Watchers

him, Thursday morning. I’ve been getting weekly updates of that bulletin for six months—and I’ve had three follow-up calls from the Federal Cancer Institute to make sure I’ll remember to examine any golden retriever for a lab tattoo and report it at
    Once.”
    “And have you reported him?” Nora asked.
    “Not yet. Didn’t seem any point arguing about it until we saw whether he was going to pull through.”
    Travis said, “Will you report him now?”
    His hound-dog face settling into an expression that was even more glum than usual, Jim Keene said, “According to the Cancer Institute, this dog was at the very center of extremely important experiments that might lead to a cancer cure. Says there that millions of dollars of research money will have been spent for nothing if the dog isn’t found and returned to the lab to complete their studies.”
    “It’s all lies,” Travis said.
    “Let me make one thing very clear to you,” Jim said, leaning forward in his chair and folding his large hands around his coffee cup. “I’m an animal lover to the bone. I’ve dedicated my life to animals. And I love dogs more than anything else. But I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of sympathy for people who believe that we should stop all animal experimentation, people who think medical advancements that help save human lives are not worth harming one guinea pig, one cat, one dog. People who raid labs and steal animals, ruining years of important research . . . they make me want to spit. It’s good and right to love life, to dearly love it in all its most humble forms. But these people don’t love life—they revere it, which is a pagan and ignorant and perhaps even savage attitude.”
    “This isn’t like that,” Nora said. “Einstein was never used in cancer research. That’s just a cover story. The Cancer Institute isn’t hunting for Einstein. It’s the National Security Agency that wants him.” She looked at Travis and said, “Well, what do we do now?”
    Travis smiled grimly, and said, “Well, I sure can’t kill Jim here to stop him—”
    The vet looked startled.
    “—so I guess we’ve got to persuade him,” Travis finished.
    “The truth?” Nora asked.
    Travis stared at Jim Keene for a long time, and at last said, “Yeah. The truth. It’s the only thing that might convince him to throw that damn wanted poster in the trash.”
    Taking a deep breath, Nora said, “Jim, Einstein is as smart as you or me or Travis.”
    “Smarter, I sometimes think,” Travis said.
    The vet stared at them, uncomprehending.
    “Let’s make another pot of coffee,” Nora said. “This is going to be a long, long afternoon.”
     
     
    Hours later, at ten minutes past five, Saturday afternoon, Nora and Travis and Jim Keene crowded in front of the mattress on which Einstein lay.
    The dog had just taken a few more ounces of water. He looked at them with interest, too.
    Travis tried to decide if those large brown eyes still had the strange depth, uncanny alertness, and undoglike awareness that he had seen in them so many times before. Damn. He was not sure—and his uncertainty scared him.
    Jim examined Einstein, noting aloud that his eyes were clearer, almost normal, and that his temperature was still falling. “Heart’s sounding a little better, too.”
    Worn out by the ten-minute examination, Einstein flopped onto his side and issued a long weary sigh. In a moment, he dozed again.
    The vet said, “He sure doesn’t seem much like a genius dog.”
    “He’s still sick,” Nora said. “All he needs is a little more time to recover, and he’ll be able to show you that everything we’ve said is true.”
    “When do you think he’ll be on his feet?” Travis asked.
    Jim thought about that, then said, “Maybe tomorrow. He’ll be very shaky at first, but maybe tomorrow. We’ll just have to see.”
    “When he’s on his feet,” Travis said, “when he’s got his sense of balance back and is interested in moving around, that ought to indicate he’s clearer in his head, too. So when he’s up and about—that’s when we’ll give him a test to prove to you how smart he is.”
    “Fair enough,” Jim said.
    “And if he proves it,” Nora said, “you’ll not turn him in?”
    “Turn him in to people who’d create this Outsider you’ve told me about? Turn him in to the liars who cooked up that baloney wanted flyer? Nora, what sort of man do you take me for?”
    Nora said, “A good