The thought which he sent was both clear and cold: Shut up. Give me what I need.
Nigel put the bag in his lap. From within it came a cheeping sound almost like human speech, and for the first time Mordred realized that the twitches were all coming from a single creature.
Not a rat, then! Something bigger! Bigger and bloodier!
He opened the bag and peered in. A pair of gold-ringed eyes the hoo-hoo bird, he didn't know its name, and then he saw die thing had fur, not feathers. It was a throcken, known in many parts of Mid-World as a billy-bumbler, this one barely old enough to be off its mother's teat.
There now, there, he thought at it, his mouth filling with drool. We're in the same boat, my little cully-we're motherless children in a hard, cruel world. Be still and I'll give you comfort.
Dealing with a creature as young and simple-headed as this wasn't much different from dealing with the machines. Mordred looked into its thoughts and located the node that controlled its simple bit of will. He reached for it with a hand made of thought-made of his will-and seized it. For a moment he could hear the creature's timid, hopeful thought
(don't hurt me please don't hurt me; please let me live; I want to live have fun play a little; don't hurt me please don't hurt me please let me live)
and he responded:
All is well, don't fear, cully, all is well.
The bumbler in the bag (Nigel had found it in the motorpool, separated from its mother, brothers, and sisters by the closing of an automatic door) relaxed-not believing, exactly, but hoping to believe.
SIX
In Nigel's study, the lights had been turned down to quarterbrilliance.
When Oy began to whine, Jake woke at once. The others slept on, at least for the time being.
What's wrong, Oy?
The bumbler didn't reply, only went on whining deep in his throat. His gold-ringed eyes peered into the gloomy far corner of the study, as if seeing something terrible there. Jake could remember peering into the corner of his bedroom the same way after waking from some nightmare in the small hours of die morning, a dream of Frankenstein or Dracula or
(Tyrannasorbet Wrecks)
some other boogeyman, God knew what. Now, thinking that perhaps bumblers also had nightmares, he tried even harder to touch Oy's mind. There was nothing at first, then a deep, blurred image
(eyes eyes looking out of the darkness)
of something that might have been a billy-bumbler in a sack.
"Shhhh," he whispered into Oy's ear, putting his arms around him. "Don't wake 'em, they need their sleep."
"Leep," Oy said, very low.
"You just had a bad dream," Jake whispered. "Sometimes I have them, too. They're not real. Nobody's got you in a bag. Go back to sleep."
"Leep." Oy put his snout on his right forepaw. "Oy-be ki-yit."
That's right, Jake thought at him, Oy be quiet.
The gold-ringed eyes, still looking troubled, remained open a bit longer. Then Oy winked at Jake with one and closed both.
A moment later, the bumbler was asleep again. Somewhere close by, one of his kind had died... but dying was the way of the world; it was a hard world and always had been.
Oy dreamed of being with Jake beneath the great orange orb of the Peddler's Moon. Jake, also sleeping, picked it up by touch and they dreamed of Old Cheap Rover Man's Moon together.
Oy, who died? asked Jake beneath the Peddler's one-eyed, knowing wink.
Oy, said his friend. Delah. Many.
Beneath the Old Cheap Man's empty orange stare Oy said no more; had, in fact, found a dream within his dream, and here also Jake went with him. This dream was better. In it, the two of them were playing together in bright sunshine. To them came another bumbler: a sad fellow, by his look. He tried to talk to them, but neither Jake nor Oy could tell what he said, because he was speaking in English.
SEVEN
Mordred wasn't strong enough to lift the bumbler from the bag, and Nigel either would not or could not help him. The robot only stood inside the door of the Control Center, twisting his head to one side or the other, counting and clanking more loudly than ever. A hot, cooked smell had begun to rise from his innards.
Mordred succeeded in turning the bag over and the bumbler, probably half a yearling, fell into his lap. Its eyes were halfopen, but the yellow-and-black orbs were dull and unmoving.
Mordred threw his head back, grimacing in concentration.
That red