Eric Russell - Three to Conquer

“All right.” Leeming waved a hand toward the steel safe. “That’s not all we’ve got; it’s only half of it. We used the rest for a time-honored purpose: we tried it on the dog.”

“You mean you’ve actually squirted it into someone?”

“Yes—a dog, as I’ve said.”

Harper gazed at him defeatedly. In all his life he had never picked up a thought radiating from any of the lower animals. Telepathically, the dogs and cats, the birds and bees just did not exist.

“What happened to it?”

“It lived. It’s still living. Like to see it?”

“Yes, I would.”

The dog proved to be a black Labrador retriever, imprisoned in a heavy cage apparently commandeered from a circus or from some nearby zoo. The cage had a steel floor and heavy steel bars on all sides and across the top, also a sliding mid-gate by means of which the animal could be pinned in one half of its quarters while the other half was being cleaned, its food and water bowls replenished.

Noticing the approaching pair, the dog turned to face them, pawed at the bars, wagged its tail vigorously and emitted a pleading whine. A perfect picture of canine friendliness, it concentrated its attention particularly upon Harper, subjecting him to all the appeal of a pet-shop pup begging to be bought.

“Any comments?” inquired Leeming.

“If appearance is anything to go by, you injected it. with nothing more dangerous than water.”

“Within the limits of that condition, I agree; but can we place faith in appearances? You’ve said that you can recognize an actuality. Well, this dog is actual enough. So what is your diagnosis?”

“I can’t give one,” said Harper. “My power functions only with respect to a two-legged creature very much like myself, but less hairy.”

“H’m!” Leeming eyed the Labrador, which now was standing on its hind legs, forepaws against bars, and openly inviting Harper to take it out for a walk. He frowned deeply, said, “Notice how all its attention is on you, and how it is ignoring me?”

“That’s natural. I’d prefer me to you if I were a dog.”

“I’m not joking,” Leeming assured him. “I’m deadly serious.”

“Why?”

“We shot a dose of virus into that animal at noon yesterday. We did it in that cage, got out fast and watched results from this side the bars.”

“And what happened?”

“It behaved normally at first, licked the spot where we’d inserted the needle, wandered aimlessly around and threw us those looks of bewildered reproof which some dogs give when they think they’ve been kicked for nothing. After four minutes it collapsed and had a violent fit, during which its body jerked spasmodically, it foamed at the mouth and gave muffled yelps.”

“After that?”

“It recovered with surprising swiftness,” Leeming detailed. “It went ten times around the cage, examining every part of it and obviously seeking a means of escape. Finding none, it snarled at Balir, who happened to be standing nearest. It gave a display of ferocious hatred that had to be seen to be believed. Water or not, it certainly wasn’t the same dog as before.”

“It seems mild enough now,” Harper pointed out.

“I know; and that is highly significant, I believe. It raged against Balir, then it turned its fury upon me. For a couple of hours it gave a display of maniac enmity toward anyone and everyone who came in sight. The emotional reaction to entrapment, see?”

“Could be.”

“But after those couple of hours it changed character with the swift dexterity of an actor changing costumes between acts. The hatred vanished. The dog did its darnedest to ingratiate itself with Balir and put on so good a performance that he began to pity it. Knowing or sensing the effect, it redoubled its efforts to gain his friendship. However, Balir is a scientist. He refused to let himself be influenced by irrational sentiment; therefore he did not respond.”

“What did it do next?”

“It transferred its cajoling to me. I’ll admit without shame that I had moments of feeling sorry for it—until I remembered that my sympathy could be expressed in only two ways—namely, to get within reach and fondle it, which might be most dangerous, or to release it, which could well be downright disastrous. So I remained hard.”

“Is that all?”

“No. Early this morning it tried all its best tricks on Jim Calthorpe, who tends to its feeding. Calthorpe had been warned to use the slide-gate and keep out of the dog’s reach no matter what. He refused to respond to its overtures. Now it is picking on you in your turn.” Leeming glanced at the other and asked, “What do you deduce from such behavior?”

“Constructive thought,” Harper replied. “It has satisfied itself that escape is impossible without help; its only chance is to find a weakling who’ll co-operate. So it is testing the various candidates in order of arrival.”

“That’s what I suspect. But if we are correct, if it is being purposefully selective in its appeals, isn’t that just a bit too clever for the average dog?”

“I don’t know; I really don’t know. As I told you before, I am no expert on dogs. All I do know is that some dogs are alleged to be mighty smart, and quite capable of coping with moderately complicated problems. ‘Almost human’ is the conventional description for them.”

“Yes, but the exceptionally intelligent dog has developed its mental status almost from birth. It hasn’t acquired it all of a sudden, like being fitted with a new collar.”

“Well?”

“This particular animal was as average a specimen as you could find in a long day’s march. Now it’s better than average. It has jumped from Dog I.Q. 60 to Dog I.Q. 100 or more. That is somewhat alarming in view of the circumstances. It points to a conclusion we hoped you could confirm. We are going to have a difficult time proving it without your help.”

“There’s a satisfactory way out,” Harper suggested, “if anyone has the guts to take it.”

“And what may that be?”

“Knock off that hound, recover the hell-juice from it, re-squirt it into a human being and I can tell you positively whether or not you have tracked down and isolated the real cause of all the trouble.”

“Unthinkable!” Leeming said.

“Don’t talk silly,” Harper reproved. “How can it be unthinkable, seeing that I’ve thought of it?”

“You know what I mean. We cannot subject a fellow being to such a drastic test.”

“It’s a bit late for science to start taking count of moral consideration; the time for that was fifty years ago. Today, one more dirty trick will pass unnoticed. The public has become used to the idea that we’ve all degenerated into a bunch of guinea pigs.”

Leeming let that pass with no more than a disapproving frown, then said, “It might be all right if we could get a volunteer. But where are we going to find one? Would you offer your body for this?”

“I would not. And even if I were daft enough to submit, I would not be permitted to do so. Uncle Sam thinks me too precious to lose.” He tapped Leeming’s chest with a heavy forefinger. “And that fact alone suggests where you may get your experimental carcass—namely, from among those who aren’t precious, those whose loss won’t matter a hoot to anyone, even to themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are thugs in the death house waiting to be hanged, electrocuted or gassed. Offer any of them the one-in-a-thou-sand chance to gain release and watch him jump at it. Tell him that you want him to take a squirt. If he goes under-well, he’s facing death as it is. But if you can cure him, he’ll be given a pardon and freed. Maybe Old Whiskers will find him a government job as a reward for public service.”