  Aye, and so do you. Second drawer, under the vid. She picks up [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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