“The one with the pants is a writer,” said the dog. “The one with the skirt is his wife.”
“What’s a wife?” asked the cow. He looked at Dorothy and leered. “I like skirts better,” he said. “Hiya, Babe.”
Elmo got up out of his chair, glaring at the cow. “Listen, you —” That was as far as he got. He dissolved into laughter, almost hysterical laughter, and sank down into the chair again.
Dorothy looked at him indignantly. “Elmo! Are you going to let a cow —”
She almost strangled on the word as she caught Elmo’s eye, and she, too, started laughing. She fell into Elmo’s lap so hard that he grunted.
The Doberman was laughing, too, his long pink tongue lolling out. “I’m glad you people have a sense of humor,” he said with approval. “In fact, that is one reason we chose you. But let us be serious a moment.”
There wasn’t any laughter in his voice now. He said, “Neither of you will be harmed, but you will be watched. Do not go near the phone or leave the house while we are here. Is that understood?”
“How long are you going to be here?” Elmo said. “We have food for only a few days.”
“That will be long enough. We will be able to make a new spaceship within a matter of hours. I see that that amazes you; I shall explain that we can work in a slower dimension.”
“I see,” said Elmo.
“What is he talking about, Elmo?” Dorothy demanded.
“A slower dimension,” said Elmo. “I used it in a story once myself. You go into another dimension where the time rate is different; spend a month there and come back and you get back only a few minutes or hours after you left, by time in your own dimension.”
“And you invented it? Elmo, how wonderful!”
Elmo grinned at the Doberman. He said, “That’s all you want — to let you stay here until you get your new ship built? And to let you alone and not notify anybody that you’re here?”
“Exactly.” The dog appeared to beam with delight. “And we will not inconvenience you unnecessarily. But you will be guarded. Five or I will do that.”
“Five? Where is he?”
“Don’t be alarmed, he is under your chair at the moment, but he will not harm you. You didn’t see him come in a moment ago through the hole in the screen. Five, meet Elmo and Dorothy Scott. Don’t call her Toots.”
There was a rattle under the chair. Dorothy screamed and pulled her feet up into Elmo’s lap. Elmo tried to put his there too, with confusing results.
There was hissing laughter from under the chair. A sibilant voice said, “Don’t worry, folks. I didn’t know until I read in your minds just now that shaking my tail like that was a warning that I was about to — Think of the word for me — thank you. To strike.” A five-foot rattlesnake crawled out from under the chair and curled up beside the Doberman.
“Five won’t harm you,” said the Doberman. “None of us will.”
“We sho won’t,” said the squirrel.
The cow leaned against the wall, crossed its front legs and said, “That’s right, Mac.” He, or she, or it leered at Dorothy. It said, “An’ Babe, you don’t need to worry about what you’re worryin’ about. I’m housebroke.” It started to chew placidly and then stopped. “I won’t give you no udder trouble, either,” it concluded.
Elmo Scott shuddered slightly.
“You’ve done worse than that yourself,” said the Doberman. “And it’s quite a trick to pun in a language you’ve just learned. I can see one question in your mind. You’re wondering that creatures of high intelligence should have a sense of humor. The answer is obvious if you think about it; isn’t your sense of humor more highly developed than that of creatures who have even less intelligence than you?”
“Yes,” Elmo admitted. “Say, I just thought of something else. Andromeda is a constellation, not a star. Yet you said your planet is Andromeda II. How come?”
“Actually we come from a planet of a star in Andromeda for which you have no name; it’s too distant to show up in your telescopes. I merely called it by a name that would be familiar to you. For your convenience I named the star after the constellation.”
Whatever slight suspicion (of what, he didn’t know) Elmo Scott may have had, evaporated.
The cow uncrossed its legs. “What fell we waitin’ for?” it inquired.
“Nothing, I suppose,” said the Doberman. “Five and I will take turns standing guard.”
“Go ahead and get started,” said the rattlesnake. “I’ll take the first trick. Half an hour; that’ll give you a month there.”
The Doberman nodded. He got up and trotted to the screen door, pushing it open with his muzzle after lifting the latch with his tail. The squirrel, the chicken and the cow followed.
“Be seein’ ya, Babe,” said the cow.
“We sho will,” the squirrel said.
It was almost two hours later that the Doberman, who was then on duty as guard, lifted his head suddenly.
“There they went,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” said Elmo Scott.
“Their new spaceship just took off. It has warped out of this space and is heading back toward Andromeda.”
“You say their. Didn’t you go along?”
“Me? Of course not. I’m Rex, your dog. Remember? Only One, who was using my body, left me with an understanding of what happened and a low level of intelligence.”
“A low level?”
“About equal to yours, Elmo. He says it will pass away, but not until after I’ve explained everything to you. But how about some dog food? I’m hungry. Will you get me some, Toots?”
Elmo said, “Don’t call my wife — Say, are you really Rex?”
“Of course I’m Rex.”
“Get him some dog food, Toots,” Elmo said. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s all go out in the kitchen so we can keep talking.”
“Can I have two cans of it?” asked the Doberman.
Dorothy was getting them out of the closet, “Sure, Rex,” she said.
The Doberman lay down in the doorway. “How about rustling some grub for us, too, Toots?” Elmo suggested. “I’m hungry. Look, Rex, you mean they just went off like that without saying good-by to us, or anything?”
“They left me to say good-by. And they did you a favor, Elmo, to repay you for your hospitality. One took a look inside that skull of yours and found the psychological block that’s been keeping you from thinking of plots for your stories. He removed it. You’ll be able to write again. No better than before, maybe, but at least you won’t be snow-blind staring at blank paper.”
“The devil with that,” said Elmo. “How about the spaceship they didn’t repair? Did they leave it?”
“Sure. But they took their bodies out of it and fixed them up. They were really Bems, by the way. Two heads apiece, five limbs — and they could use all five as either arms or legs — six eyes apiece, three to a head, on long stems. You should have seen them.”
Dorothy was putting cold food on the table. “You won’t mind a cold lunch, will you, Elmo?” she asked.
Elmo looked at her without seeing her and said, “Huh?” and then turned back to the Doberman. The Doberman got up from the doorway and went over to the big dish of dog food that Dorothy had just put down on the floor. He said, “Thanks, Toots,” and started eating in noisy gulps.
Elmo made himself a sandwich, and started munching it. The Doberman finished his meal, lapped up some water and went back to the throw rug in the doorway.
Elmo stared at him. “Rex, if I can find that spaceship they abandoned, I won’t have to write stories,” he said. “I can find enough things in it to — Say, I’ll make you a proposition.”
“Sure,” said the Doberman, “if I tell you where it is, you’ll get another Doberman pinscher to keep me company, and you’ll raise Doberman pups. Well, you don’t know it yet, but you’re going to do that anyway. The Bern named One planted the idea in your mind; he said I ought to get something out of this, too
.”
“Okay, but will you tell me where it is?”
“Sure, now that you’ve finished that sandwich. It was something that would have looked like a dust mote, if you’d seen it, on the top slice of boiled ham. It was almost submicroscopic. You just ate it.”
Elmo Scott put his hands to his head. The Doberman’s mouth was open; its tongue lolled out for all the world as though it were laughing at him.
Elmo pointed a finger at him. He said, “You mean I’ve got to write for a living all the rest of my life?”
“Why not?” asked the Doberman. “They figured out you’d be really happier that way. And with the psychological block removed, it won’t be so hard. You won’t have to start out. ‘Now is the time for all good men — ‘ And, incidentally, it wasn’t any coincidence that you substituted Bems for men; that was One’s idea. He was already here inside me, watching you. And getting quite a kick out of it.”
Elmo got up and started to pace back and forth. “Looks like they outsmarted me at every turn but one, Rex,” he murmured. “I’ve got ’em there, if you’ll co-operate.
“How?”
“We can make a fortune with you. The world’s only talking dog. Rex, we’ll get you diamond-studded collars and feed you aged steaks and — and get you everything you want. Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Speak.”
“Woof,” said the Doberman.
Dorothy Scott looked at Elmo Scott. “Why do that, Elmo?” she asked. “You told me I should never ask him to speak unless we had something to give him, and he’s just eaten.”
“I dunno,” said Elmo. “I forgot. Well, guess I’d better get back to getting a story started.” He stepped over the dog and walked to his typewriter in the other room.
He sat down in front of it and then called out. “Hey, Toots,” and Dorothy came in and stood beside him. He said, “I think I got an idea. That ‘Now is the time for all good Bems to come to the aid of Elmo Scott’ has the germ of an idea in it. I can even pick the title out of it. ‘All Good Bems.’ About a guy trying to write a science-fiction story, and suddenly his — uh — dog — -I can make him a Doberman like Rex and — Well, wait till you read it.”
He jerked fresh paper into the typewriter and wrote the heading:
ALL GOOD BEMS
daymare
IT STARTED out like a simple case of murder. That was bad enough in itself, because it was the first murder during the five years Rod Caquer had been Lieutenant of Police in Sector Three of Callisto.
Sector Three was proud of that record, or had been until the record became a dead duck.
But before the thing was over, nobody would have been happier than Rod Caquer if it had stayed a simple case of murder — without cosmic repercussions.
Events began to happen when Rod Caquer’s buzzer made him look up at the visiscreen.
There he saw the image of Barr Maxon, Regent of Sector Three.
“Morning, Regent,” Caquer said pleasantly. “Nice speech you made last night on the —”
Maxon cut him short. “Thanks, Caquer,” he said. “You know Willem Deem?”
“The book-and-reel shop proprietor? Yes, slightly.”
“He’s dead,” announced Maxon. “It seems to be murder. You better go there.”
His image clicked off the screen before Caquer could ask any questions. But the questions could wait anyway. He was already on his feet and buckling on his short-sword.
Murder on Callisto? It did not seem possible, but if it had really happened he should get there quickly. Very quickly, if he was to have time for a look at the body before they took it to the incinerator.
On Callisto, bodies are never held for more than an hour after death because of the hylra spores which, in minute quantity, are always present in the thinnish atmosphere. They are harmless, of course, to live tissue, but they tremendously accelerate the rate of putrefaction in dead animal matter of any sort.
Dr. Skidder, the Medico-in-Chief, was coming out the front door of the book-and-reel shop when Lieutenant Caquer arrived there, breathless.
The medico jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Better hurry if you want to look,” he said to Caquer. “They’re taking it out the back way. But I’ve examined — ”
Caquer ran on past him and caught the white-uniformed utility men at the back door of the shop.
“Hi, boys, let me take a look,” Caquer cried as he peeled back the sheet that covered the thing on the stretcher.
It made him feel a bit sickish, but there was not any doubt of the identity of the corpse or the cause of death. He had hoped against hope that it would turn out to have been an accidental death after all. But the skull had been cleaved down to the eyebrows — a blow struck by a strong man with a heavy sword.
“Better let us hurry, Lieutenant. It’s almost an hour since they found him.”
Caquer’s nose confirmed it, and he put the sheet back quickly and let the utility men go on to their gleaming white truck parked just outside the door.
He walked back into the shop, thoughtfully, and looked around. Everything seemed in order. The long shelves of celluwrapped merchandise were neat and orderly. The row of booths along the other side, some equipped with an enlarger for book customers and the others with projectors for those who were interested in the microfilms, were all empty and undisturbed.
A little crowd of curious persons was gathered outside the door, but Brager, one of the policemen, was keeping them out of the shop.
“Hey, Brager,” said Caquer, and the patrolman came in and closed the door behind him.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Know anything about this? Who found him, and when, and so on?”
“I did, almost an hour ago. I was walking by on my beat when I heard the shot.”
Caquer looked at him blankly.
“The shot?” he repeated.
“Yeah. I ran in and there he was dead and nobody around. I knew nobody had come out the front way, so I ran to the back and there wasn’t anybody in sight from the back door. So I came back and put in the call.”
“To whom? Why didn’t you call me direct, Brager?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant, but I was excited and I pushed the wrong button and got the Regent. I told him somebody had shot Deem and he said stay on guard and he’d call the Medico and the utility boys and you.”
In that order? Caquer wondered. Apparently, because Caquer had been the last one to get there.
But he brushed that aside for the more important question — the matter of Brager having heard a shot. That did not make sense, unless — no, that was absurd, too. If Willem Deem had been shot, the Medico would not have split his skull as part of the autopsy.
“‘What do you mean by a shot, Brager?” Caquer asked. “An old-fashioned explosive weapon?”
“Yeah,” said Brager. “Didn’t you see the body? A hole right over the heart. A bullet-hole, I guess. I never saw one before. I didn’t know there was a gun on Callisto. They were outlawed even before the blasters were.”
Caquer nodded slowly.
“You — you didn’t see evidence of any other — uh — wound?” he persisted.
“Earth, no. Why would there be any other wound? A hole through a man’s heart’s enough to kill him, isn’t it?”
“Where did Dr. Skidder go when he left here?” Caquer inquired. “Did he say?”
“Yeah, he said you would be wanting his report so he’d go back to his office and wait till you came around or called him. What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?”
Caquer thought a moment.
“Go next door and use the visiphone there, Brager — I’ll get busy on this one,” Caquer at last told the policeman. “Get three more men, and the four of you canvass this block and question everyone.”
“You mean whether they saw anybody run out the back way, and if they heard the shot and that sort of thing?” asked Brager.
“Yes. Also anything they may know about Deem, or who m
ight have had a reason to — to shoot him.”
Brager saluted, and left.
Caquer got Dr. Skidder on the visiphone. “Hello, Doctor,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
“Nothing but what met the eye, Rod. Blaster, of course. Close range.”
Lieutenant Rod Caquer steadied himself. “Say that again, Medico.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Skidder. “Never see a blaster death before? Guess you wouldn’t have at that, Rod, you’re too young. But fifty years ago when I was a student, we got them once in a while.”
“Just how did it kill him?”
Dr. Skidder looked surprised. “Oh, you didn’t catch up with the clearance men then. I thought you’d seen it. Left shoulder, burned all the skin and flesh off and charred the bone. Actual death was from shock — the blast didn’t hit a vital area. Not that the burn wouldn’t have been fatal anyway, in all probability. But the shock made it instantaneous.”
Dreams are like this, Caquer told himself.
“In dreams things happen without meaning anything,” he thought. “But I’m not dreaming, this is real.”
“Any other wounds, or marks on the body?” he asked slowly.
“None. I’d suggest, Rod, you concentrate on a search for that blaster. Search all of Sector Three, if you have to. You know what a blaster looks like, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen pictures,” said Caquer. “Do they make a noise, Medico? I’ve never seen one fired.”
Dr. Skidder shook his head. “There’s a flash and a hissing sound, but no report.”
“It couldn’t be mistaken for a gunshot?”
The doctor stared at him.
“You mean an explosive gun? Of course not. Just a faint s-s-s-s. One couldn’t hear it more than ten feet away.”
When Lieutenant Caquer had clicked off the visiphone, he sat down and closed his eyes to concentrate. Somehow he had to make sense out of three conflicting sets of observations. His own, the patrolman’s, and the medico’s.
Brager had been the first one to see the body, and he said there was a hole over the heart. And that there were no other wounds. He had heard the report of the shot.
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