She completed the ritual. „We need it." She posed. „Not bad for an old broad, eh?"

„Pretty good. For a wife." There was no heart in his jest.

Her too-small mouth fashioned a pout. „What do you mean, for a wife?"

His grin was as grey as he felt. „You know what they say. That old grass always looks greener."

„You grazing in somebody else's pasture?"

„What?" He heaved himself to his feet, stumbled round looking for his clothing.

„Last night was only the second time this month."

He gave it the light treatment. „I'm getting old."

Something inside cawed sarcastically. He was fooling himself, not her. A nasty black chasm yawned at his feet. Trouble was, he did not know if it was waiting for him to try

jumping over or if he was on the other side looking back. „Is it another woman, Ragnarson?" There wasn't any kitten in her now. She was all bitch cat. The habitual brittle smile had left her lips.

„No." For once he was telling the truth. He didn't have a single little round-heel on the string. The soft curves, the warm mounds, the humid thighs did not set the fires roaring these days. They seemed more a distraction than a reason­ able interest. They irritated more than excited. Was it symptomatic of age? Time was an implacable thief. Ragnarson's growing indifference worried him. The de­ parture of the drive to collect scalps left a vacuum like the loss of an old friend. „You're sure?"

„Absodamnlutely, as friend Mocker might have said." „I wish I had met him," she mused. „Haroun, too. Maybe I'd know you better by knowing them." „You should've known them... ." „You're changing the subject."

„Honey, I haven't had no strange in so long I wouldn't know what to do. Probably just stand there with my thumb in my ear till the lady cussed me out."