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 man.”
Twenty-four hours later, on Sunday evening, in Jim Keene’s surgery, Einstein was
tottering around as if he were a little old four-legged man.
Nora scooted along the floor on her knees beside him, telling him what a fine
and brave fellow he was, quietly encouraging him to keep going. Every step he
took thrilled her as if he were her own baby learning to walk. But what thrilled
her more was the look he gave her a few times: it was a look that seemed to
express chagrin at his infirmity, but there was also a sense of humor in it, as
if he were saying, Hey, Nora, am I a spectacle—or what? Isn’t this just plain
ridiculous?
Saturday night he had eaten a little solid food, and all day Sunday he had
nibbled at easily digestible vittles that the vet provided. He was drinking
well, and the most encouraging sign of improvement was his insistence on going
Outside to make his toilet. He could not stay on his feet for long periods of
time, and once in a while he wobbled and plopped backward on his butt; however,
he did not bump into walls or walk in circles.
Yesterday, Nora had gone shopping and had returned with three Scrabble
games. Now, Travis had separated the lettered tiles into twenty-six piles at one
end of the surgery, where there was a lot of open floor space.
“We’re ready,” Jim Keene said. He was sitting on the floor with Travis, his legs
drawn up under him Indian-style.
Pooka was lying at his master’s side, watching with baffled dark eyes. Nora led
Einstein back across the room to the Scrabble tiles. Taking his head in her
hands, looking straight into his eyes, she said, “Okay, fur face. Let’s prove to
Dr. Jim that you’re not just some pathetic lab animal involved in cancer tests.
Let’s show him what you really are and prove to him what those nasty people
really want you for.”
She tried to believe that she saw the old awareness in the retriever’s dark
gaze.
With evident nervousness and fear, Travis said, “Who asks the first question?”
“I will,” Nora said unhesitatingly. To Einstein, she said, “How’s the fiddle?”
They had told Jim Keene about the message that Travis had found the morning
Einstein had been so very ill—FIDDLE BROKE—SO the vet understood what Nora was
asking.
Einstein blinked at her, then looked at the letters, blinked at her again,
sniffed the letters, and she was getting a sick feeling in her stomach when,
suddenly, he began to choose tiles and push them around with his nose.
FIDDLE JUST OUT OF TUNE.
Travis shuddered as if the dread he had contained was a powerful electric charge
that had leapt out of him in an instant. He said, “Thank God, thank you God,”