Frederik Pohl The Worlds of George O

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alone, for it had no future but to fall into the widening circle of blight. Its present was no
than the dull state of transition from an active and fruitful past to a deadly, sordid loss o
value.
Finding a place to sleep was a problem here. This was no neighborhood where
gangs of delinquents roamed to meet and choose up sides to find their pleasure wher
was to be found. The neighborhood was old, but it was clean, and it looked clean, and
smelled clean. Just as there was no trash in the gutter, there was no crypt below the st
upholstered with cast-off blanket and mattress.
The lack of a ready-made pad did not bother Terry as much as it might have. He
not, of course, analyze his feelings about the matter. But the behaviorist would have us
situation to demonstrate the value of experience. Last night, in sheer fatigue, Terry had
found lodging when he needed it. Call it, if you must, luck. Today, he had survived a ho
environment; he had eaten, and he had maintained his freedom and, although his sens
direction was wrong, he felt that he had made progress.
Terry Lincoln, for the first time tossed out on his own, had passed his first twenty
hours in the jungle. And it has been said that a human, physically weak compared to hi
animal contemporaries, and poorly endowed with tooth, nail, claw, and grown-on fur co
can be dropped anywhere that life exists and emerge as master so long as he can sur
the first diurnal period.
Terry had never heard this statement. But in his mind tomorrow was a new day, a
since he d survived this one, he would survive tomorrow.
The hours of the night passed along, and with them went some of Terry s
self-confidence. Again, without his realizing it, he was almost desperate; he was forced
take his chance with what was available. He had no choice. He was forced by his
circumstance to make do.
Making do was chancy. Without a ready-made, under-the-stairs assignation-pad
preempt throughout the entire district, Terry was forced to seek an alternative. There w
many, none of them truly safe. The district was old in the years of the city; it sported th
houses of elder grandeur now on their way to seed or to be broken into half-sized room
mass dwelling. These relics of olden graciousness were equipped with the wide veran
with the broad swing, the chaise, glider, patio lounge, or sofa provided for the afternoo
evening relaxation.
It was a vagrant s choice. Terry could either go on, on, on and on until he droppe
he could take the chance of being found by a late homecomer or an early riser. The wo
was still not his to run.
So that night he slept on a chaise that was at least a generation older than he. Bu
was comfortable and clean.
* * * *
Terry s awakening was not at the hands of an irate householder, but of his own. As daw
grayed the sky, his internal alarm clock, set early to avoid the early morning discovery,
fast through subconscious anxiety. It rang long before there was any real danger of be
discovered by the normal citizen of the area.
He had been discovered by another. On the floor beside the chaise lay Beaureg
Beauregarde was a tired dog. He had been at his tracking without sleep since Pe
Hawley had shouted the order to find Terry, bring the kid to Understanding and return h
whole. Beauregarde was a loyal dog, and his master s order was dog s law. Then, hav
trailed the youth to this pad, Beauregarde used sensible logic to conclude that part two
the order could wait until both of them were awake. Having found Terry, Beauregarde t
time for sleep; it had been a long day for him, too.
But as young Lincoln began to stir, Beauregarde came wide awake. He yawned w
a splendid display of dog teeth, stretched fore and hind quarters, passed a forepaw ov
nose, and sat on his haunches, looking at Terry Lincoln. In fair imitation of Peter Hawle
frequent sally when finding one of Earth s misplaced, he asked, Terence Lincoln, I
presume?
Terry recognized Beauregarde for what he was: Terrestrial dog, and undoubtedly
here on Coleban as part of the Terrestrial Office. His own name, in the dog s modulate
whine and controlled growl, was quite recognizable to the youth, but the rest was wholl
even though the dog used a Terrestrial dialect quite close to Lincoln s own.
It was, of course, one thing to know that such as the intelligent dog existed and th
intelligent dog was a great help to his master. It was something again to meet one face
face. A bit puzzled how to begin, Terry nodded and said, I m Terry Lincoln, and some
I m lost.
The dog waved his plume and replied, I am Beauregarde. I belong to Peter Haw
the chief troublemaker in Coleban.
Beauregarde Peter Hawley the what ?
Sorry. You have not Understanding, said Beauregarde, speaking as slowly and
clearly as he could. I m Beauregarde. Peter Hawley is my master. Peter Hawley is the
Terrestrial agent here in Coleban. We work together. I er let s get out of here!
The simple phrases got through, and the urgency of the last one was quite clear.
Without asking why, Terry followed the dog out of the place onto the sidewalk; he foun
why a moment later when a man appeared on the spot they d left.
* * * *
How did you know? asked Terry.
Scent, said the dog. He smelled of trouble.
I didn t hear you....
I smelled him coming, said Beauregarde, as slowly and as clearly as he c
To add communication, the dog lifted his nose high and sniffed audibly. The communi
of sound and pantomime got through to Terry, who nodded.
It became evident to Terry that theirs was a one-way communication link. The do
had Understanding. He had not. Therefore the dog could understand him, but he could [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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