Fear Nothing

of communication.” He turned to Orson: “And I'm sure that you are every bit as interesting as the cats.”
        Panting, tongue lolling, Orson assumed an expression of perfect doggy vacuousness.
        “Listen, dog, you have never fooled me,” Roosevelt assured him. “And after your little game with the cat a moment ago, you might as well give up the act.”
        Ignoring Mungojerrie, Orson looked down at the three biscuits in front of him, on the table.
        “You can pretend to be all dog appetite, pretend nothing's more important to you than those tasty treats, but I know differently.”
        Gaze locked on the biscuits, Orson whined longingly.
        Roosevelt said, “It was you who brought Chris here the first time, old pup, so why did you come if not to talk?”
        On Christmas Eve, more than two years ago, not a month before my mother died, Orson and I had been roaming the night, according to our usual habits. He had been only a year old then. As a puppy, he had been frisky and playful, but he had never been as hyper as most very young dogs. Nevertheless, at the age of one, he was not always able to control his curiosity and not always as well behaved as he ultimately became. We were on the outdoor basketball court behind the high school, my dog and I, and I was shooting baskets. I was telling Orson that Michael Jordan should be damn glad that I'd been born with XP and was unable to compete under lights, when the mutt abruptly sprinted away from me. Repeatedly I called to him, but he only paused to glance back at me, then trotted away again. By the time I realized that he was not going to return, I didn't even have time to snug the ball into the net bag that was tied to the handlebars of my bicycle. I pedaled after the fugitive fur ball, and he led me on a wild chase: street to alley to street, through Quester Park, down to the marina, and ultimately along the docks to the Nostromo . Although he rarely barked, that night Orson flew into a barking frenzy as he leaped off the dock directly onto the porch-like afterdeck of the cruiser, and by the time I braked to a skidding halt on the damp dock planks, Roosevelt had come out of the boat to cuddle and calm the dog.
        “You want to talk,” Roosevelt told Orson now. “You originally came here wanting to talk, but I suspect you just don't trust me.”
        Orson kept his head down, his eyes on the biscuits.
        “Even after two years, you half suspect maybe I'm hooked up with the people at Wyvern, and you're not going to be anything but the most doggie of dogs until you're sure of me.”
        Sniffing the biscuits, once more licking the table around them, Orson seemed not even to be aware that anyone was speaking to him.
        Turning his attention to me, Roosevelt said, “These new cats, they come from Wyvem. Some are first-generation, the original escapees, and some are second-generation who were born in freedom.”
        “Lab animals?” I asked.
        “The first generation were, yes. They and their offspring are different from other cats. Different in lots of ways.”
        “Smarter,” I said, remembering the behavior of the monkeys.
        “You know more than I thought.”
        “It's been a busy night. How smart are they?”
        “I don't know how to calibrate that,” he said, and I could see that he was being evasive. “But they're smarter and different in other ways, too.”
        “Why? What was done to them out there?”
        “I don't know,” he said.
        “How'd they get loose?”
        “Your guess is as good as mine.”
        “Why haven't they been rounded up?”
        “Beats me.”
        “No offense, sir, but you're a bad liar.”
        “Always have been,” Roosevelt said with a smile. “Listen, son, I don't know everything, either. Only what the animals tell me. But it's not good for you to know even that much. The more you know, the more you'll want to know-and you've got your dog and those friends to worry about.”
        “Sounds like a threat,” I said without animosity.
        When he shrugged his immense shoulders, there should have been a low thunder of displaced air. “If you think I've been co-opted by them at Wyvern, then it's a threat. If you believe I'm your friend, then it's advice.”
        Although I wanted to trust Roosevelt, I shared Orson's doubt. I found it hard to believe that this man was capable of treachery. But here on the weird side