He wasn'tentirely sure that didn't apply here. He'd thought of Bertol Bakkis as a lump of barelyaware flesh, its intelligence pickled in ethanol, operating in some obscure,automatic way along a subconscious thread of journalistic intention. Fit again, too, he added. His eyes returned to Varlik.
There was no visible response for several seconds, then the head turned,producing a wince. She handed him a sheetof stiff paper. He used the word fulfilling, but everything considered, he seemed tofeel about the same as you. She decided to look in on him from time to time though.
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