collection balance; nothing can look more fierce than a wild boar with its teeth bared."
"Could it have been a wild boar that killed Dorothea in the garden?"
"Hardly. You're forgetting the wolfs hair they found. Besides, was it a wild boar that came quietly into the house, sought out Leon and slaughtered him without a sound?"
"No," St. Cyr said. "But was it a wolf either?"
Hirschel shrugged.
'You don't believe this
du-aga-klava
story, do you, as Dane does?"
"I think it sounds like nonsense. However, I've lived long enough to know never to completely discount any possibility."
He sounded, St. Cyr thought, like Teddy, as if he were purposefully trying to plant certain doubts in the cyberdetective's mind.
He is only properly qualifying his responses.
"As I understand it, everyone in the family has some artistic talent or other."
Hirschel said, "Yes, even Teddy."
"Teddy?"
Hirschel slumped into an antique chair that made no attempt to form itself around him, motioned St. Cyr to the chair across from his. "Jubal's main interest is sculpture, but he designs cutlery, dishes, goblets, what-have-you, as a diversion. In order to spare himself all the manual labor involved in molding and machining the finished product, he programs his designs into Teddy. The Reiss Corporation, as an option, has especially designed and programmed Teddy to perform well in all phases of silver-working. He has his own workshop on the first level, near the garage."
"And you?" St. Cyr asked.
"No talents," Hirschel said, smiling. The cyberdetective noticed that the large, rugged man curiously resembled the head of the wolf behind him when he smiled.
Immaterial.
"Why is that?"
"I'm not a resident in the house, merely a biannual guest. I never came under Jubal's influence when he was on this hypno-keying kick many years ago."
"You sound as if you thought that hypno-keying was a bad idea."
"Depends on what you want out of life," Hirschel said.
"What do you want?"
"The same thing that I traipse from world to world in search of every year of my life—adventure, danger, excitement."
"And the artist has none of that?"
"Only secondhand."
"If you have so little in common with the family, why do you return every other year to visit?"
"They're my only relatives," Hirschel said. "A man needs a family now and again."
St. Cyr nodded. "How old are you?"
"Sixty."
"Six years older than Jubal." When Hirschel nodded, the cyberdetective asked, "Are you wealthy?"
The big man evidenced no dissatisfaction with St. Cyr's prying. "Quite wealthy," he said. "Though I'm not as wealthy as Jubal, by even a fraction." He smiled the wolfs smile again and said, "That still makes me suspect, doesn't it? Perhaps even more than before."
"Are you mentioned in Jubal's will?"
"Yes," Hirschel said, still smiling. "I receive the least of all those included—unless, of course, I'm the only survivor."
St. Cyr looked at the wolf. For a moment he felt that its glass eyes had shifted their dead gaze, stared directly at him. He blinked, and the eyes were where they should be, fixed on the air, cold, dry.
"I guess that will be all for tonight," he said, standing.
Hirschel did not rise to see him to the door, but the panel slid open as he took a few steps toward it.
At the door St. Cyr turned and looked at the wolf, looked at Hirschel, said, "The wolfs head there…"
"What of it?"
"It's one of those now extinct?"
"Yes."
"And is that how the
du-aga-klava
is supposed to appear in its animal shape?"
Hirschel turned in his chair and examined the long-snouted, wickedly-toothed beast. "Pretty much that way, I suppose, though a deal larger and far more ugly."
St. Cyr cleared his throat and said, "Why did Climicon label the wolf for extinction?"
"It was a predator, a very dangerous animal," Hirschel said "It was not at all the sort of thing you'd want running loose in the woods on a rich man's paradise."
"Then why let the boars live?"
Hirschel clearly had not considered
"Could it have been a wild boar that killed Dorothea in the garden?"
"Hardly. You're forgetting the wolfs hair they found. Besides, was it a wild boar that came quietly into the house, sought out Leon and slaughtered him without a sound?"
"No," St. Cyr said. "But was it a wolf either?"
Hirschel shrugged.
'You don't believe this
du-aga-klava
story, do you, as Dane does?"
"I think it sounds like nonsense. However, I've lived long enough to know never to completely discount any possibility."
He sounded, St. Cyr thought, like Teddy, as if he were purposefully trying to plant certain doubts in the cyberdetective's mind.
He is only properly qualifying his responses.
"As I understand it, everyone in the family has some artistic talent or other."
Hirschel said, "Yes, even Teddy."
"Teddy?"
Hirschel slumped into an antique chair that made no attempt to form itself around him, motioned St. Cyr to the chair across from his. "Jubal's main interest is sculpture, but he designs cutlery, dishes, goblets, what-have-you, as a diversion. In order to spare himself all the manual labor involved in molding and machining the finished product, he programs his designs into Teddy. The Reiss Corporation, as an option, has especially designed and programmed Teddy to perform well in all phases of silver-working. He has his own workshop on the first level, near the garage."
"And you?" St. Cyr asked.
"No talents," Hirschel said, smiling. The cyberdetective noticed that the large, rugged man curiously resembled the head of the wolf behind him when he smiled.
Immaterial.
"Why is that?"
"I'm not a resident in the house, merely a biannual guest. I never came under Jubal's influence when he was on this hypno-keying kick many years ago."
"You sound as if you thought that hypno-keying was a bad idea."
"Depends on what you want out of life," Hirschel said.
"What do you want?"
"The same thing that I traipse from world to world in search of every year of my life—adventure, danger, excitement."
"And the artist has none of that?"
"Only secondhand."
"If you have so little in common with the family, why do you return every other year to visit?"
"They're my only relatives," Hirschel said. "A man needs a family now and again."
St. Cyr nodded. "How old are you?"
"Sixty."
"Six years older than Jubal." When Hirschel nodded, the cyberdetective asked, "Are you wealthy?"
The big man evidenced no dissatisfaction with St. Cyr's prying. "Quite wealthy," he said. "Though I'm not as wealthy as Jubal, by even a fraction." He smiled the wolfs smile again and said, "That still makes me suspect, doesn't it? Perhaps even more than before."
"Are you mentioned in Jubal's will?"
"Yes," Hirschel said, still smiling. "I receive the least of all those included—unless, of course, I'm the only survivor."
St. Cyr looked at the wolf. For a moment he felt that its glass eyes had shifted their dead gaze, stared directly at him. He blinked, and the eyes were where they should be, fixed on the air, cold, dry.
"I guess that will be all for tonight," he said, standing.
Hirschel did not rise to see him to the door, but the panel slid open as he took a few steps toward it.
At the door St. Cyr turned and looked at the wolf, looked at Hirschel, said, "The wolfs head there…"
"What of it?"
"It's one of those now extinct?"
"Yes."
"And is that how the
du-aga-klava
is supposed to appear in its animal shape?"
Hirschel turned in his chair and examined the long-snouted, wickedly-toothed beast. "Pretty much that way, I suppose, though a deal larger and far more ugly."
St. Cyr cleared his throat and said, "Why did Climicon label the wolf for extinction?"
"It was a predator, a very dangerous animal," Hirschel said "It was not at all the sort of thing you'd want running loose in the woods on a rich man's paradise."
"Then why let the boars live?"
Hirschel clearly had not considered
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