said the girl, “when a group of men shot down our ship and attacked us.” Ole Doc picked a thoughtful tooth, for the fish he had caught had been excellent—deep fried, southern style. He felt benign, chivalrous. Summer was in full bloom. He was thinking harder about her hair than about her narrative. Robbery and banditry on the spaceways were not new, particularly on such a little-inhabited planet as Spico, but the thoughts which visited him had not been found in his mind for a long, long time. She made a throne room of the tiny dining salon and Ole Doc harked back to lonely days in cold space, on hostile and uninviting planets, and the woman-hunger which comes. “Did you see any of them?” he asked, only to hear her voice again. “I didn’t need to,” she said. The tone she took startled Ole Doc. Had he been regarding this from the viewpoint of volume sixteen of Klote’s standard work on human psychology, he would have realized the predicament into which, with those words, he had launched himself.
What do You think about Ole Doc Methuselah (2012)?
