For the first time the few that were left realized the greatness of the race, saw for the first time the mighty works the hand of man had reared. And they tried to keep it going and they couldn’t do it. And they rationalized—as man rationalizes almost everything. Fooling himself that there really are no ghosts, calling things that go bumping in the night the first suave, sleek word of explanation that comes into his mind.
We couldn’t keep it going and so we rationalized, we took refuge in a screen of words and Juwainism helped us do it. We came close to ancestor worship. We sought to glorify the race of man. We couldn’t carry on the work of man and so we tried to glorify it, attempted to enthrone the men who had. As we attempt to glorify and enthrone all good things that die.
We became a race of historians and we dug with grubby fingers in the ruins of the race, clutching each irrelevant little fact to our breast as if it were a priceless gem. And that was the first phase, the hobby that bore us up when we knew ourselves for what we really were—the dregs in the tilted cup of humanity.
But we got over it. Oh, sure, we got over it. In about one generation. Man is an adaptable creature—he can survive anything. So we couldn’t build great spaceships. So we couldn’t reach the stars. So we couldn’t puzzle out the secret of life. So what?
We were the inheritors, we had been left the legacy, we were better off than any race had ever been or could hope to be again. And so we rationalized once more and we forgot about the glory of the race, for while it was a shining thing, it was a toilsome and humiliating concept.
“Jenkins,” said Webster, soberly, “we’ve wasted ten whole centuries.”
“Not wasted, sir,” Said Jenkins. “Just resting, perhaps. But now, maybe, you can come out again. Come back to us.”
“You want us?”
“The dogs need you,” Jenkins told him. “And the robots, too. For both of them were never anything other than the servants of man. They are lost without you. The dogs are building a civilization, but it is building slowly.”
“Perhaps a better civilization than we built ourselves,” said Webster. “Perhaps a more successful one. For ours was not successful, Jenkins.”
“A kinder one,” Jenkins admitted, “but not too practical. A civilization based on the brotherhood of animals—on the psychic understanding and perhaps eventual communication and intercourse with interlocking worlds. A civilization of the mind and of understanding, but not too positive. No actual goals, limited mechanics—just a groping after truth, and the groping is in a direction that man passed by without a second glance.”
“And you think that man could help?”
“Man could give leadership,” said Jenkins.
“The right kind of leadership?”
“That is hard to answer.”
Webster lay in the darkness, rubbed his suddenly sweating hands along the blankets that covered his body.
“Tell me the truth,” he said and his words were grim. “Man could give leadership, you say. But man also could take over once again. Could discard the things the dogs are doing as impractical. Could round the robots up and use their mechanical ability in the old, old pattern. Both the dogs and robots would knuckle down to man.”
“Of course,” said Jenkins. “For they were servants once. But man is wise—man knows best.”
“Thank you, Jenkins,” said Webster. “Thank you very much.”
He stared into the darkness and the truth was written there.
His track still lay across the floor and the smell of dust was a sharpness in the air. The radium bulb glowed above the panel and the switch and wheel and dials were waiting, waiting against the day when there would be need of them.
Webster stood in the doorway, smelling the dampness of the stone through the dusty bitterness.
Defense, he thought, staring at the switch. Defense—a thing to keep one out, a device to seal off a place against all the real or imagined weapons that a hypothetical enemy might bring to bear.
And undoubtedly the same defense that would keep an enemy out would keep the defeated in. Not necessarily, of course, but—
He strode across the room and stood before the switch and his hand went out and grasped it, moved it slowly and knew that it would work.
Then his arm moved quickly and the switch shot home. Far from below came a low, soft hissing as machines went into action. The dial needles flickered and stood out from the pins.
Webster touched the wheel with hesitant fingertips, stirred it on its shaft and the needles flickered again and crawled across the glass. With a swift, sure hand, Webster spun the wheel and the needles slammed against the farther pins.
He turned abruptly on his heel, marched out of the vault, closed the door behind him, climbed the crumbling steps.
Now if it only works, he thought. If it only works. His feet quickened on the steps and the blood hammered in his head.
If it only works!
He remembered the hum of machines far below as he had slammed the switch. That meant that the defense mechanism—or at least part of it—still worked.
But even if it worked, would it do the trick? What if it kept the enemy out, but failed to keep men in? What if—
When he reached the street, he saw that the sky had changed. A gray, metallic overcast had blotted out the sun and the city lay in twilight, only half relieved by the automatic street lights. A faint breeze wafted at his cheek.
The crinkly gray ash of the burned notes and the map that he had found still lay in the fireplace and Webster strode across the room, seized the poker, stirred the ashes viciously until there was no hint of what they once had been.
Gone, he thought. The last clue gone. Without the map, without the knowledge of the city that it had taken him twenty years to ferret out, no one would ever find that hidden room with the switch and wheel and dials beneath the single lamp.
No one would know exactly what had happened. And even if one guessed, there’d be no way to make sure. And even if one were sure, there’d be nothing that could be done about it.
A thousand years before it would not have been that way. For in that day man, given the faintest hint, would have puzzled out any given problem.
But man had changed. He had lost the old knowledge and old skills. His mind had become a flaccid thing. He lived from one day to the next without any shining goal. But he still kept the old vices—the vices that had become virtues from his own viewpoint and raised him by his own bootstraps. He kept the unwavering belief that his was the only kind, the only life that mattered—the smug egoism that made him the self-appointed lord of all creation.
Running feet went past the house on the street outside and Webster swung away from the fireplace, faced the blind panes of the high and narrow windows.
I got them stirred up, he thought. Got them running now. Excited. Wondering what it’s all about. For centuries they haven’t stirred outside the city, but now that they can’t get out—they’re foaming at the mouth to do it.
His smile widened.
Maybe they’ll be so stirred up, they’ll do something about it. Rats in a trap will do some funny things—if they don’t go crazy first.
And if they do get out—well it’s their right to do so. If they do get out, they’ve earned their right to take over once again.
He crossed the room, stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the painting that hung above the mantle. Awkwardly, he raised his hand to it, a fumbling salute, a haggard good-by. Then he let himself out into the street and climbed the hill—the route that Sara had walked only days before.
The Temple robots were kind and considerate, soft-footed and dignified. They took him to the place where Sara lay and showed him the next compartment that she had reserved for him.
“You will want to choose a dream,” said the spokesman of the robots. “We can show you many samples. We can blend them to your taste. We can—”
“Thank you,” said Webster. “I do not want a dream.”
The
robot nodded, understanding. “I see, sir. You only want to wait, to pass away the time.”
“Yes,” said Webster. “I guess you’d call it that,”
“For about how long?”
“How long?”
“Yes. How long do you want to wait?”
“Oh, I see,” said Webster. “How about forever?”
“Forever!”
“Forever is the word, I think,” said Webster. “I might have said eternity, but it doesn’t make such difference. There is no use of quibbling over two words that mean about the same.”
“Yes, sir,” said the robot.
No use of quibbling. No, of course, there wasn’t. For he couldn’t take the chance. He could have said a thousand years, but then he might have relented and gone down and flipped the switch.
And that was the one thing that must not happen. The dogs had to have their chance. Had to be left unhampered to try for success where the human race had failed. And so long as there was a human element they would not have that chance. For a man would take over, would step in and spoil things, would laugh at the cobblies that talked behind a wall, would object to the taming and civilizing of the wild things of the earth.
A new pattern—a new way of thought and life—a new approach to the age-old social problem. And it must not be tainted by the stale breath of man’s thinking.
The dogs would sit around at night when the work was done and they would talk of man. They would spin the old, old story and tell the old, old tales and man would be a god.
And it was better that way.
For a god can do no wrong.
Notes on the Seventh Tale
Several years ago an ancient literary fragment came to light. Apparently at one time it had been an extensive body of writing and although only a small part of it was discovered, the few tales that it contained were enough to indicate that it was a group of fables concerning the various members of the animal brotherhood. The tales are archaic and the viewpoints and manner of their telling sound strange to us today. A number of scholars who have studied the fragments agree with Tige that they may very well be of non-Doggish origin.
Their title is Aesop. The title of this tale likewise is Aesop and the tale’s title has come down intact with the tale itself from dim antiquity.
What, ask the scholars, is the significance of this? Tige, quite naturally, believes it is yet another link in his theory that the present legend is human in its origin. Most of the other students fail to agree, but so far have advanced no explanation which would serve instead.
Tige points, too, to this seventh tale as proof that if there is no historic evidence of Man’s existence it is because he was forgotten deliberately, because his memory was wiped out to assure the continuance of the canine culture in its purest form.
In this tale the Dogs have forgotten Man. In the few members of the human race existing among them they do not recognize Man, but call these queer creatures by the old family name of Webster. But the word, Webster, has become a common instead of a proper noun. The Dogs think of men as websters, while Jenkins still thinks of them with the capital W.
“What’s men?” Lupus asks and Bruin, when he tries to explain, can’t tell him.
Jenkins says, in the tale, that the Dogs must never know about Man. He outlines for us, in the body of the story, the steps that he has taken to wipe away the memory of Man.
The old fireside tales are gone, says Jenkins. And in this Tige sees a deliberate conspiracy of forgetfulness, perhaps not so altruistic as Jenkins makes it sound, to save Doggish dignity. The tales are gone, says Jenkins, and must stay gone. But apparently they weren’t gone. Somewhere, in some far corner of the world, they still were told, and so today we have them with us yet.
But if the tales persisted, Man himself was gone, or nearly so. The wild robots still existed, but even they, if they ever were more than pure imagination, are gone now, too. The Mutants were gone and they are of a piece with Man. If Man existed, the Mutants probably existed too.
The entire controversy surrounding the legend can be boiled down to one question: Did Man exist? If, in reading these tales, the reader finds himself confused, he is in excellent company. The experts and scholars themselves, who have spent their lives in the study of the legend, may have more data, but are just as confused as you are.
VII
Aesop
T H E gray shadow slid along the rocky ledge, heading for the den, mewing to itself in frustration and bitter disappointment—for the Words had failed.
The slanting sun of early afternoon picked out a face and head and body, indistinct and murky, like a haze of morning mist rising from a gully.
Suddenly the ledge pinched off and the shadow stopped, bewildered, crouched against the rocky wall—for there was no den. The ledge pinched off before it reached the den!
It whirled around like a snapping whip, stared back across the valley. And the river was all wrong. It flowed closer to the bluffs than it had flowed before. There was a swallow’s nest on the rocky wall and there’d never been a swallow’s nest before.
The shadow stiffened and the tufted tentacles upon its ears came up and searched the air.
There was life! The scent of it lay faint upon the air, the feel of it vibrated across the empty notches of the marching hills.
The shadow stirred, came out of its crouch, flowed along the ledge.
There was no den and the river was different and there was a swallow’s nest plastered on the cliff.
The shadow quivered, drooling mentally.
The Words had been right. They had not failed. This was a different world.
A different world—different in more ways than one. A world so full of life that it hummed in the very air. Life, perhaps, that could not run so fast nor hide so well.
The wolf and bear met beneath the great oak tree and stopped to pass the time of day.
“I hear,” said Lupus, “there’s been killing going on.”
Bruin grunted. “A funny kind of killing, brother. Dead, but not eaten.”
“Symbolic killing,” said the wolf.
Bruin shook his head. “You can’t tell me there’s such a thing as symbolic killing. This new psychology the Dogs are teaching us is going just a bit too far. When there’s killing going on, it’s for either hate or hunger. You wouldn’t catch me killing something that I didn’t eat.”
He hurried to put matters straight. “Not that I’m doing any killing, brother. You know that.”
“Of course not,” said the wolf.
Bruin closed his small eyes lazily, opened them and blinked. “Not, you understand, that I don’t turn over a rock once in a while and lap up an ant or two.”
“I don’t believe the Dogs would consider that killing,” Lupus told him, gravely. “Insects are a little different than animals and birds. No one has ever told us we can’t kill insect life.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Bruin. “The Canons say so very distinctly. You must not destroy life. You must not take another’s life.”
“Yes, I guess they do,” the wolf admitted sanctimoniously. “I guess you’re right, at that, brother. But even the Dogs aren’t too fussy about a thing like insects. Why, you know, they’re trying all the time to make a better flea powder. And what’s flea powder for, I ask you? Why, to kill fleas. That’s what it’s for. And fleas are life. Fleas are living things.”
Bruin slapped viciously at a small green fly buzzing past his nose.
“I’m going down to the feeding station,” said the wolf. “Maybe you would like to join me.”
“I don’t feel hungry,” said the bear. “And, besides, you’re a bit too early. Ain’t time for feeding yet.”
Lupus ran his tongue around his muzzle. “Sometimes I just drift in, casuallike you know, and the webster that’s in charge gives me something extra.”
“Want to watch out,” said Bruin. “He isn’t giving you something extra for nothing. He’s got something up his sleeve.
I don’t trust them websters.”
“This one’s all right,” the wolf declared. “He runs the feeding station and he doesn’t have to. Any robot could do it. But he went and asked for the job. Got tired of lolling around in them boxed-up houses with nothing to do but play. And he sits around and laughs and talks, just like he was one of us. That Peter is a good Joe.”
The bear rumbled in his throat. “One of the Dogs was telling me that Jenkins claims webster ain’t their name at all. Says they aren’t websters. Says that they are men—”
“What’s men?” asked Lupus.
“Why, I was just telling you. It’s what Jenkins says—”
“Jenkins,” declared Lupus, “is getting so old he’s all twisted up. Too much to remember. Must be all of a thousand years.”
“Seven thousand,” said the bear. “The Dogs are figuring on having a big birthday party for him. They’re fixing up a new body for him for a gift. The old one he’s got is wearing out—in the repair shop every month or two.”
The bear wagged his head sagely. “All in all, Lupus, the Dogs have done a lot for us. Setting up feeding stations and sending out medical robots and everything. Why, only last year I had a raging toothache—”
The wolf interrupted. “But those feeding stations might be better. They claim that yeast is just the same as meat, has the same food value and everything. But it don’t taste like meat—”
“How do you know?” asked Bruin.
The wolf’s stutter lasted one split second. “Why…why, from what my granddad told me. Regular old hellion, my granddad. He had him some venison every now and then. Told me how red meat tasted. But then they didn’t have so many wardens as they have nowadays.”
Bruin closed his eyes, opened them again. “I been wondering how fish taste,” he said. “There’s a bunch of trout down in Pine Tree creek. Been watching them. Easy to reach down with my paw and scoop me out a couple.”
He added hastily. “Of course, I never have.”
“Of course not,” said the wolf.
One world and then another, running like a chain. One world treading on the heels of another world that plodded just ahead. One world’s tomorrow, another world’s today. And yesterday is tomorrow and tomorrow is the past.