«I’ve heard of him,» said Shea, «and if you want to, we can drop in on him later, but I think that right now is a poor time for calls. He isn’t in apally mood.»
Belphebe said, «You name him hero, and yet you say he has slain his own son. How can this be?»
Brodsky said, «It was a bum rap. This Cuchulainn got his girlfriend Aoife pregnant way back when and then gave her the air, see? So she’s sore at him, see? So when the kid grows up, she sends him to Cuchulainn under a geas.»
«A moment,» said Belphebe. «What would this geas be?»
«A taboo,» said Shea.
Brodsky said, «It’s a hell of a lot more than that. You got one these geasa on you and you can’t do the thing it’s against even if it was to save you from the hot seat. So like I was saying this young ghee, his name is Conla, but he has this geas on him not to tell his name or that of his father to anyone. So when Aoife sends him to Cuchulainn, the big shot challenges the kid and then knocks him off. It ain’t good.»
«A tale to mourn, indeed,» said Belphebe. «How are you so wise in these matters, Master Pete? Are you of this race?»
«I only wisht I was,» said Brodsky fervently. «It would do me a lot of good on the force. But I ain’t, so I dope it this way, see? I’ll study this Irish stuff till I know more about it than anybody. And then I got innarested, see?»
They were well down the slope now, the grass dragging at their feet, approaching the impassive sheep.
Belphebe said, «I trust we shall come soon to where there are people. My bones protest I have not dined.»