I know.
How do you know?
I know, I know, I know! It raced around its cage, rattling the bars, shrieking,
and then it returned to face Yarbeck. Tear out my own eyes.
So you won’t have to look at yourself?
So won’t have to look at people looking at me, the creature had signed, and Lem
had pitied it then, deeply, though his pity had in no way diminished his fear of
it.
Now, standing in the hot June night, he told Walt Gaines about that exchange in
Yarbeck’s lab, and the sheriff shivered.
“Jesus,” Cliff Soames said. “It hates itself, its otherness, and so it hates its
maker even more.”
“And now that you’ve told me this,” Walt said, “I’m surprised none of You ever
understood why it hates the dog so passionately. This poor damned
twisted thing and the dog are essentially the only two children of the Francis
Project. The dog is the beloved child, the favored child, and The Outsider has
always known that. The dog is the child that the parents want to brag about,
while The Outsider is the child they would prefer to keep locked securely in a
cellar, and so it resents the dog, stews in resentment every minute of every
day.”
“Of course,” Lem said, “you’re right. Of course.”
“It also gives new meaning to the two smashed mirrors in the upstairs bathrooms
in the house where Teel Porter was killed,” Walt said. “The thing couldn’t bear
the sight of itself.”
In the distance, very far away now, something shrieked, something that was not
of God’s creation.
SEVEN
1
During the rest of June, Nora did some painting, spent a lot of time with
Travis, and tried to teach Einstein to read.
Neither she nor Travis was sure that the dog, although very smart, could be
taught such a thing, but it was worth a try. If he understood spoken English, as
seemed to be the case, then it followed that he could be taught the printed word
as well.
Of course, they could not be absolutely certain that Einstein did understand
spoken English, even though he responded to it with apt and specific reactions.
It was remotely possible that, instead, the dog did not perceive the precise
meanings of the words themselves but, by some mild form of telepathy, could read
the word-pictures in people’s minds as they spoke.
“But I don’t believe that’s the case,” Travis said one afternoon as he and Nora
sat on his patio, drinking wine coolers and watching Einstein frolic in the
spray of a portable lawn sprinkler. “Maybe because I don’t want to believe it.
The idea that he’s both as smart as me and telepathic is just too much. If
that’s the case, then maybe I should be wearing the collar and he should be
holding the leash!”
It was a Spanish test that appeared to indicate the retriever was not, in fact,
even slightly telepathic.
In college, Travis had taken three years of Spanish. Later, upon choosing a
career in the military and signing on with the elite Delta Force, he’d been
encouraged to continue those language studies because his superiors believed the
escalating political instability in Central and South America guaranteed that
Delta would be required to conduct antiterrorist operations in Spanish speaking
countries with steadily increasing frequency. He had been out of Delta for many
years, but contact with the large population of California Hispanics had kept
him relatively fluent.
Now, when he gave Einstein orders or asked questions in Spanish, the dog Stared
at him stupidly, wagging his tail, unresponsive. When Travis persisted in
Spanish, the retriever cocked his head and whuffed as if to inquire if this Was
a joke. Surely, if the dog was reading mental images that arose in the mind of
the speaker, he would be able to read them regardless of the language that
inspired those images.
“He’s no mind reader,” Travis said. “There are limits to his genius—thank God!”
Day after day, Nora sat on the floor of Travis’s living room or on the patio,
explaining the alphabet to Einstein and trying to help him to understand how
words were formed from those letters and how those printed words were related to