I stand there, holding Bot-Nathan's head by a fistful of hair, feeling oddly like a child with a broken toy. I watch the body for signs of life, but it doesn't move.
For a few seconds, some handicapped processing power remains active in the head. Brown eyes-manufactured to look so much like Rutherford's and Yvonne's-glare at me. The half-mouth tries to speak to me.
I drop the head. It whines on the ground with angry, meaningless syllables. Then even this fades away. Still, only after some experimental kicks am I satisfied that Bot-Nathan is really dead for good.
The sun is well over the horizon by now, and the skies are clear and wonderful. I'm tempted to call Yvonne, to have her come and pick me up so we can high-tail it out of here and leave this whole business behind me. I got the ki
