"Geez!" said Mark, shaking his head in astonishment.
"Do you think it's possible?" said Claire.
"Yeah. Could be. The transceiver multiplexer/demultiplexer assemblies would address corresponding cerebral regions." He examined the spreadsheet. "Yeah. The frequencies are the same." He looked over at Claire. "Dog union. Maybe union was actually the right word."
Killer and Miguel barked a few more times, yet again in unison.
"This is sort of spooky," said Mark.
Claire nodded. "It's like telepathy."
"More like a joining of two brains," said Mark. "Look. The transceivers have a limited range. I think we should untelepathize our dogs. Let's move one of the cages to, I don't know, to the biopsy lab at the other end of the complex."
"Definitely," said Claire. "I need some time to think this over. We may have made a major discovery."
"Yeah. I think we have."
* * *
Wind. Smell of rabbit. Smell of grass. Wind tickles nose. Many smells. House moving fast. Forest smells. Good smells. Tall master. Love tall master. Lap face. Smells nice. Need to run. Hungry. Smell food. Lap face. Lap ear. Other tall master. Nice smell. Want to go out. Tall master scratches ears. Lap hand. Lap face.
While Claire drove from the Cornell Canine Research Institute toward the distant Larger Natural Dog Habitat, Mark in the front passenger seat fought to keep the Greyhound from falling out the window. It was mid-July, midmorning, the countryside thick and verdant, the air sultry, and the road unpaved.
Mark stroked the dog's sleek fur, keeping well clear of the transceiver nodule. "Good boy, Earl. What do you smell out there?" The dog turned and licked his face, and Mark laughed like a child. "Yeah Earl, I like you, too."
"Why did you name him Earl?" said Claire, her eyes on the uneven dirt road. "After a dog you had as a kid?"
"No, why?"
"You seem much more attached to him than any of the other dogs."
"When I was a kid, my best friend had a Greyhound. I used to pretend he was mine—the Greyhound, I mean." Mark hugged the dog. "You're my dog, aren't you? You great monster." Earl squirmed around and washed Mark's ear and cheek. "I named him after my favorite tea."
"What?" Then Claire shook her head. "You would!"
"It's better than Rottweiler's name, 'Enhanced Canine 26.'" Mark whispered into the dog's ear. "I wish you didn't have to be a part of the experiment." He glanced at Claire. "I wonder if he'll still know me when he's integrated into the collective. I bet he will."
They rounded a curve and there, directly ahead, stood the outer gate to the habitat. "Good," said Claire. "It looks like we'll make it."
"You weren't sure?"
"Well..." Claire patted the dashboard, "this chariot isn't exactly fresh off the showroom floor."
"Yeah, I sort of got that idea from the noisy muffler and the cracked windshield."
"That's the least of it," said Claire. "There's more."
"Much more?"
She threw him a glance. "Don't worry. I've got Triple-A."
"Triple-A! We're thirty miles from civilization. It would take them a week to get here."
"Only two hours." Claire stopped the car at the gate. "At least that's how long it took last time."
"Better keep the engine running, then." Mark hopped out of the car with the Greyhound following close behind. He opened the gate and waved Claire through to the parking area. The lot lay empty and the observation shack appeared deserted.
Rottweiler should have been here by now. Scowling, Mark tromped off toward the inner gate—the locked entrance to the two-square-mile habitat.
As he reached for the lock, Mark noticed the pack, all but hidden in the tall grass about ten yards away. He knew all of them: Miguel, Max the German Shepherd, Beauregard the Bloodhound, the Beagle, the brace of Border Collies, all the rest. The dogs stared intensely at him, apparently captivated by the motion of his hands. Feeling almost as if he were performing for the creatures, Mark keyed the combination. When the hasp clicked free, he heard a soft, low growl from Earl. He looked down at the dog. "What's the matter, boy?" The Greyhound growled again and the sound seemed to reverberate through the woods. Mark glanced up and saw Killer, in the front of the pack, growling. It sounded as if all the dogs had growled.
Mark opened the gate and Earl, without ever looking back, ran through and up to the pack. Mark felt a sense of loss.
Smell of dogs—other dogs. I. I am a dog. We are dog. Tall masters are friends. Not sure. I am the pack. I am the Earl-bit of the pack. I see the others. They are me. Tall masters are enemies. Smell bad. I/We understand many words. The Earl-bit of the pack wants to run. Pack smells good. We are hungry. We are the pack.
"Hey," Mark shouted toward the cluster of dogs, "Max, Miguel, Earl. You know me. I'm your friend." He knelt. "Come on, Earl," he said at just above a whisper. "I just want to pet you."
As one, as if in response to a signal, the dogs bared their fangs.
Mark sighed, stood, then snapped the keypad combination lock back onto the gate. He cast his head down but, as he heard Claire approach, he looked up with a forced smile.
"It's nothing personal," she said softly. "The transceivers connect fibers to equivalent fibers across the full group of dogs. It's really a single entity, not just a pack of dogs."
"I know. I know. It is not self-inclusive," said Mark, trying to intellectualize his feeling of rejection. "As Bertrand Russell might have said—'The set of all dogs is not a dog.'" He turned away from the gate and started toward the observation shack. "Come on," he said. "Let's get set up for Rottweiler." Then he swiveled and headed back to the car. "I forgot my laptop."
"And we'd probably better take out the dog food too," said Claire. "They'll be hungry soon."
Mark opened the rear door of the car and took his laptop, then glanced at the fifty-pound bag of dry kibble. "I'll get the dog chow later," he called out. "After we power up the shack."
Constructed for studying dogs in the habitat, the observation shack, a large rough-hewn cabin, stood just outside the inner fence. Thanks to an external well and an electric pump, the cabin had water. Electricity came via a gasoline-powered generator. The cabin had air-conditioning, indoor plumbing and a propane hot-water-on-demand system—that is, when anyone remembered to bring a fresh propane tank. It also had a clear line-of-sight to a distant transmitting tower, which made possible broadband Internet access by way of a roof-mounted parabolic antenna. There was no phone service but, when it wasn't raining, the shack was in cell-tower range.
Inside, video cameras, two computers, and a few pair of binoculars cluttered a large table drawn up to a picture window. A ratty sofa, a few folding chairs, and a cabinet supporting a hotplate, teakettle, and a table radio filled out the main room—the only room other than a small lavatory. There was a wood stove for heat and cooking—canned spaghetti and frozen dinners, mostly. But, being July, there was no stacked wood.
Mark went to the side of the cabin where an overhang protected the generator. "Damn," he said, eyeing the fuel gage with its needle hovering in the red. Not my problem. As he bent to pull the starter cord, he saw through the fence the pack of dogs staring at him. The dogs' white nodules gleamed in the sunlight. Mark felt himself shiver, wilting under the gaze of the set of dogs. Eight of the dogs were Black Belgian Shepherds, an intelligent breed. Since he'd not been able to tell them apart, he hadn't named them. He gazed at them, alert, silent, cookie-cutter identical like ceramic reproductions. Just one name would do for all of them.
Killer, stiff-legged and with less fierce-looking dogs flanking him on both sides, seemed to be the center, the focus, of the pack. Mark stared into those alert yellow eyes and tried not to hate the animal. He liked dogs, but not Killer. He'd never known the Pit Bull to be anything other than vicious.
Virtually hypnotized by those angry and intelligent-seeming eyes, Mark forced himself to look away at the generator. As he did so, he heard a loud, synchronized, single bark. It s
eemed a bark of triumph; he was the one who'd flinched; he was the one who'd broken off his gaze.
He pulled the cord and the sound of the generator's engine broke his trance. He kicked at the fence, setting off a ripple of motion along the nine-foot-high chain-link. "All right, get out of here," he yelled. The dogs did not move. Mark turned and stalked away to the front of the shack and then sped through the door, latching it behind him.
Claire, setting up the video camera, looked over at the door. "Expecting unwanted visitors?"
"You mean the latch?" Mark chuckled nervously. "Just habit." He joined Claire in setting things up: turning on the computers, dusting, taking the binoculars from their cases, making the coffee that Rottweiler would expect to have waiting.
"You know," said Mark as he called up a word-processing program. "I feel bad about Earl. I'm really fond of him." He loaded the observation log. "When this experiment is over, I'm going to adopt him."
"But after the..." Claire bit her lip.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Claire looked down on a blank page of her open lab notebook. "You shouldn't have named the dogs."
"The experiment can't last more than six months," said Mark. "That's when the batteries'll give out." He picked up a pair of binoculars and trained them out the window. "There they are. A very disciplined bunch of dogs. They look like they want something to hunt."
Claire also took up a pair of binoculars. "They're closer together than a normal pack."
"Probably the transceivers. They don't have much range so the dogs have to stay pretty close to each other." Mark zoomed in on the dogs. "Looks weird. A vicious pack of purebreds." He zoomed in further. "Miguel and Earl sure don't look like hunters." He panned to the side. "But Killer does."
Claire scanned the dogs. "Weiler said he uses purebreds so that the fibers can go to predicted places," she said, distantly, her concentration clearly on her observations, "and so the temperament and intelligence measurements on the dogs are more precise."
"Maybe. But I think it was just because he was able to sweet-talk the breed rescue clubs into giving him the dogs." Mark's hands shook with indignation. "The fraud!" He flipped on the image stabilizer switch. "I heard him tell one of the clubs the dogs would go to good homes." He lowered his binoculars and sighed. "Who knows? Maybe when this is over, they all will. Earl certainly will."
Claire lowered her field glasses as well, and gave the hint of a sad smile. "Who knows?"
Hearing the sudden revving of a powerful engine, Mark looked out the window on the opposite side. There, just outside the outer fence, sat a sleek, red sports car. "Rottweiler's here." Mark scowled. "Looks like he's waiting for us to open the latch for him—the lazy bastard."
Claire started for the door but Mark shook his head. "No. Let him do it himself."
About thirty seconds later, and after a few blasts from the car's horn, they saw Professor Weiler step out. Weiler opened the latch and, leaving the car where it was, sauntered through the gate.
Weiler, with his long, unkempt hair, looked like a sixties hippy or maybe an aging rock star: jeans, corduroy jacket, dirty brand-name sneakers. But under that veneer, as Mark well knew, there was a personality much like Killer's.
Claire headed for the cabinet. "We'd better get the guy's coffee for him."
There came the sound of approaching footsteps, the doorknob turning, and then a thud against the door.
"Oops," said Mark, darting to the door. He released the latch and Professor Weiler strode in.
"Have you two been doing something you shouldn't?" said Weiler with a toothy smile scarcely distinguishable from a leer.
"Always," said Mark, wisecracking to cover his repugnance.
Ignoring Mark's reply, Weiler crossed over to the observation window and looked out. "EC-26," he said. "In the pack?"
"What?" For an instant, Mark had forgotten the object of the exercise. "Oh, Earl. Yes. He's in the pack."
"Good." Weiler went to the nearest computer. "I think 26 might well bring the entity up to being self-aware." He gave a thumbs-up. "I can't wait to do sectioned brain measurements."
Mark sucked in a breath. "You'd have to kill the dogs to do that."
Weiler gave Mark a quizzical stare. "Yes, of course."
"But... But I thought we were only going to do MEG scans."
"Sectioning is necessary to test an idea that..."—Weiler broke eye contact—"that we've come up with. I've been thinking about it and agree; the electrical stimulation might well cause the growth of new cortical neurons."
"Are you going to put down all the dogs?" said Mark in a voice he knew must sound childish and pleading.
Weiler nodded. "Don't want to be accused of selective statistics."
Mark glared at Claire. She avoided his eyes.
"Hey, what's going on?" Weiler pointed out the observation window where the German Shepherd stood on its hind legs with forepaws resting on the gate, just under the lock. The Chihuahua, Miguel, stood on the Shepherd's shoulders, his tiny paws reaching through the fence-chain and fumbling with the lock's keypad. Several yards farther back, the rest of the dogs sat watching.
"My gosh!" said Claire. "It looks like he's trying to key the combination."
"That's why the dogs looked at me so intently when I opened the lock." Mark went to the cabinet and began to rummage. "There's a lock with a key in here somewhere." He found the lock and started for the door.
"No," said Weiler. "Wait! Let's see if they can do it."
"If the dogs get out," said Mark, "it'll be hell trying to round them up again."
Weiler kept his gaze on the dogs. "They'd still have to get through the outer fence."
"There's no lock on the outer gate," said Claire.
Weiler didn't respond. Claire and Mark exchanged glances, then both turned to watch the agile Chihuahua. The three of them watched the dog in silence.
After about twenty minutes, after countless tries, Miguel got the lock open. With a bark of triumph from all the pack, Miguel batted the lock to the ground. He leapt from the Shepherd's shoulders and then the entire pack rushed the gate and worried it open.
"Hot dog!" Weiler's hands went to the keyboard. "What a great follow-up to my first paper!" He squinted at the monitor. "Wait. This isn't my usual word processor."
Mark walked up behind Weiler and looked over the man's shoulder. "You can just exit X-Windows and invoke—" Mark stifled a gasp of shock as he saw, all but hidden by Weiler's mane-like hair, the white outline of a nodule against the base of his skull.
. "Invoke what?" Weiler twisted around to look at Mark. "What's the matter?" he said.
"You've... I saw..."
"Oh, you saw the nodule." Weiler laughed. "My ultimate experiment." He gazed at Mark, his expression suddenly intense, his eyes bright. "Just imagine it. To be another creature."
"But—"
"Don't worry," said Weiler, lightly, a look of amused superiority replacing intensity. "My nodule is different; it has a gain control and an off switch." He brushed aside his hair and played a hand lovingly over the nodule. "I was going to wait, but now, seeing how intelligent the collective has become, I'm going to do it—essentially, now." He stood from the computer. "I can write this stuff up later."
"How did you..." said Claire. "Who would have even dared such an operation on a human being?"
Weiler uttered a humorless laugh. "What charming innocence. You have no idea what a person would do to get his name associated with a scientific breakthrough like this."
He walked to the front window and looked out. The pack was in front now, nosing around Claire's car. "I wonder what's on their mind."
"They, it, probably smells the bag of kibble in the back seat," said Claire in a flat voice, looking not out the window, but at Weiler with a look of bewilderment
Weiler returned the gaze and said nothing.
Mark didn't care for the hungry look in the man's eyes. "Don't you think it might be better if you did this under a
controlled—"
"It's my decision," Weiler snapped. Then he smiled and raised a hand to the back of his head. "I do know what I'm doing."
As Mark watched, Weiler's expression transformed from amused condescension to wide-eyed astonishment and then to savagery.
Mark jumped back as Weiler—the new Weiler component of the collective—howled, the sound echoing and amplified from the pack without.
Standing frozen, muscles tensed, Mark had no idea what to do. From the corner of his eye, he saw Killer through the window. The Pit Bull's expression mirrored its owner's.
Weiler drew his lips back and exposed his teeth. He growled, bent to a crouch, and stalked toward Claire.
Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 2 Page 6
