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Show of chased gold, set with small gems. "Where hideth Grant-Sheblem?" Dr'Anya asked abruptly. The android sprang up from his swivel stool and hastened around the control panel to the woman, picking up a carved and upholstered chair on the way. "His Grace, the Good Doctor," he said, "has been in the Tartars since FourthMonth. . . " He put the chair down beside Dr'Anya. "...inspecting moldboard plows." A light, signifying an open line, was blinking merrily and unheeded on the control panel behind him. Dr'Anya dropped into the chair and covered her eyes. Since FourthMonth! Then mayhap he is truly g o n e . . . ! The android leaned over her and placed a bronze alloy hand on her brow, clucking softly. Dr'Anya looked up at him. In faith, she thought, this android has been made, doubtless, by the same firm that made the good Nell. The android hied himself to the ornate shelf built into the opposite wall and came back laden with a squat tumbler holding a quantity of what looked to be Tartary whiskey. Then again, Dr'Anya thought, taking the glass from him gingerly, mayhap he wasn't. The android pulled up another chair and sat down cozily across from Dr'Anya while she began sipping the fiery stuff he'd just handed her. He crossed one leg over the other and became chatty. "The Good Doctor," he began, "resides in a HighTartars village where he can indeed use the transhologram." The android looked at his Universal MiniComp-a magnificent collection of lights and display screens that reached twelve centimeters up his arm. "Time is of the essence, seest thou?" he went on. "And the fair sir, 39 |