City

"It wasn't your grandfather's fault," said Grant. "He tried to. Agoraphobia is a thing that a man can't fight-"

Webster waved the words aside. "That is over and done with. It is a thing that cannot be recaptured. We must accept that and go on from there. And since it was my family, since it was grandfather-"

Grant stared, shaken by the thought that occurred to him. "The dogs! That's why-"

"Yes, the dogs," said Webster.

From far away, in the river bottoms, came a crying sound, one with the wind that talked in the trees outside.

"A raccoon," said Webster. "The dogs will hear him and be rearing to get out."

The cry came again, closer it seemed, although that must have been imagination.

Webster had straightened in the chair, was leaning forward, staring at the flames.

"After all, why not?" he asked. "A dog has a personality. You can sense that in every one you meet. No two are exactly alike in mood and temperament. All of them are intelligent, in varying degrees. And that is all that's needed, a conscious personality and some measure of intelligence.

"They didn't get an even break, that's all. They had two handicaps. They couldn't talk and they couldn't walk erect and because they couldn't walk erect they had no chance to develop hands. But for speech and hands, we might be dogs and dogs be men."

"I'd never thought of it like that," said Grant. "Not of your dogs as a thinking race-"

"No," said Webster, and there was a trace of bitterness running in his words. "No, of course, you didn't. You thought of them as most of the rest of the world still thinks of them. As curiosities, as sideshow animals, as funny pets. Pets that can talk with you.

"But it's more than that, Grant. I swear to you it is. Thus far Man has come alone. One thinking, intelligent race all by itself. Think of how much farther, how much faster it might have gone had there been two races, two thinking, intelligent races, working together. For, you see, they would not think alike. They'd check their thoughts against one another. What one couldn't think of, the other could. The old story of two heads.

"Think of it, Grant. A different mind than the human mind, but one that will work with the human mind. That will see and understand things the human mind cannot, that will develop, if you will, philosophies the human mind could not?'

He spread his hands towards the fire, long fingers with bone-hard, merciless knuckles.

"They couldn't talk and I gave them speech. It was not easy, for a dog's tongue and throat are not designed to speak. But surgery did it... an expedient at first... surgery and grafting. But now... now, I hope, I think... it is too soon to say-"

Grant was leaning forward, tensed.

"You mean the dogs are passing on the changes you have made. That there are hereditary evidences of the surgical corrections?"

Webster shook his bead. "It is too soon to say. Another twenty years, maybe I can tell you."

He lifted the brandy bottle from the table, held it out.

"Thanks," said Grant.

"I am a poor host," Webster told him. "You should have helped yourself."

He raised the glass against the fire. "I had good material to work with. A dog is smart. Smarter than you think. The ordinary, run of the mill dog recognizes fifty words or more. A hundred is not unusual. Add another hundred and he has a working vocabulary. You noticed, perhaps, the simple words that Nathaniel used. Almost basic English."

Grant nodded. "One and two syllables. He told me there were a lot of words he couldn't say."

"There is much more to do," said Webster. "So much more to do. Reading, for example. A dog doesn't see as you and I do. I have been experimenting with lenses – correcting their eyesight so they can see as we do. And if that fails, there's still another way. Man must visualize the way a dog sees – learn to print books that dogs can read."

"The dogs," asked Grant, "what do they think of it?"

"The dogs?' said Webster. "Believe it or not, Grant, they're having the time of their merry lives."

He stared into the fire.

"God bless their hearts," he said.

***

Following Jenkins, Grant climbed the stairs to bed, but as they passed a partially opened door a voice hailed them.

"That you, stranger?"

Grant stopped, jerked around.

Jenkins said in a whisper, "That's the old gentleman, sir. Often he cannot sleep."

"Yes," called Grant.

"Sleepy?" asked the voice.

"Not very," Grant told him.

"Come in for a while," the old man said.

Thomas Webster sat propped up in bed, striped nightcap on his head. He saw Grant staring at it.

"Getting bald," he rasped. "Don't feel comfortable unless I got something on. Can't wear my hat to bed."

He shouted at Jenkins. "What you standing there for? Don't you see he needs a drink?"

"Yes, sir," said Jenkins, and disappeared.

"Sit down," said Thomas Webster. "Sit down and listen for a while. Talking will help me go to sleep. And, besides, we don't see new faces every day." Grant sat down.

"What do you think of that son of mine?" the old man asked.