Storm placed the clarinet in its case. He faced the creature on
his desk, slowly leaned till its forehead touched his own.
His movement was cautious. A ravenshrike could be as worshipful
as a puppy one moment, all talons and temper the next. They were
terribly sensitive to moods.
Storm never had been attacked by his “pets.” Nor had
his followers ever betrayed him though sometimes they stretched
their loyalties in their devotion.
Storm had weighed the usefulness of ravenshrikes against their
unpredictability with care. He had opted for the risk.
Their brains were eidetically retentive for an hour. He could
tap that memory telepathically by touching foreheads. Memorization
and telepathy seemed to be part of the creatures’ shadow
adaption.
The ravenshrikes prowled the Fortress constantly. Unaware of
their abilities, Storm’s people hid nothing from them. The
creatures kept him informed more effectively than any system of
bugs.
He had acquired them during his meeting with Richard Hawksblood
on The Broken Wings. Since, his people had viewed his awareness
with almost superstitious awe. He encouraged the reaction. The
Legion was an extension of himself, his will in action. He wanted
it to move like a part of him.
Aware though he might be, some of his people refused to stop
doing the things that made the lizards necessary.
He never feared outright betrayal. His followers owed him their
lives. They served with a loyalty so absolute it bordered on the
fanatic. But they were wont to do things for his own good.
In two hundred years he had come to an armistice with the
perversities of human nature. Every man considered himself the
final authority on universe management. It was an inalterable
consequence of anthropoid evolution.
Storm corrected them quietly. He was not a man of sound and
fury. A hint of disapproval, he had found, achieved better results
than the most bitter recrimination.
Images and dialogue flooded his mind as he discharged the
ravenshrike’s brain-store. From the maelstrom he selected the
bits that interested him.
“Oh, damn! They’re at it again.”
He had suspected as much. He had recognized the signs. His sons
Benjamin, Homer, and Lucifer, were forever conspiring to save the
old man from his follies. Why couldn’t they learn? Why
couldn’t they be like Thurston, his oldest? Thurston was not
bright, but he stuck with the paternal program.
Better, why couldn’t they be like Masato, his youngest?
Mouse was not just bright, he understood. Probably better than
anyone else in the family.
Today his boys were protecting him from what they believed was
his biggest weakness. In his more bitter moments he was inclined to
agree. His life would be safer, smoother, and richer if he were to
assume a more pragmatic attitude toward Michael Dee.
“Michael, Michael, I’ve had enemies who were better
brothers than you are.”
He opened a desk drawer and stabbed a button. The summons
traveled throughout the Fortress of Iron. While awaiting
Cassius’s response he returned to his clarinet and
“Stranger on the Shore.”
Storm placed the clarinet in its case. He faced the creature on
his desk, slowly leaned till its forehead touched his own.
His movement was cautious. A ravenshrike could be as worshipful
as a puppy one moment, all talons and temper the next. They were
terribly sensitive to moods.
Storm never had been attacked by his “pets.” Nor had
his followers ever betrayed him though sometimes they stretched
their loyalties in their devotion.
Storm had weighed the usefulness of ravenshrikes against their
unpredictability with care. He had opted for the risk.
Their brains were eidetically retentive for an hour. He could
tap that memory telepathically by touching foreheads. Memorization
and telepathy seemed to be part of the creatures’ shadow
adaption.
The ravenshrikes prowled the Fortress constantly. Unaware of
their abilities, Storm’s people hid nothing from them. The
creatures kept him informed more effectively than any system of
bugs.
He had acquired them during his meeting with Richard Hawksblood
on The Broken Wings. Since, his people had viewed his awareness
with almost superstitious awe. He encouraged the reaction. The
Legion was an extension of himself, his will in action. He wanted
it to move like a part of him.
Aware though he might be, some of his people refused to stop
doing the things that made the lizards necessary.
He never feared outright betrayal. His followers owed him their
lives. They served with a loyalty so absolute it bordered on the
fanatic. But they were wont to do things for his own good.
In two hundred years he had come to an armistice with the
perversities of human nature. Every man considered himself the
final authority on universe management. It was an inalterable
consequence of anthropoid evolution.
Storm corrected them quietly. He was not a man of sound and
fury. A hint of disapproval, he had found, achieved better results
than the most bitter recrimination.
Images and dialogue flooded his mind as he discharged the
ravenshrike’s brain-store. From the maelstrom he selected the
bits that interested him.
“Oh, damn! They’re at it again.”
He had suspected as much. He had recognized the signs. His sons
Benjamin, Homer, and Lucifer, were forever conspiring to save the
old man from his follies. Why couldn’t they learn? Why
couldn’t they be like Thurston, his oldest? Thurston was not
bright, but he stuck with the paternal program.
Better, why couldn’t they be like Masato, his youngest?
Mouse was not just bright, he understood. Probably better than
anyone else in the family.
Today his boys were protecting him from what they believed was
his biggest weakness. In his more bitter moments he was inclined to
agree. His life would be safer, smoother, and richer if he were to
assume a more pragmatic attitude toward Michael Dee.
“Michael, Michael, I’ve had enemies who were better
brothers than you are.”
He opened a desk drawer and stabbed a button. The summons
traveled throughout the Fortress of Iron. While awaiting
Cassius’s response he returned to his clarinet and
“Stranger on the Shore.”