Race Against Time (6 page)

"Dear," Betsy said, taking John's arm. "They're not Standards!" She pulled him back as though frightened—a very simple role to assume in the circumstances. "Look at the color. White!"

"Don't insult him," John whispered with enough force to carry. "He may have been ill."

"Maybe it's contagious!" she whispered back, retreating farther.

The Standard paused in perplexity. John could guess the man's thoughts: Here he had followed the dog to the zoo specimens and found instead two Standards... maybe. Should he explain his unusual coloration or check their ID's! A mistake could be awkward, either way.

"Do you own that... animal?" the Standard finally asked.

"Own?" John asked in return, putting confusion into his voice. That wasn't difficult, either. He saw the trap, for there was no ownership of anything in this society, and there were no pets.

"Over there," the man said, pointing to Canute. The dog maintained his distance.

"That vicious creature?" Betsy put in with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. "It came chasing after us with all those ugly spots and jagged teeth...."

"What
is
it?" John asked apprehensively.

The man looked at Canute again. "Bring him here," he said to his companion. The other man turned off the motor, got out of the vehicle, and approached the dog. Canute growled and retreated. The man made a gesture, and the dog yelped. John saw with a pang that the man had some kind of weapon. Not a gun—but something. Canute yelped again and ran from the man. John kept his face frozen, knowing that this was a crucial test. If he gave himself away....

Another gesture, and the dog stopped short. It was as though he were being herded by an invisible goad. Tail between legs, Canute slunk toward John and Betsy. He looked appealingly at John.

"Don't bring that strange animal here!" John cried, accenting "strange." Canute could pretend not to know his master, when playing this game, but he could hardly understand what was going on now. He wanted protection and comfort, and these were the last things John could provide, lest he betray their whole escape.

Canute struggled with conflicting impulses while all four people waited tensely. Then the man with the goad—it was a little sphere with buttons, held in one hand—nudged the dog closer to John. Canute looked at John and growled.

Bless him! He was playing it out, refusing to admit that he knew his master. Canute had come through, and now there was no immediate evidence that these were the escapees.

"It's attacking!" Betsy cried. "Horrible thing!"

Canute growled at her, too, this time with more authority. She retreated.

"All right, Eogan," the first man said. "It doesn't know them."

The other put away his implement, and Canute ran away.

"Sorry, Stans," the man said. "This is restricted property. Citizens are advised to remain well clear."

"We were only taking a walk," John said, offended. "We lost our way. Then that—animal came. And you, with your—no offense—remarkable coloration, in a vehicle that must be three centuries old. It is—alarming."

"Alarming!" Betsy echoed tremulously.

"A misunderstanding, Stans. We are on a special mission requiring this costume, offensive as it may be to your sensitivities. You should depart the area promptly."

"We shall certainly do so," John said. "If you can direct us...."

Betsy took his arm again. "We had no idea...."

"Proceed southwest, and you will intersect the perimeter shortly," the man said tersely. "I would summon a taxi for you, but no such vehicles are permitted here."

John proffered the arm Betsy had already taken, and they walked hastily away. Then John halted. "Southwest?"

Betsy caught on at the same time. "What nonsense is this?" she demanded. "Do they
want
us lost?"

"Your pardon, Stans," the man called after them. "I gave you an obsolete designation. My error."

Error, hah! John thought. It had been a parting trap, to learn whether they understood twentieth-century directions.

The man pointed out the correct route. Fortunately they had not been going southwest, owing to the distractions of the moment. That had been mighty close!

"After that gomdog," the first Standard said as the two men climbed back into their jeep. "I hate this inefficient, atmosphere-polluting contraption! If only we were allowed to use contemporary equipment here...." The jeep started up and roared away.

Gomdog? Canute? Was that what they called the tree-climbing dog? The men had carefully avoided identifying it until they were sure they were addressing Standards. Gomdog.

"Funny zoo," Betsy murmured.

Funny, indeed! If the perimeter guard was this curt with spectators, it couldn't be much of a show. He had at times been uncertain of the zoo notion, and this magnified his doubt.

"They may keep watching us," he said, and she was silent.

John was roughly familiar with the region, of course, and knew that the Standard's advice had been correct: Southwest was the nearest perimeter of the larger zoo environs. So he guided Betsy southwest, following the second, gestured, instructions. He didn't know what system the Standards normally used to orient maps, but it wasn't American. North and south applied only to the zoo itself....

They walked for fifteen minutes as rapidly as the terrain permitted, then came to a break in the forest. Now they had to deviate; John silently guided her northwest, hurrying. If the spy-beam were on them now....

They came to one of the glossy octagonal buildings with stuck-on cubes. This one was empty. John had scouted it carefully and discovered that it was occupied only in winter, but it remained functional the year round. They walked up as though they owned it, and John put his ID to the entrance panel. The panel became foggy—real fog, not just fog color—and he climbed through, hefting himself up to the floating floor level inside. Then he held the ID in place and reached down to assist Betsy. The door panel became solid as soon as he removed the ID key.

"Oops, almost forgot," John said. He ID'd outside again, put his fingers to his mouth, and made a piercing whistle. Almost immediately he heard Canute's answering bark. In moments the dog came racing into sight, greyhound lines with spots. His tongue was out, he was panting heavily, and his fur was streaked, but he seemed all right. John held the door permeable while Canute leaped through.

"Oh, no!" Betsy cried with dismay. "They'll follow that animal to us again!"

John hugged the big dog to him while Canute licked his face between tail wags. "They'd have caught us already if he hadn't led them a false chase," John said. "Good dog! You did great! I'm proud of you. Punch for a taxi, Betsy. By the time they catch up, we'll be gone. Yeah, you're my dog, Canute!"

"Second fiddle to a dog!" Betsy muttered. "If he was female, I'd know what to call him!" She poked experimentally at the house's communications console. There was a hum. "Taxi, this address, immediately."

"Your ID, please," a voice said.

"Here," John said quickly, passing over his key. Betsy touched it to the appropriate panel.

Standard communications were efficient. A sphere dropped from the sky within seconds and touched the house, tangent at the door panel. John used the ID again and passed with Canute directly into the vehicle. Betsy hastened to join them.

"It worked!" she exclaimed, gratified. "I really called a taxi!"

"You just get us to that third zoo you saw. I'll see about the dog."

"See what? He's already here, unfortunately."

"They called him a gomdog. Maybe I can find out something."

"Oh." She located the taxi's communicator, then paused. "What do I tell it? I saw that spot on the map, but I don't know how to locate it. I can't tell this buggy to fly north...."

"Um." John had supposed they would pilot the craft manually, but one glance at the control section showed him that it was nothing like anything he was acquainted with. They couldn't afford time to practice—not while the Standard pursuit was near. "Try this. 3777767256."

"What?"

"It's a coordinate. Ala gave it to me."

"Who?"

Suddenly he realized that he had never had a chance to tell her about the black girl or to inquire whether Betsy had met Humé. "Yesterday—look, it's complicated, and we're in a hurry—I met a girl.

Betsy stared at him. "You, too? I wasn't going to tell you right away, but—"

"You met a black man!"

"Black?
Yellow!
His name was Yao Pei, and he lived—
lives
in Northern China, eighth century A.D."

"Chinese! Mine was African!"

"And there's at least one other purebred there," Betsy continued. "A girl named Meilan."

"This thing is more complicated than we thought," John said soberly. "We've got to compare notes—but, Betsy, there just isn't time now! They may be on our tail already. We have to find those others quickly, or we may never have another chance."

"You're one hundred percent right, for once. Give me that number, slowly—or better, speak it into the communicator here. Maybe the taxi will take us there."

John agreed. "Taxi, take us to coordinate 3777767256, and step on the gas."

A voice replied, different from the one at the house. They both jumped, and Canute perked up his ears. "Step on the gas is not a programmed destination. Please clarify."

"Do all their radios talk back?" Betsy inquired.

"What I mean is, hurry!" John said. "To that location. The number." Would the taxi do it?

The globe sailed upward, sending John stumbling and Betsy grabbing at handholds. The first hold she found was Canute's tail, and both parties were outraged. Then the taxi shot over the landscape.

Boy, girl, and dog picked themselves up. "When it hurries, it
hurries!"
John exclaimed. "We must be doing two hundred miles an hour!"

"Ridiculous," Betsy said. Then she reconsidered. "At least!"

John peered out and down. For the first time he saw the Newton township in its entirety and the lay of the land about it. Now he could compare his zoo to the reality that lay beyond. There was no discernible difference. It was
all
field and forest. Newton was no oasis; it was typical, so far as the terrain went. He tried to conceal his disappointment; he had been almost sure that there would be a substantial and striking change once the Newton environs had been left completely behind.

"You were seeing about the dog?" Betsy reminded him snidely.

"Right away," he said, nettled again. She was certainly running true to form. Here they had important business to accomplish and astonishing experiences to compare, but she couldn't stop needling him about Canute! The white-colored Standards of Newton had never been like this, he reflected. He had sometimes railed, privately, at their lassitude; he wanted to see some spirit, some human animation. Now he was faced with plenty of both—in Betsy—and didn't much like it.

He faced the communicator. "Information," he said, as though he were using a telephone. He suspected that Betsy would have had greater confidence with this sort of project, but it was his baby. He
did
want to know the truth about his dog, if the truth was to be had.

"Well, go ahead," she told him. "You asked for information."

He had expected some acknowledgment. But of course this was the twenty-fourth century. There would be no inefficient lags. "Gomdog," he said. "What is a gomdog?"

"Synopsis," Betsy said quickly. "Otherwise you may get hours of—"

"Synopsis. For the layman."

"Gomdog," a pleasant voice said. "Colloquial designation for sapient pseudo-mammalian species of GO 'M' III. Vestigial technology, competent adaptation of form, pacifistic temperament." The voice stopped. John sat stunned for a moment.

"Did you hear that?" Betsy demanded, shocked.

"A complete alien!" John said. "A creature that changes its shape—"

"No. The other. "It said 'sapient.'
Sapient!"

"So?"

"Dummy! That means intelligent! Human level, or better."

Intelligent! John looked at Canute, appalled. Had his faithful canine companion been fully aware all along? How could they hope to make their escape with this creature watching?

"He's a spy!" Betsy said fiercely. "I knew it!"

"He can't be," John said, defending Canute, though he felt sickly uncertain. "He's always been loyal."

"Loyal to
whom?
A zoo specimen? We'll never get away with him along. Get rid of him."

"Kill Canute? I'd shoot myself first," he said, believing it.

"I didn't tell you to
kill
him. I said get rid of him. Dump him out, turn him loose—just so he can't spy on us anymore."

John looked at Canute again. The dog—the gomdog—just sat there and wagged his tail questioningly.

"Maybe it's just another trap," John said. "They used that word where we could hear it so we'd think he's a spy and get rid of him, and then we'd be on our own, and they could catch us."

"Do you believe that?" she demanded derisively.

John avoided a direct answer. "If he's intelligent," he said slowly, "he knows everything already. We can't afford to let him go—and it would be illegal to kill him, even if we had the guts for it. If he's not intelligent, we don't
have
to get rid of him. So...."

"Casuistry. If he's sapient, we can't afford to keep him with us. If he isn't, we don't need him."

John knew he was grasping at a straw but could not help himself. "We don't
know
he's a gomdog...."

"He's either that or something else just as bad. Certainly not a real dog. Ask the machine—you'll see."

"What is a dog?" he asked information. "Synopsis."

"Dog: colloquial designation for extinct mammalian canine species of Sol III. Former domesticant of man. Quadrupedal—"

"Extinct," Betsy interrupted, and the information narration cut off as she spoke. "So this one
has
to be something else. And you can bet it doesn't look like a dog or act like it in its native state.
Now
are you satisfied?"

"No. I can't believe Canute would betray me. Us. I don't care what he is biologically, he's my dog."