Einstein Dog

by Craig Spence

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, son?”

  “When can we bring Libra home?”

  Professor Smith’s back stiffened and his spoon fell into the pot, requiring him to dig around in the cutlery drawer for another.

  “Dad?” Bertrand nudged.

  “Oh. Umm. I don’t know yet, Bertrand,” Professor Smith mumbled. “I’m doing my best to get SMART 73 out, but it’s a ticklish business.”

  Professor Smith had almost fished out the first spoon, but it slipped back into the pot, causing him to mutter under his breath. Here we go again, Bertrand thought glumly. How many times would they have to have this argument?

  “Why can’t she come home?” he pressed.

  “Bertrand! Please,” his father answered wearily. “We’ve been through all this before. There’s no point arguing. She certainly can’t come home tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  Sighing, Professor Smith shot him an angry glance.

  “We could bring her home just for the night, Dad, then you could take her back in the morning. No one would even know . . . ”

  “Bertrand!” Professor Smith groaned, giving up on the spoon and turning to face his son. “You must learn to think things through and not just blurt out whatever comes into your head. You know we can’t simply take 73. You know that!”

  “No I don’t!” Bertrand flushed.

  The professor bowed his head, summoning patience. He rarely raised his voice, and whenever he did it seemed to drain him. Bertrand sensed his father’s exhaustion and disappointment. He felt badly, pushing so hard, but Libra needed an ally. All he had to do was remember her, caged in that dark, lonely kennel, and his determination flared.

  “SMART 73 belongs to the university, Bertrand,” Professor Smith explained in a slow, deliberate voice. “Bringing her home without authorization would be theft.”

  “But we’ll return her!” Bertrand wailed.

  “It would still be a very serious breach, son. You know that. If anyone discovered we’d brought 73 home, I would face disciplinary action. She is a research animal and the effects of her getting loose into the general population would be unpredictable at best, and quite possibly disastrous.”

  “Libra wouldn’t hurt anyone. You know it. She makes the world a better place. She would make this house a better place.”

  Professor Smith sagged, leaning against the stove. “I’m sorry, Birdie,” he said. “I know how you feel, but . . . ”

  “No you don’t!” Bertrand exploded. “You just say that! You’ve been saying it for months now.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  Bertrand sulked, but the hurt in his father’s eyes stopped him saying more.

  “I said I would do my absolute best to bring Libra home,” Professor Smith explained. “You must remember that, Bertrand, and trust that I’m living up to my promise. I said I couldn’t guarantee her release, because the matter is outside my control. It’s up to the university, and getting anything through the university bureaucracy is like threading rope through a needle, I’m afraid. As for the idea of spiriting 73 home for evening outings . . . do you really want to take that chance?”

  Glancing away sullenly, Bertrand refused to answer.

  “Well then,” the professor continued, “I shall explain again that if such a breach were discovered, and there’s a high degree of probability it would be, it would destroy any hope of bringing 73 home for a very long time. The university administration would be forced to make an example of me. They might never release her into our care. I’ve explained all this before, Bertrand. You must understand.”

  Bertrand did, of course. But a part of him kept saying, “There’s got to be a way!” and blaming his father for not finding it. The university’s rules were idiotic. What harm could Libra do? She was the gentlest, most intelligent dog on earth.

  “What about this new grant, Dad?” Bertrand said. “Does that mean Libra will have to be a prisoner even longer?”

  Professor Smith didn’t answer. His mouth opened as if he were going to say something, but no words came out. He looked like a fish out of water. His confusion lasted only a moment, though, because a flash behind him cut short their conversation.

  “Dad!” Bertrand yelled. “Your stew! It’s on fire!”

  For a second, Professor Smith stared uncomprehendingly and then his eyes popped open in alarm as he spun to face the goop flambé that had erupted on the stove. “Oh, my goodness!” he cried.

  “The lid, Dad! Put the lid on it and move it off the burner!” Bertrand commanded, remembering the instructions from some pamphlet or other that had been handed out at school during Fire Prevention Week . . . if only there were similar, simple instructions for putting out disputes between fathers and sons, he thought. That would make life easier.

  On Monday morning, when Elaine arrived at the lab, Libra greeted her enthusiastically, pressing up against the cage and wagging her tail.

  “You want out, girl,” Elaine crooned in that peculiar, singsong voice humans used when they talked to their pets.

  They were interrupted by the clatter of footsteps outside and the sudden, breathless entrance of Professor Smith. Libra and Elaine both looked up, startled. The professor did not usually make such a noisy entrance, nor did he customarily scowl.

  “What’s wrong?” Elaine demanded.

  “We need to clean up,” he announced grimly. “And SMART 73 has to stay in her kennel this morning.”

  “But why?” Elaine protested.

  “Because our fearless leader, Dean Zolinsky, has invited our potential benefactor, Mr. Frank Hindquist, for a grand tour today! They’ll be here any minute.”

  “How could she do that?” Elaine objected. “She has to give us a little warning!”

  “Dean Zolinsky can do what she likes,” the Professor reminded through clenched teeth. “She is, after all, Dean of Biology at Triumph University. If she wants to phone one of her lowly academics at eight o’clock in the morning and inform him she’ll be bringing guests at nine, so be it.”

  Libra’s spirits sagged. She slunk back into her kennel and lay down with a grunt.

  “See what you’ve done with your shouting?” Elaine accused.

  “You’ve upset Libra.”

  “I’m not shouting!” Professor Smith shouted, “And I didn’t mean to upset the dog, but it is in our best interests to tidy up, don’t you think?”

  For a moment the Professor and Elaine glared at each other, then with an audible sigh Elaine began banging drawers and cupboards shut, muttering all the while about “that inconsiderate tyrant of a woman”.

  “I hate her,” she fumed after Professor Smith had gone back into the lab and she was alone with Libra.

  Her grumbling was cut short by Dean Zolinsky’s shrill, nasal voice reverberating on the other side of the kennel door. “Doctor Smith,” she gushed, “I would like you to meet our benefactor Mr. Frank Hindquist, President of Advanced Medical Operating Systems.”

  Elaine pursed her lips and pinched her nostrils into a passable imitation of Dean Zolinsky’s hawkish features. Libra smiled.

  “AMOS?” Professor Smith was saying. “I don’t know very much about your company, Mr. Hindquist.”

  “Frank,” a resonant voice corrected. “Call me Frank, Professor.”

  The hackles sprang up on Libra’s back and her lips curled.

  “What’s wrong, girl?” Elaine crooned.

  But Libra would not be soothed. The sound and scent of Hindquist seeping in under the lab door had aroused her most primitive fear, the fear of man.

  “We do keep a low profile,” the president of AMOS was saying. “We don’t make a lot of noise going about our business.”

  “Which is?”

  “Looking for cures, Professor,” Hindquist responded. “Developing medical technology that has the potential to improve the quality of life.”

  “The SMART Project is a long, long way from applied technology, Frank,” Professor Smith obse
rved. “It’s purely academic research. You realize that?”

  “AMOS is known for being at the cutting edge, Professor. We often see applications for purely academic research. When we identify these kinds of possibilities, we support the research. It’s that simple, really.”

  “What possibilities do you see in Sequenced Mental Acceleration, Frank?” Professor Smith inquired.

  “I’m a little uncertain myself, when it comes to the science,” Hindquist confessed, warming to his topic. “But my advisors tell me it may be possible to develop cures for some human ailments through a process they call cell farming.”

  “Cell farming?” Professor Smith echoed.

  “Yes. Growing cells outside the body, which are genetically modified to produce helpful medicines. The altered cells cannot survive on their own because they are not part of a living organism, but the chemicals they produce can be used to treat a wide range of ailments.”

  “I still don’t see the SMART connection,” Professor Smith said, frowning.

  “Your SMART dogs think more quickly because you have genetically increased the levels of neurotransmitters in their brains. If we could grow those cells in a cultured medium we could extract medicines that would increase the brain function of humans.”

  Another long silence followed.

  Genetic engineering! Elaine muffled a gasp.

  “It’s not really genetic engineering,” Hindquist said as if he’d overheard her thoughts. “The farmed cells could never survive outside the laboratory, so they could never enter the gene pool. I don’t think any ethical objections could be raised on those grounds.”

  Libra shifted slightly so she could see into the lab through the glass panel in the kennel door. There stood Professor Smith, his gaunt, grizzled head visible over the shoulders of Frank Hindquist and Dean Zolinsky. His glasses were somewhat askew, as usual; his bright blue eyes flicked back and forth between the visitors.

  “Are you serious?” he said at last.

  “Alex!” Dean Zolinsky squawked.

  “Very serious,” Hindquist answered smoothly. “One million dollars serious.”

  “A million dollars!” Professor Smith croaked. Then he frowned. “What is it you want from me?” he asked suspiciously.

  “There are no strings attached, Professor” Hindquist assured, “All I ask is that AMOS be informed as you continue with the next stage of your project.”

  “Next stage?”

  “Yes,” Hindquist said excitedly. “Dean Zolinsky tells me you are on the verge of developing a truly spectacular leap in canine intelligence, that your next trials could produce dogs as intelligent as chimpanzees.”

  Chimpanzees! Libra yiped indignantly. How dare he!

  Humans! she growled, anger tightening her gut just as Professor Smith and his entourage barged into the kennel.

  “Ah!” the man named Hindquist was saying, his eyes locking on Libra in a predatory gaze. “So this is our SMART dog, is it?”

  “Number 73,” Professor Smith confirmed.

  The scent of Hindquist was overwhelming. Libra snarled and lunged, crushing her nose against the restraining mesh of her cage.

  “Libra!” Elaine shouted.

  Startled, Hindquist rolled backwards onto the concrete floor, but righted himself expertly, squaring off in a fighter’s crouch. He would never be taken off guard again, Libra realized, ashamed of herself. She had behaved stupidly.

  Libra was vaguely aware of something else, something that constricted her heart with terror and confusion: the man, Hindquist, was reading her thoughts the same way Bertrand could. Hinquist could communicate in Dog.

  “Well,” Hindquist chuckled, brushing himself off, “I know at least one member of your team who doesn’t want my money.”

  “She’s never done that before,” Elaine apologized. “Lib . . . SMART 73 is the most gentle, playful dog you could ever ask for.”

  “And apparently quite unpredictable,” Dean Zolinsky put in angrily. “I have seen this animal loose on Campus Green. You must make sure she is restrained at all times from now on.”

  “But . . . ”

  “At all times!” the dean snapped. “I can’t imagine the uproar if one of our experimental animals were to maul someone. The damage to our reputation would be irreparable.”

  “But . . . ”

  “No buts!” the dean cut Elaine off.

  Dejected, Libra retreated to the back of her kennel, circled a couple of times, and then lay down with a sigh. Freedom, she believed, had just slipped out of reach.

  Hindquist leaned back in his chair and laughed. The dog was smarter than her creators. She knew an enemy when she saw one. “But that won’t make any difference, Fido,” he mocked the playback of Libra lunging at him. “You will still serve my purposes and the purposes of the Global Council.”

  He’d filmed Professor Smith’s lab using a tiny built-in watch camera, recording the layout, types of locks on the doors, positioning of computers, file cabinets, everything they would need to know later in the operation. The attack footage came as a bonus. Hindquist watched once more as Libra skulked away to the far corner of her pen and lay down, defeated. Then he switched the recording off. He had other things to do.

  Punching a button on the console by his desk, he activated a call to the AMOS Research & Development Department. The computer screen switched views.

  “Doctor Molar,” he summoned.

  A short, pudgy fellow in a crisp white lab coat peered into the camera over a clutter of beakers and tangle of tubes. “Ah. Mr. Hindquist. What can I do for you?”

  “Fetch Charlie and Bob and come up to my office. We need to confer.”

  “Okay, Mr. Hindquist. we’ll be right up.”

  Again Hindquist punched some buttons, the screen dissolving back into the AMOS logo. ‘Aiming for a better world,’ it read. He snorted. It amused him, that absurd phrase. A ‘better world’ was one in which he and his friends on the Global Council had more money and power than anyone else.

  “Advanced Military Ordinance Supply,” he muttered, the top secret version of the AMOS acronym, “that’s what the real Frank Hindquist stands for.” He would use bumbling fools like Professor Smith, who failed to see the diabolical potential of their own work.

  Impatiently, he jabbed at the buttons on his console again. A message scrolled beneath the AMOS logo. ‘Satellite conference requested with Councillor Vladimir Petrovitch. Processing security clearances.’ A couple of seconds ticked past and the AMOS logo faded into the image of an older gentleman sitting behind an ornate desk in a drab office.

  “Councillor Hindquist! How are you?” Petrovitch boomed in his overly exuberant manner. “I trust the weather is better in your sphere of influence than here in Moscow.”

  Hindquist smiled obligingly. “We’ve been fortunate in this time zone, Vlad,” he said. “Indian summer seems to be lasting right through into winter this year. One of the benefits of global warning.” The two men laughed. “But on to business, my friend,” Hindquist prodded.

  Petrovitch squared his shoulders and folded his hands on the blotter in front of him. He looked straight into the camera, making eye contact from half a world away. “I suppose you want to talk about your dogs, Frank,” he said. “Am I correct?”

  “SMART dogs, Vladimir. Yes, that’s right.”

  “I really don’t think the Council has time for that, Frank. I don’t mean to be . . . well . . . dismissive, but we’ve got too many things on the go as it is. There’s the non-conventional weapons project, T-Network expansion and the East European Destabilization Plan, just to name a few. I hardly think our fellow councillors are in a mood to waste . . . er, spend time talking about dogs, even if your SMART dogs can do tricks, eh?” “I’m disappointed,” Hindquist responded bitterly. “I thought you’d understand.”

  “I do understand . . . ”

  “But you’re meeting with resistance,” Hindquist said hopefully.

  Petrovitch nodded gravely, his jowls sh
aking.

  “Idiots,” Hindquist muttered.

  “Now, now, Councillor. We mustn’t allow our little disappointments to disrupt the Fellowship of the Council. That would be disastrous. Unity and secrecy are our strengths.”

  “I know,” Hindquist grumbled. “But how am I going to get them to see the importance of this discovery? Intelligence-gathering and counter-insurgency have always been the weaknesses of empires. If the Romans had known where to apply their might, their empire never would have crumbled. Properly trained SMART dogs, equipped with the most sophisticated technology invented, could help us achieve global domination. They would be cheap, obedient, and capable of infiltrating just about any region. They could be our eyes, ears, and noses . . . ”

  “Not to mention our teeth,” Petrovitch chuckled.

  “Yes! Yes!” the councillor for America North cried, heartened by his colleague’s comprehension.

  “That’s all very well, Councillor,” Petrovitch said coolly, “but the others do not share your vision. In fact, and here I must caution you, they question your judgment.”

  “Then I must prove my point!” Hindquist shouted, banging his fist on his desk.

  Petrovitch shook his head. “You must be careful, Frank,” he warned. “Remember, we are at a critical stage. We cannot afford any missteps.”

  “Neither can we afford to sit on our hands when an opportunity presents itself, Vlad.”

  “So you intend to pursue this project?”

  “I do.”

  “You will be acting on your own initiative, then.”

  Hindquist shrugged, as if he were pleading guilty. “I hope to bring the Council round to my point of view,” he said. “I was hoping to have your support.”

  Petrovitch nodded curtly.

  “Does that mean I do have your support?”

  Before the Russian could answer, the screen flicked back to the AMOS logo. “Damn!” Hindquist cursed. If only the idiots could understand the significance of his find. If only!

  A beep jolted him from his frustrated daze. He switched on the link to the outer office. “Yes?” he grumped.

  “Dr. Molar is here to see you, sir. And the Gowler brothers.”