displeased him, the dog sneezed twice, shook his head so hard that his
long ears flapped loudly, and backed away from the door.
“Falstaff!” Toby hissed. Finally the dog padded to him through the
red light-which was the same kind of light you’d find in the engine
room of a starship, or around a campfire out on a lonely prairie where
the wagon train had stopped for the night, or in a freaky temple in
India where you and Indiana Jones were sneaking around and trying to
avoid a bunch of weird guys who worshiped Kali, Goddess of Death.
With a little encouragement, Falstaff jumped onto the bed. “Good
dog.”
Toby hugged him. Then in hushed, conspiratorial tones: “Okay, see,
we’re in a rebel starfighter on the edge of the Crab Nebula. I’m the
captain and ace Inner You’re a super-superintelligent alien from a
lanet that circles the Dog Star, plus you’re psychic, you can read the
thoughts of the bad aliens in their starfighters, trying to blow us
apart, which they I don’t know. They don’t know.
They’re crabs with sort of hands instead of just claws, see, like this,
crab hands, rack-scrick-scrack-scrick, and they’re mean, really really
vicious. Like after their mother gives birth to eight or ten of them
at once, they turn on her and eat her alive! You know? Crunch her
up.
Feed on her. Mean as it, these guys. You know what I’m saying?”
Falstaff regarded him face-to-face throughout the briefing and then
licked him from chin to nose when he finished. “All right, you know!
Okay, let’s see if we can ditch these crab geeks by going into
hyperspace–jump across half the galaxy and leave em in the dust. So
what’s the first thing we got to do? Yeah, right, put up e
cosmic-radiation shields so we don’t wind up full of pinholes from
traveling faster than all the subatomic particles we’ll be passing
through.” He switched on the reading lamp above his headboard, reached
to the draw cord- -“Shields up!”–and pulled the privacy drapes all the
way shut. Instantly the alcove bed became a cloistered capsule that
could be any sort of vehicle, ancient or futuristic, traveling as slow
as a sedan chair or faster than light through any part of the world or
out of it.
“Lieutenant Falstaff, are we ready?” Toby asked. Before the game
could begin, the retriever bounded off the bed and between the bunk
drapes, which fell shut again behind him. Toby grabbed the draw cord
and pulled the drapes open.
“What’s the matter with you?” The dog was at the stairwell door,
sniffing. “You know, dogbreath, this could be viewed as mutiny.”
Falstaff glanced back at him, then continued to investigate whatever
scent had fascinated him. “We got crabulons trying to kill us, you
want to go play dog.” Toby got out of bed and joined the retriever at
the door. “I know you don’t have to pee. Dad took you out already,
and you got to make yellow snow before I ever did.” The dog whimpered
again, made a disgusted sound, then backed away from the door and
growled low in his throat.
“It’s nothing, it’s some steps, that’s all.” Falstaff’s black lips
skinned back from his teeth. He lowered his head as if he was ready
for a gang of crabulons to come through that door right now,
scrackscrick-scrack-scrick, with their eye stalks wiggling two feet
above their heads. “Dumb dog. I’ll show you.” He twisted open the
lock, turned the knob.
The dog whimpered and backed away. Toby opened the door. The stairs
were dark.
He flipped on the light and stepped onto the landing. Falstaff
hesitated, looked toward the half-open hall door as if maybe he would
bolt from the bedroom. ..
You’re the one was so interested,” Toby reminded him. “Now come on,
I’ll show you–just stairs.” As if he had been shamed into it, the dog
joined Toby on the landing. His tail was held so low that the end of
it curled around one of his hind legs. Toby descended three steps,
wincing as the first one squeaked and then the third. If Mom or Dad
was in the kitchen below, he might get caught, and then they’d think he