by John Varley
If I could have smelled the fake Mary Smith, I would have known at once that she was not the original fake Mary Smith.
We went to the piss-and-shit place where she went in and did not come out. I soon picked up the faint traces of her scent. It was not easy, but I am a very good scenter. The trace was strongest by the air duct, so I sat down and looked at it.
I went to that place in my head where I store the things I stole from the places outside my head where such things are stored, and I found the signal that would open the grate. I scratched at it and it opened. I worried that αChris would think I had opened it by thinking about it, but he didn’t.
(And why would he? When something strange happens around you, is your first thought that your dog probably did it? I had to laugh.—PC)
He thought I had opened it by pawing at it. I think this was a clever thing for me to do. I am still learning how to be clever.
As soon as the grate opened, I hurried into the duct. I quickly knew in which direction she had gone. I started running that way.
“Sherlock, come back!” αChris said.
“Arf arf!” I said.
“What do you mean, no?”
I wanted to tell him that I just meant that I wanted to stay on the trail but I do not know how to say that to him. There are many things you cannot say by barking once for yes and twice for no.
“You just wait a minute,” he said, and got a thing out of his pocket that showed a map. I looked at it and saw that a little shape that looked like a dog was blinking off and on, off and on. The little dog thing, which I have learned is called an icon, did not look like me at all. It looked like a poodle. I do not look like a poodle. I would be unhappy if I looked like a poodle. Why do people trim poodles that way?
“This is you,” he said. I sniffed at the thing. “This shows where you are. This thing is too low for me to go very fast, so I’ll let you go, but you can’t go far. Okay?”
“Arf!” I said. I took off as fast as I could.
Not very far away the scent stopped. I was by another grate. I looked back and saw αChris looking down the duct at me. He had a small light that he had taken from his bag that he called his ditty bag. I do not know why it is called a ditty bag. I have never seen anything called a ditty and I do not think that αChris keeps any ditties in the bag. But he keeps many other things in there. Sometimes these things come in useful.
“Is that as far as the trail goes?” αChris asked.
“Arf,” I arfed.
“I’m coming down.”
The duct was just big enough that αChris could walk on his hands and knees and his back did not scrape the top of the duct. Humans are very bad at walking on four legs.
When he reached me I thought I might have to open the grate myself, but he felt around the edges of the grate with his hands. He swung the grate away from us and started to crawl through, and I crowded in beside him.
Then there was a shriek. I looked up and saw a woman looking scared as she looked down on us. I pulled my head back, and a hot wokful of General Tso’s chicken landed on αChris’s head.
* * *
—
After αChris stopped howling I tried to help by licking the places where he was burned. I did not know he could howl like that. It was good General Tso’s chicken, but it was not really chicken. My nose told me that it was bronto chunks. I have learned that bronto chunks are cheaper than chicken. I like both bronto chunks and chicken, but neither of them are as good as Bowser Bow-wow’s Bacon-flavored Doggie Snacks. If the Bowser Bow-wow company made Chicken-flavored doggie snacks I would try those, but I think I would like bacon better.
* * *
—
I knew αChris was hurt. I did not know how hurt. But it upset me. And then the woman who threw the General Tso’s chicken on αChris was throwing bunches of bok choy and chunks of tofu and a bowl of rice and a bowl of water chestnuts at me. I do not like bok choy or tofu. Water chestnuts are all right and I will eat rice if there is nothing else to eat.
But I do not think she was trying to feed me. I dodged as well as I could, but I was backed into a corner. I thought about biting the woman, but αChris told me to stay. So I stayed. αChris told me he could not see very well. His eyes were swollen shut. His face was very red. I tried to lick off more of the hot chicken but αChris said it hurt. I did not like to see him hurt, and I thought about howling. But I did not howl.
Then the bobbies came and they wanted to tie αChris’s hands together. I growled and snapped at them. I knew I should not snap at them, but I could not help myself. They backed off when αChris told me to be quiet, then they helped him stand up.
There was a lot of talking then, and I didn’t listen too much. I just wanted to be sure no one was going to put the things on αChris’s hands. I have learned that the things were called handcuffs.
Someone said he had decided he would not press charges. I did not know what that meant, but αChris stopped smelling worried, so I knew that pressing charges would be a bad thing. αChris offered to pay for the damages and the food the woman had thrown at him. I do not know why he would want to do that. Humans do not eat off of the floor, usually, and so they thought the food was ruined.
I do not understand why αChris would pay for ruined food. I thought of eating it myself, but I found out that I was not hungry. I was full. In fact, I was about to pop, which is something I heard αChris say once when he had finished a big meal for Christmas. Christmas is a day for eating until you are about to pop. On Christmas we eat strange things like cranberry sauce and a bird called a turkey. I think cranberry sauce is okay. I think turkey is very good.
I like Christmas. I do not know why we do not do it more often.
* * *
—
Some people came and put αChris on a bed that had wheels under it. I followed along beside them until we reached the mall. We both got into something called an ambulance.
I had never taken a ride in an ambulance before. The ambulance made a terrible howl, and people got out of the way. For some reason, I could not stop myself from throwing my head back and howling along with the ambulance. I do not know why. The people inside the ambulance and αChris made that barking sound humans make when they think something is funny. The word for it is laughing. I do not know why they thought it was funny. I did not think it was funny, and I am a dog who likes jokes.
* * *
—
We got out at a hospital. A hospital is like going to the vet, but for humans. I do not like going to the vet, but αChris says it is good for me. He says it will help me live longer. I want to live longer, so I put up with it. But I do not like it when the vet pulls back my lips and looks at my teeth. I really want to bite her. But I do not.
The human vet did some things to αChris’s face, and to some places on his arms and chest that were red and smelled burned. Before long the redness of the burned places went away, and αChris said he felt better now, and we could go. I was happy to leave. The smells in the hospital were very interesting, but they made me nervous.
* * *
—
We went home and αChris threw away the shirt that still had some General Tso’s chicken on it. I sniffed at it for the last time, and I wondered who General Tso was. He must have liked ginger, garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil, and vinegar. I do not like any of those things all by themselves, but in General Tso’s chicken they taste okay. I do not know why they taste bad by themselves, but okay when they are cooked. I will think about this tonight.
Then αChris said that healing burns took a lot of energy. I did not know what that meant, but I could see and smell that he was tired. I was tired, too, and about to pop. He changed into his pajamas and got into bed.
I do not know why humans put on different clothes to sleep in. I do not really know why they wear clothes at all unless it is cold. But it is never cold
in the city. It is cold in the Alpine disneyland. αChris and I went to the Alpine disneyland once. I liked the snow. I liked running through the snow beside αChris as he slid down a hillside on boards called skis. I did not like walking or running on ice. I could not stand up. Then αChris gave me some boots that stuck to the ice. I do not like boots, but it is better than sliding around on the ice.
When αChris began to snore I curled up on my rug. Thinking about snow, ice, cooking, chicken, Christmas, hospitals, and the way Mary Smith smelled, I went to sleep.
* * *
—
The next day we went back to the place where αChris was burned. I learned that it was a restaurant, which is a place humans go to have someone else cook their food for them. The name of the restaurant was the Lucky Loonie Double-Happiness No-MSG Garden.
I know what a garden is. It is a place with plants and flowers and dirt where you are not allowed to piss or shit. I know what happiness is. I do not understand what luck is. I went to the place in my head where I can ask about things, and the answer was that No-MSG is a word meaning “all-natural ingredients.” Sometimes when I learn what a word means I don’t really know any more than I did before I asked. This was like that.
The manager of the Lucky Loonie Double-Happiness No-MSG Garden was a small man who did not look happy to see αChris or me. I was not happy to see him, either. He was the one who said he would not press charges. αChris again offered to pay for the trouble we had caused. The manager held out his hand so they could do the thing humans do by pressing their thumbs together to exchange credits.
αChris has told me before that people are often surprised when he gives them “folding money” instead of thumbing them credits. Many people have never handled paper money, he told me. They are surprised that there still is paper money.
“Someday, Sherlock,” he once told me, “they will outlaw real money once and for all, and I will be fucked.” I understood that he did not mean fucking like sex, but fucked like “in big trouble.” I like it when words mean two or even three different things.
αChris spends a lot of time worrying about being fucked. He also tells me about things that are fucked up. That means bad. Then there is fucking this and fucking that and fucking the other thing.
Fuck is one of the best words I know. It means so many things! Ha-ha!
The manager, who was named Mr. Freberg-Wong-Tong, told αChris to follow him to the kitchen. Then he said that I could not come. αChris gave him some more money, and we went to the kitchen.
There were one two three four five people in the kitchen, cooking things. One of them was the one who threw the General Tso’s chicken at us. The manager talked to her, calling her “Pumpkin.” I did not know this word but I have learned that a pumpkin is a large orange squash. I have tasted other squashes and I did not like them much. I would like to smell a pumpkin. This Pumpkin was not large or orange. She was small, even smaller than the manager.
Pumpkin looked frightened for a moment, then held out her hand. I smelled the back of it. Now I would always know when Pumpkin was near. But I still did not know what pumpkin smelled like. Ha-ha! She rubbed the top of my head and scratched me behind the ears. I knew then that she liked dogs. I can always tell. I licked her hand, and she smiled. I tasted sweet and sour bronto. I like sweet and sour bronto.
The reason we were there is because αChris hoped that I might still be able to pick up the scent of the real fake Mary Smith, not the fake fake Mary Smith. I could have told him that it was too late for that, but I wanted to give it a try, anyway. And I did. There was none of her in the air or on anything else I sniffed.
“Any trace of her?” αChris asked.
“Arf arf.”
He looked sad. This made me sad, too. I wished I could pick up the scent, but even my wonderful nose has its limits. I wondered if we were at a dead end. αChris once told me that private detectives like us do not always solve their cases like Nero the wolf in his old books of fiction. I do not completely understand what fiction is. I do not know how something can be not part of the world. Or what humans call the real world. Is there more than one world? I have heard of places called Mars and Pluto. I think they are other worlds, but I do not know if they are real. And I do not know where they are. They are not on any of my maps.
If fiction is not real, does that mean that Lassie the collie and Toby the Bichon Frise are not real? I would be sad if they are not real. I will keep thinking that they are real. Why not?
I would like to meet Nero the wolf, though. I have never met a wolf.
(I decided not to interfere with Sherlock’s rejection of the idea of fiction. As he said, why not believe that Lassie is real? Toby, the famous actor Sparky Valentine’s Bichon, actually is real, of course, unless we are all characters in someone’s novel. Ha-ha, as Sherlock would bark.
(I did tell him that there was no wolf named Nero, though, and that Nero Wolfe was a fictional person, a private detective. I had to look that one up. The books were written centuries ago and are rarely read now. Then Sherlock wanted to meet the big fat detective, so it’s clear he still doesn’t get the idea of fiction.
(Sigh. I should learn to keep my nose out of Sherlock’s business.—PC)
The manager and Pumpkin made some noises at each other that I did not understand. It was not laughing, and it was not coughing, and it was not crying. It sounded like words, but I did not know any of the words. This made me nervous. I have learned that there are way, way, way beyond a shitload of words and that not all humans know all of them. But I had never heard so many words that I did not know.
I have learned that the manager and Pumpkin were barking at each other in something called Chinese. I have learned that αChris does not know Chinese words, either. I felt better when I learned that. I do not know why humans have so many words they cannot all understand. I thought I might think more on this, but then I decided I did not really give a shit.
After Pumpkin had barked at the manager for a while the manager talked to αChris for a while, barking words that I understood. I know that as a great private detective I should have listened to what the manager had to say, but I was distracted by Pumpkin’s offering me a small morsel like I had never seen or smelled before. It was almost the size of a chasing ball, but it had one two three four five six seven eight legs.
I have learned that the legs are called tentacles and the creature was called an octopus. After hearing so many Chinese words that I did not understand, I was happy to learn two new words. The octopus smelled of brine and tasted a little like a clam. I like clams. I am still thinking about the octopus.
So I did not hear what the manager was saying to αChris, but after he was through αChris was excited.
“Come on, Sherlock,” he said. “The game is afoot!”
Which is what he always said when he was on the trail of something. Which meant that I was on the trail of something, too. Whatever it was, it would not escape from the detective team of Sherlock and Bach!
“Arf!” I said.
eleven
I understand that, for the very oldest of us, the most important question you can ask them is “Where were you when you first heard of the alien invasion of the Earth?” I knew a few of the First Generation, but none of them well enough to ask them that.
For most of the rest of us, unless you are from Mars or Pluto, the question is “Where were you during the Big Glitch?”
Those words drop like heavy stones into my mind:
THE.
BIG.
GLITCH.
We all have our own stories about it, of course, and endless stories about the aftermath, which is still being felt.
Most of the people I’ve met who want to talk about it seem to think that their own personal experience of the Big Glitch would make an excellent article or movie. Once I get them to finally stop talking about it, I know even m
ore certainly that their stories fall into half a dozen general categories, and there is nothing at all remarkable about almost all of them. We are all the stars of own movie, aren’t we? For most people, the story was how scared they were while waiting to find out just how fucked we really were. Of how we tried to contact loved ones in a world suddenly, and largely without precedent, cut off from all forms of communication more sophisticated than shouting, and of how to survive it.
Sorry, folks, we were all terrified. Your story isn’t special.
There are so many compelling stories of heroism that only the most extreme were ever deemed unusual enough to be dramatized. You have probably seen a dozen of them if you are the typical viewer.
I have seen none of them, but I’m not typical.
There are some stories that claim to take us deeper into the inner workings of the Glitch. Some of these stories have been published in one way or another, and a few have actually been dramatized. They mostly concern the people whose job it was to bring the runaway train to a halt without totally wrecking the thing. They tend to be technical, but for those who can follow the technology, they are said to be real page-turners. A few of these stories are even believable, or so I’ve been told. Again, I haven’t read them.
The most popular of these accounts, and an almost totally nontechnical one because she is hardly more cyberliterate than I am, is the story told by Hildy Johnson, the former reporter for the News Nipple newspad. I gather that she claims a special relationship with the Central Computer that predated the Glitch by almost a year.
She believes she is one of the first people to get a hint that something was deeply wrong with the CC.
In her account, she tells of meeting with and becoming a member of the Heinleiners, that group of malcontents out in the Delambre Crater who figured so prominently in the disaster.
