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
"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
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