“I’m calling it the Combination Harvester,” he said.
Bill Door felt very old. In fact he was very old. But he’d never felt it as much as this. Somewhere in the shadow of his soul he felt he knew, without the blacksmith explaining, what it was that the Combination Harvester was supposed to do.
OH.
“We’re going to give it a trial run this afternoon up in old Peedbury’s big field. It looks very promising, I must say. What you’re looking at now, Mr. Door, is the future.”
YES.
Bill Door ran his hand over the framework.
AND THE HARVEST ITSELF?
“Hmm? What about it?”
WHAT WILL IT THINK OF IT? WILL IT KNOW?
Simnel wrinkled his nose. “Know? Know? It won’t know anything. Corn’s corn.”
AND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE?
“Exactly.” Simnel hesitated. “What was it you were wanting?”
The tall figure ran a disconsolate finger over the oily mechanism.
“Mr. Door?”
PARDON? OH. YES. I HAD SOMETHING FOR YOU TO DO—
He strode out of the forge and returned almost immediately with something wrapped in silk. He unwrapped it carefully.
He’d made a new handle for the blade—not a straight one, such as they used in the mountains, but the heavy double-curved handle of the plains.
“You want it beaten out? A new grass nail? Metalwork replacing?”
Bill Door shook his head.
I WANT IT KILLED.
“Killed?”
YES. TOTALLY. EVERY BIT DESTROYED. SO THAT IT IS ABSOLUTELY DEAD.
“Nice scythe,” said Simnel. “Seems a shame. You’ve kept a good edge on it—”
DON’T TOUCH IT!
Simnel sucked his finger.
“Funny,” he said, “I could have sworn I didn’t touch it. My hand was inches away. Well, it’s sharp, anyway.”
He swished it through the air. “Yes.
He paused, stuck his little finger in his ear and swiveled it around a bit.
“You sure you know what you want?” he said.
Bill Door solemnly repeated his request.