One of those parts, one of those bones or struts of flesh sprayers, one of them, he now knew, was the Modifier.
The Modifier was what he needed to change Ronald. Or to shut him off.
If only the Master Chart hadn't been lost, so he would know what the Modifier looked like! He hoped the Modifier itself wasn't lost. He hated to think of Ronald locked in the Usher tomb of the File Room for 18 flat years. Long before that, he would have worn his fists away hammering at the hatch. Then he might start pounding with his head. Perhaps before the time was up he would have worn himself down to nothing whatsoever.
Manet selected the ripple-finished gray-covered manual from the hodgepodge, and thought: eighteen years.
Perhaps I should have begun here, he told himself. But I really don't have as much interest in that sort of thing as the earthier types. Simple companionship was all I wanted. And, he thought on, even an insipid personality like Ronald's would be bearable with certain compensations.
Manet opened the book to the chapter headed: The Making of a Girl.
Veronica crept up behind Manet and slithered her hands up his back and over his shoulders. She leaned forward and breathed a moist warmth into his ear, and worried the lobe with her even white teeth.
"Daniel Boone," she sighed huskily, "only killed three Indians in his life."
"I know."