The whimper became a sniffle. “I’ll witch, ah, I’ll witch, mumble, mumble, mumble.” Rodvard heard her tottering shuffle go and come, the fat face was over his again, all filled now with oily kinks that held little beads of sweat. She looked at him closely and then flung over her shoulder; “Go out, old man, and leave us. There’s something not healthy for you to see,” and began plucking at her garments to undo them, at the last moment pausing to throw an edge of stinking blanket over Rodvard’s face. His heightened senses caught the stiff rustle of clothes sinking to the floor; the aromatic smell declared itself over all others, her fingers sought his burned chin beneath the blanket and applied a relieving unguent. “Mumble, mumble,” came her voice, and he understanding not a word. “Meowrrr-row!” shouted the cat, as it raced through the narrow cot from end to end. He could have melted with relief as the fingers soothed his chest, but then his mind went off on a picture of Lalette become old in the manner of this one and he would have shuddered if he could have stirred. The crooning mumble ended, the witch-wife’s ministrations at the same time. There was a silence set with small sounds, over which the continued mewling of the cat. He heard the woman at the door summon her husband, then the two of them speaking in voiceless sibilants, a contention going on, which terminated with the man’s strong arms around Rodvard, heaving him up like a sack of meal. Exterior air came through the edge of the blanket; step, step, he was borne, and with a grunt, dumped in what must be the mule-cart. A pause; the blanket was twitched from his face and he was looking up into the disparate eyes of the woman. “Nice boy, nice boy,” said her voice. “You tell your witch now how I do good. You tell her I respect the great wedding. Not him; he keeps your hard money.” She patted his still unmoving cheek, a touch that made his senses creep; and the Blue Star was suddenly, shockingly cold over his heart, (he could see beyond any question that there was in the woman’s mind a great fear, but also the great longing kindness of two joined against an armèd world). From where he was leading the mule to hitching, the man’s voice came; “Wife, get that badge we took from the last one, the mechanician. I say to you, you hurry now.” 12 NETZNEGON CITY; A ZIGRANER FESTIVAL