“I see. You want to go into one of your trances. Who will you imagine you’re with — Trisha Garland?”

“Trisha Garland?” A bright-red serpent of irritation stirred in the pool of his mind, clouding the waters. “Who the hell’s Trisha Garland?”

“As if you didn’t know!”

“I’ve no idea who the lady is.”

“Lady! That’s good, calling that one a lady — that bedwarmer who can’t sing a note and wouldn’t know a lady if she saw one.”

Hutchman almost gaped — his wife must be referring to the singer he had glimpsed on television the previous evening — then a bitter fury engulfed him. You’re sick, he raged inwardly. You’re so sick that just being near you is making me sick. Aloud he said, calmly: “The last thing I want out here is somebody singing while I shoot.”

“Oh, you do know who I mean.” Vicky’s face was triumphant beneath its massive helm of copper hair. “Why did you pretend you didn’t know her?”

“Vicky.” Hutchman turned his back on her. “Please put the lid back on the cesspit you have for a mind — then go away from me before I drive one of these arrows through your head.”

He nocked another arrow, drew, and aimed at the target. Its shimmering concentricities seemed very distant across an ocean of malicious air currents. He fired and knew he had plucked the string instead of achieving a clean release, even before the bow gave a discordant, disappointed twang, even before he saw the arrow fly too high and pass over the target. The single ugly word he spat out failed to relieve the tensions racking his body, and he began unbuckling his leather armguard, pulling savagely at the straps.