Irontown Blues

by John Varley

  I have seen all these things on the television.

  I finally got to the bottom of the stairs. Someday I would like a human who understands numbers to tell me just how many steps I went down. I would not understand the number, but it would be nice to know.

  At the bottom of the stairs, there was another door. This was not a doorknob door, but a good door. I could find my way past this door. I went to the place in my head and tried several things, but nothing happened.

  I tried more things, and still nothing happened. I wanted to sit down and howl at something. I have learned that dogs used to howl at the moon, but αChris and I live on the moon. So what could I howl at? This was a problem that I decided to set aside to think about later.

  The door was in a wall that was one wall of a corridor that stretched out in both directions on either side of me. I could not see the end in either direction. I knew I had to go one way or the other, but which way?

  I was half-blind and limping, but my very, very smart nose was still working as well as it always did. So I began casting back and forth, trying to pick up a scent that might help me decide which way to go.

  And I picked up the faintest, faintest . . .

  (Once again Sherlock enters into realms that I, or any human, can’t really appreciate. The way he thought of this faint scent feels to me like it might have been something like one molecule of αChris scent in a million, but it might have been a billion, or a trillion. I simply can’t quantify it. But whatever it was, it was only in one direction, which I believe was to the left, though Sherlock was sometimes a little vague about left and right.—PC)

  I set off after the scent. I did not know how a bit of αChris’s skin could have come through the solid wall beside me, but I knew that was what it was.

  There were lights in the ceiling, but not all of them worked, and some of them flickered. I did not like the flickering. It confused me. But I kept on, sniffing the air. The scent never got very strong, but it was there. I splashed through puddles and under drips from the ceiling. The water smelled of oil and very old concrete and rusting steel.

  I came to a ventilation grate set low, near the floor. It was hanging loose, but there was not enough room for me to squeeze through. I smelled αChris stronger coming from that air grate, so I squeezed through anyway. The edges of the grate tore at my skin. I smelled fresh blood. I do not like to smell my own fresh blood. It makes me want to run away.

  But I did not run. The scent was coming from the direction where I had just been. The corridor was just on the other side of the air duct. I had to duck my head and crouch a little to move along the duct. This was not easy with my sore paws and leg, but I kept going.

  I followed many turns in the air duct. The scent got stronger, then weaker. I turned back many times and turned into a different branch. I have a very good sense of direction, but I was getting confused. I tried to look at the map in my head, but this place was out beyond the edge of that map. I tried to find other maps, but I could not do that.

  The scent got even more faint. I had to inhale very deeply, and inhale many times, before I could pick up just a little of it. Then I could no longer be sure that I was smelling αChris at all.

  I finally entered a much larger air duct. One two three four five humans could have walked side by side along this air duct. And the scent of αChris got a little stronger. I tried to run in the direction of the scent, but I could not run. My legs would not take me any faster. I smelled more blood. But I kept going.

  (Here Sherlock’s memories get vague and jumbled again. If dogs can get delirious—the results are not completely in on that—he was getting punchy. His pain must have been intense. But his determination was even stronger.

  (And I must say that, much as I thought I knew the minds, the capabilities, of a CEC, Sherlock surprised me and deeply moved me. Because he showed me that CECs are advanced enough that they actually have a concept of death. It’s a confused and muddled one . . . but I could say the same of my own take on the conundrum of mortality. I suspect that, unless you are a deeply committed Presleyite or Mormon or Christian or Muslim, your ideas about death are pretty uncertain, too.

  (Here is the best I can do at decoding the thoughts that ran through Sherlock’s dog brain as he told me the story.—PC)

  I have been told that animals cannot understand death. I have been told that all animals flee pain, but it is just pain they are trying to avoid, not death. I have learned elephants visit the bones of their dead pack mates. That they seem to mourn them. But do they know that the dead elephant no longer exists?

  I have seen dead animals. They get cold, and they soon smell different. It is hard to understand that the dead animals used to be living animals. That they used to eat and breathe and shit. The dead animals had wants and needs, and now they do not want or need anything.

  I believe that animals can look at the dead body of another animal like themselves and maybe understand that the dead body will not move again. But I have learned that some animal mothers will hold on to their dead puppies for days. But others will abandon the dead puppy quickly. When an animal sees the dead body of an animal like themselves, do they understand that one day they will be a dead body, too? Everyone says no.

  Humans understand that one day they will be dead. I am a supersmart dog, and I understand that one day I will be dead, too. But it does not make any sense to me. How can I be a nondog? How can I be a non-Sherlock?

  I thought that I was dying. I did not want to die, but I did not have the strength to keep on living. I could not keep moving.

  My nose told me that I was deeper into Irontown than I had ever been before. There were new smells that I had never smelled before. But I was too confused to figure out what they were.

  I took deep breaths. I hoped that the deep breaths would bring life back into my body. But I was still too tired to get up.

  I could no longer smell αChris. I had no idea which way to go even if I could get up and walk.

  I took one more breath. I smelled the faintest trace of something stronger and more pungent than the smell of αChris’s skin. I knew I had smelled it before. I knew I had smelled it not long ago.

  It was the smell of knockout gas. It was the smell of knockout gas clinging to αChris’s clothes and skin.

  I lifted my head.

  I got to my feet.

  I set off to find the source of the knockout gas.

  seventeen

  “If I see that fucking dog again, I’m gonna kill it.”

  “Don’t talk like that. We had our orders.”

  “Yeah? Did you hear anyone warn us about the hound from hell? Did anyone mention that I might lose my balls?”

  “Shut up. The dog never bit you on the balls. It would have been a lucky bite, anyway. How would he have found them?

  “Very funny. You’re not the one who’s still bleeding.”

  “Don’t be a crybaby. You’re barely scratched.”

  “Barely scratched? Fuck you, Tom. That fucking monster bit right down to the bone. Soon as we get this joker squared away, I’ll show you.”

  “I think I’ll skip that great pleasure.”

  “Besides, who is it that stuck the knife into the dog?”

  “That was a mistake, I’ll admit it. He surprised me.”

  “You think it wasn’t a surprise to me, when he clamped down on my thigh, right up near the scrotum?”

  They went on like that for a while. They couldn’t seem to stop bickering.

  All I was getting was sound. I couldn’t seem to open my eyes. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, either. I was blind and paralyzed. I guess my ears were the first thing I got back because there is no muscle movement involved in hearing.

  I was scared. What had they done to me?

  * * *

  —

  I later learned their real names, but I w
on’t reveal those. Let’s just call them Tom and Jerry.

  I was being carried, with Tom at my feet and Jerry at my shoulders. I had all the strength of an overcooked noodle. I could feel myself flopping around uselessly. It’s a terrible feeling.

  I understand that back in the days when blindness was usually permanent, either from birth or disease or accident, blind people were said to have developed very sensitive hearing. I can vouch for that. Even having been blind for probably no more than ten minutes, I found that I could detect more things about my surroundings than I would have thought possible. Different spaces produce different reverberations. When I first woke up I was sure I was being carried down a standard corridor, possibly the very one I had traveled to get to the apartment where I had been gassed. That went on for a while, then we moved into a larger space. I’m not saying that my ears could tell me just how big it was, but I knew it was significantly bigger. There was background noise, but I couldn’t identify any of it except that I got the impression it was industrial.

  Then we were back in a corridor, and it felt like this one was narrower. Then we entered what I was sure was a room. Not a corridor, not a public space, not a factory. A room.

  I was thrown unceremoniously onto a soft, yielding surface. A bed or a couch. I managed to crank one eye open a little bit.

  “He’s coming to,” Tom said. I could see his head hovering over me, a blurry cartoon balloon with features badly painted on it. Or maybe it was Jerry. Then the other one leaned over me. Two cartoon balloons.

  “Hey, asshole,” the balloon said. “Don’t you know there are laws about keeping vicious dogs? I should have killed the damn thing.”

  “If you do,” I said, “I will skin you alive and throw the rest of you into a garbage compactor.”

  Or that’s what I intended to say. What I actually said was more like “Goo poo skurkle booty goo foo goo!” I could only hope that the tone of my voice made my meaning plain.

  “Screw you, too, asshole,” he said back.

  “Let’s get out of here. We got more work to do.”

  “Fine, as soon as I make a trip to the walk-in medico. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m feeling faint.”

  “Don’t you pass out on me; I’m tired from schlepping his deadweight. No way I’m gonna carry you.”

  And with that, the comedy team of Tom and Jerry left. I heard an old-fashioned key turning in an old-fashioned lock. And me without my handy private eye set of picklocks.

  I felt like crying. I wondered where I was. But that was secondary.

  Mostly, I wondered where Sherlock was.

  * * *

  —

  It was hours before I could get up and move around my prison cell. I spent them looking around, first by moving my eyes, then my whole head, then actually sitting up.

  I say prison cell, but it actually wasn’t all that bad. It was nothing like the cells you see in old film noir. It looked old. There were rivets holding the metal sheets together. The paint was battleship gray, and flaking off in places. Later, when I could get up and walk around, I tried picking at those places within my reach, but it was no good. The metal underneath was perfectly sound. I would need a cutting torch to get through the walls.

  Though still weak and woozy I got up and paced out the dimensions of my cell. It was an odd shape. Tom and Jerry had thrown me onto a bunk that would have looked right at home in a children’s camp cabin in one of the disneylands. It was the bottom bunk of three, and there were four other three-deckers around the room. There were twelve lockers, and a kitchenette with a microwave and a coffeemaker and a can opener and basic tableware in drawers. A small door, the only one that would open, led to a toilet, sink, and shower all squeezed into a small space.

  There was one peculiarity that it took me awhile to understand. The furniture and even the kitchen counters were built so that they could be removed and attached to the walls. The bathroom was mounted on a gimbal arrangement. It could rotate through ninety degrees.

  I was in a cabin on a spaceship.

  * * *

  —

  It took ten minutes to learn all there was to learn about my quarters. After that, time stretched out. I had very little to do.

  First, I satisfied myself that the door was not going to be opened with a harsh look. It was solidly set in its frame. It was a pressure door, fitting seamlessly into its rubber gaskets. I tried looking through the keyhole, but the lock was not that old-fashioned. There would be no through-and-through hole in a pressure door.

  I took a metal fork from the kitchen and tried probing the lock and ended up with a fork with a bent tine. I hadn’t held out much hope of opening it, but it was still discouraging.

  I couldn’t think of anything to do after that but sit on my thumbs.

  * * *

  —

  There was no way of telling how long I was there before I heard the door lock turn and the slight hiss of pressure equalizing.

  “Hey, you in there. Stand back from the door.”

  “Hey yourself. Let me out of here!”

  “Can’t do it, mate. You wanna eat, or not? It’s all the same to me.”

  I wasn’t really very hungry, but any change at all would be a good thing, so I stepped back to the far wall.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Questions, questions, questions. All in good time.”

  “Dammit, what are you going to do with me? Who are you? Where am I? Is this a spaceship?”

  “Still with the questions. Ask me what’s for dinner, I’ll tell you that.” He took the cover off the tray and the smells suddenly made me ravenous. I felt like I could eat a whole brontosaurus ham, and a side of ribs, too.

  “Cow steak smothered in hollandaise sauce and sautéed mushrooms,” he said, “with crispy deep-fried chips, a side of broccoli au gratin, chocolate milk, and a slice of key lime pie.”

  “Please thank the chef,” I said, with a sneer.

  “That would be me. Sorry about the milk, it was all I could find at the moment.”

  “Next time have a steward bring the wine list.”

  He turned and started to go. I had the tray in my hand, and I thought about hurling it at him and trying to make it to the door. He wasn’t a big guy, and I figured I could take him if I had to . . .

  . . . but I was still not at my best. Also, I’d like to have a better idea what was beyond that door. An empty corridor, or fifteen well-armed guards?

  Plus, I was really hungry. Get some food in me, and I’ll think about hurling the breakfast tray.

  “Hey, man, please give me a break. How long are you going to keep me in prison?”

  He turned back.

  “This is not a prison.”

  “Great. Then I’ll be leaving now, thank you.”

  His mouth twisted up a bit.

  “All right, you’re being detained. I really don’t know how long it will be.”

  “Okay. Where’s my dog? I’m sure I heard him just before you guys knocked me out. What happened to Sherlock?”

  Now he looked angry. He pulled up his pant leg and showed me some pink, freshly healed wounds. Some of them looked like tooth marks.

  “Your goddamn dog! He practically tore off my leg!”

  “He wouldn’t have done that unless you gave him a very good reason. You were kidnapping me, don’t forget that.”

  “‘Kidnapping’ is a pretty harsh word. It’s for your own good, believe me. One day you’ll thank us.”

  “Damn you, tell me what happened to my dog!”

  This time he looked a bit uncomfortable.

  “He was okay the last time I saw him. That is . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, we might have had to stab him a little, in the leg, to make him let go.” He actually shuffled his
feet a little. “Look, man, I’m a dog lover, too. I got a little Pomeranian, cute as the dickens. But what would you do if a huge hound like that was trying to kill you?”

  He actually had a point, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Look, man, just let me out. Okay? I promise I won’t go to the cops. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where I am. You can blindfold me and take me someplace and let me go. What could I tell them?”

  For a moment I thought he was thinking it over, but that was not to be. He shook his head and turned to go again.

  “What is your Pom’s name?”

  That stopped him.

  “Trixie.”

  “What would you think if you knew Trixie was out there somewhere, with a stab wound in her leg? How would you feel? My dog’s name is Sherlock, by the way.”

  “I’d feel terrible.” He sighed. “Look, Mr. Bach . . . I’ll put the word out to look for an injured bloodhound. That’s the best I can do. Maybe someone can catch him and treat him. But last I saw him, he was running away with his tail between his legs. I’ll bet he ran a long, long way.”

  That didn’t sound like Sherlock, but what did I know? The poor guy had never really been in a fight-or-flight situation. He might have run away.

  Tom went outside and shut the door behind him. On the off chance, I went to the door and tried the knob. I was not surprised to find it was locked.

  * * *

  —

  A prison cell with five-star cuisine. How crazy was that?

  A bit of an exaggeration, but it was all very good. Tom was a first-rate chef, I had to give him that. So what was he doing acting as a kidnapper and a jailer? Moonlighting?

  The walls closed in around me again. Eventually Tom appeared again, this time bearing eggs Benedict. With sides of hash browns, extracrispy bacon, a hot buttered English muffin, and a large glass of orange juice.