THE SEA HAG(36)

He unbelted the sword and laid it beside him. He'd use the butt to club his catch when he'd landed it. Then he started to drop the line into the water—and froze. The large fish that rose and slapped the water only a few yards out did so in mockery.

"Chester," Dennis said, "I forgot bait. We don't have any bait."

"There is the ring on your finger, Dennis," replied his companion. "It may be that the ring will lure fish."

The ring was a diamond in a thin band, placed on Dennis' thumb for luck in his infancy and now worn on the little finger of his left hand. Its facets sent the sunlight across the surface of the pond in fiery sparkles even as Dennis turned his hand to look at it.

"Sure, that's a good idea," he said as he worried the ring over his knuckle. "Thank you, Chester."

"Many are the small things that are worthy of respect," quoted the robot smugly.

The line, with the ring attached to the tag end of the leader, plopped into the water at last. The pond was so rich in dyes leached from the surrounding jungle that the hook disappeared though it was only a hand's length beneath the bobber. The diamond remained a wink of brightness twisting in the dark.

The strike was immediate. Dennis almost lost his grip—and the pull was so strong that he nearly pitched into the water when reflex clamped his hands against the spool.

He staggered backward on the bridge crying, "We've got one, Chester!" as the line spun out.

In the back of his mind Dennis was bitterly calling himself a fool for not cutting a pole after all, even if it would have been a hard job with the sword his only tool. A pole's springiness would have given the fish something to fight besides the tension fingers put on the spool... but Dennis' hands were strong and calloused from swordsmanship drills, and the thrill of the struggle quickly replaced desire for a meal as the force driving his actions.

It was a big fish. It would have been big if it came from the hold of one of the Emath trawlers whose catches had all the salt ocean in which to grow.

At first Dennis saw nothing but the cavorting line and the insects drawn by the bubbles in the line's swift wake. A spiny fin flicked the air, long and six feet back from where the line cut the water.

The fish broke surface in a leap, tossing its head in a vain attempt to clear the hook fast in its jaw. It was huge, its head and back iridescent and its belly the white of fresh cream.

Its eyes were black. They sparkled like the diamond flopping at the side of its mouth.

Dennis let his catch run against the drag of his thumb until the line had wound almost to the end of the spool. Then he fought the fish back, loop by loop—wishing he had better equipment and proud beyond words that he was succeeding with what he had.

Dennis was doing this himself, with neither king nor courtier to ease the task.

For a time, the fish struggled in the pond-edge reeds, but there were no trees growing beyond the pink margin to break the line on their roots. If the fish came toward him, though, and crossed beneath, the road's lower edge—an immaculate 90 degrees despite the untold ages the pink material had been exposed to the elements—would cut the line as surely as a pair of scissors.

"Chester!" he shouted, already poising to jump into the pond if the water were knee-deep and its opaque surface had convinced him that it must be. "How deep is this?"

"It is twice your height, Dennis," Chester replied calmly. "Or maybe more."

The fish started its rush at the bridge, just as Dennis had feared.

Instead of reeling the line, he gathered it in great loops by the handful. He could never pay it out again smoothly, but—first things first. It didn't matter whether or not the line were neatly coiled at the spindle end, if the hook and the catch that was invaluable for Dennis' self-respect were trailing their way unimpeded on the other side of the bridge, lost forever to him...

"He who thrusts his chest at the spear will surely be slain!" Chester warned—

But the robot didn't interfere, it wasn't his place to interfere, and Dennis with his blood up was in no mood to be warned about the sin of pride.

Almost the fish beat him. Almost.

Dennis bent with the spindle in his left hand as the fish tried to shoot beneath him, its fin cutting a flat S-curve of foam in the black surface. When he jerked upright again, the last yard of line was in his right palm, sword palm, and the great, glittering fish flashed up also—will it or no.

They teetered there together, the fish's tail lashing the water to froth as Dennis tried to twist his torso back to balance and safety. The eyes winked at him and the ring winked; and Dennis dropped the tangled spindle to thrust the vee of his index and middle fingers into the flaring gill slits.