Einstein Dog (6 page)

Bertrand set the table: one place for himself and one for his father. Professor Smith insisted on this formality. “We're a family,” he would say, “and families take their meals together.”

This arrangement seemed odd. None of Bertrand's friends ate as if they were in the dining room of the Ritz. He even knew some households where the kids ate in front of the computer while the parents watched TV, and others where dinner arrived in cardboard containers.

What bothered him most about dinners with his father was the knowledge that there should have been another place setting, another voice, another presence in the room. Without Mrs. Smith at her end of the table, their etiquette seemed sad and ridiculous.

Bertrand secretly thought these thoughts, but the dinner routine at the Smith house wasn't about to change. It didn't matter that he would have preferred eating at the kitchen nook amid the jumble of the day's activities: the morning paper, his homework, stacks of letters.

He straightened his father's knife, aligning it with the spoon and fork on the placemat. All the condiments were in place, they each had a sparkling glass of water and the napkins were neatly folded; everything was ready for the night's meal. He glanced through to the kitchen, where his father leaned over the stove, peering into a bubbling pot. “Country Goulash,” Bertrand said and winced. It was one of his father's most dangerous concoctions.

“Smells good, Dad,” he said, and gagged.

“Mmmm,” Professor Smith said, breathing in some of the noxious fumes.

In truth, Country Goulash smelled like the bottom end of an old sock and looked like a ball of worms slathered in muck. As for texture: spaghetti sauce liberally sprinkled with sand would about describe it. Disgusting!

A formal setting for such a meal seemed a joke! Bertrand might have laughed, too, except the third presence at their table, the one who was there but wasn't, forbade it. Professor Smith's concoctions were nothing like the elegant suppers they'd had when Bertrand's mother had been alive. How could you compare Country Goulash to Duck Mediterranean, or Crown Roast, or Veal Parmigiana? But Professor Smith tried, and it would have grieved him if Bertrand showed the slightest resentment when it came to the solemn ritual of family dinners.

The
schlurp, schlurp
of a ladle scooping out their servings signaled it was time to sit down. “There we are,” his father said, breezing into the room, dropping off Bertrand's steaming plate on the way by. “
Bon appétit!
” he saluted.

“Thanks, Dad,” Bertrand answered doubtfully.

“It's a healthy meal, son. Why I dare say, every nutrient the human organism needs to survive is represented on that plate.”

Too bad it's inedible, Bertrand thought, digging into the mess with his fork.

They ate in silence, Professor Smith apparently savouring each mouthful, Bertrand swallowing hard. It wasn't until they could almost see the bottoms of their plates that Professor Smith coughed in an important-sounding way. “Bertrand?” he said.

“Yes Dad?”

“I have some news I need to tell you about SMART 73”

“She's coming home?” Bertrand said excitedly.

“Not right away,” Professor Smith cautioned, laying down his knife and fork and dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “There's been an unexpected development at the university.”

“What kind of ‘unexpected development'?” Bertrand mimicked angrily.

“Now son,” Professor Smith pleaded. “Remember what I said at the outset: SMART 73 belongs to the university and we shouldn't get our hopes up until we have reasons for optimism.”

“How long?” Bertrand demanded.

Professor Smith looked away.

“A week?”

Still no answer.

“Two weeks?”

Silence.

“A month!” Bertrand cried.

“Possibly a year or somewhat longer,” his father said at last.

“A year!” Bertrand gasped. He dropped his utensils with a clatter and stared at his father. “A whole year!” The incomprehensible word resonated like the aftershocks of an earthquake. “But I thought . . . ” He couldn't finish his sentence, choking as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I'm sorry son, but it can't be helped.”

“But why?”

Professor Smith sighed deeply. “The university wants to continue with the SMART Project, Bertrand. A partner has emerged to sponsor the research. We need SMART 73 . . . ”

“Libra!”

“All right, all right, Libra. We cannot release her until the next generation of SMART dogs has been born. She is to be their mother.”

“But . . . ”

Professor Smith waved his hands like a traffic cop, stopping Bertrand's outburst. “I have to continue with the research, son,” he said. “We're on the verge of some truly remarkable discoveries.”

“All you care about is your stupid experiment! You don't care about Libra one bit and you don't care about me either!”

“Bertrand! That's enough!” Professor Smith banged his fist on the table, making the plates and cutlery jump.

Blinded by his fury, Bertrand bolted, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He ran down the hall and upstairs to his room, slamming the door with wall-shuddering force. “I hate you!” he roared into his pillow. “You and your stupid experiment!”

Crouching by the Stafford Building side door, Bob inserted the AMOS Sonic Pick into the keyhole and waited for it to adjust the tumbler pins. A pulse of green light told him to go.

He twisted, the lock opened effortlessly.

“In,” he whispered, closing the door behind him.

“Come on!” Charlie's voice crackled in the headset. “We haven't got all night.”

Bob waited a second, scanning the hallway for any signs of activity. Nothing. The building was deserted; not a mad scientist in sight. He knew from Hindquist's surveillance video there were no motion detectors, so he didn't even bother to do an electronic sweep before moving in. Less than a minute later he'd entered the SMART lab.

“In,” he reported.

First the computer. A data transfer could take up to half an hour. He had to get that underway. Bob flipped the night vision goggles down for a better view, then moved quickly through the ghostly green light toward the far side of the lab. Hooking up the portable data pack took only a minute. It would crack any access codes, map the hard drive and duplicate it while he went about his other chores.

“Data transfer initiated.”

So far, so good.

“Clear,” Charlie responded. The reminder wasn't necessary, but Charlie could stand radio silence only so long. He had to let Bob know ‘Big Brother' was still out there, sitting in the AMOS van puffing on cigarettes and guzzling coffee from a thermos.

Next, the phone. AMOS had already tapped Professor Smith's residential phone and hacked its way into his home computer. The dossier on the professor and Bertrand was growing by the day as the surveillance team sifted through the steady stream of bank transfers, digital photos, web searches, phone conversations, and emails. The office bugs would add a new stream of information to the flow. By the time they were finished Professor Smith wouldn't be able to blow his nose without AMOS knowing.

“Phone sensor placed.”

“Clear.”

This was child's play. Triumph University needed to hire some security consultants, Bob thought. Maybe someday that would be a business he could get into. Work the other side of the fence. Go legit . . .

“Bogie!”

Bob froze. Campus Security was about to enter the Stafford Building, he guessed. Probably on a routine check; hopefully not because he'd triggered a silent alarm.

“Bogie at the front entrance,” Charlie repeated.

“Calm,” Bob breathed. “Stay calm.”

He scanned the room quickly for any signs of his own intrusion. The only indicators were the LED lights blinking on the data pack. A guard probably wouldn't notice them, but they were an alteration to the environment. Stripping a length of electrical tape off a roll he had in his satchel, Bob masked the data pack indicators.

That ought to do it, he thought.

The guard's footsteps clomped along the hall outside, heading his way.

“Shoot!” Bob hissed.

“What's going on?” Charlie wanted to know.

No time for chatter. Bob had to have a Plan B in case the guard decided to check the lab. The workbenches and tables offered some cover, but nothing that would conceal him from the probing beam of a flashlight. The only exit, aside from the hallway door, was into the kennel room.

If I can get in there, it would buy some time, Bob thought.

He padded over to the kennel room door and hunkered down beside it. As soon as he touched the knob the SMART dog inside would start barking, he figured.

Wait, his instincts directed. Watch and wait.

“What the hell's happening, Bob?”

Before Charlie could give them away entirely, Bob cut his brother off.

“Idiot,” he swore under his breath.

Watch and wait.

The footsteps outside paused at the door. Whoever was out there was listening, deciding whether or not to enter the lab.

Go away, Bob begged.

Some keys jingled. The lock rattled.

Now!

Deftly, he twisted the knob and shoved open the kennel room door, rolling inside and shutting it quietly. A soft growl greeted him, then an explosion of snarling and barking. Okay, Bob thought. It's okay. The guard would think the dog had reacted to him, not to an intruder.

Bob ignored the frenzied canine. A half-wall blocked the view between the last kennel cage and the room's back door.

He could hide there. He padded down the aisle, ducking into the refuge just in time. The kennel room door swung open and the
clump, clump, clump
of boots announced the guard's entry.

“What's up, girl?” a soft voice asked as the lights came on.

Jeez, Bob winced. This was going to make things
really
difficult. Plan C was to knock the guard out, finish the data transfer, recover the surveillance gear and get out. Hitting a man would have been bad enough, but at least you could pretend the guy was your aggravation of a brother. Bob didn't know if he could muster the nerve to clobber a woman.

“Why are you so upset?” the guard was saying. “Is something wrong, girl?”

If he rifled through a few files and drawers before he left, Campus Security might mistake the intrusion as a simple B&E — maybe a student looking for exam questions, or a thief. They wouldn't likely make a connection to espionage.

That was Bob's paramount concern: keeping campus security from discovering the true purpose of his mission. If it came down to it, he would have to strike, and strike hard, woman or not.

“Quiet down, will you?” the guard pleaded. But the SMART dog kept up its racket. “Okay! Okay!” she promised. “I'll check around, if that'll make you happy.”

Bob shrank farther back into the concrete bay, listening to the creak of leather and the tread of approaching boots. He coiled like a rattlesnake, ready to launch himself at her the moment the guard stepped round the corner.

Watch and wait, he breathed, as her footsteps came closer.

Suddenly the dog stopped barking and started whining instead, as if it couldn't stand being left alone for another moment. Bob recognized the sound. There could be no mistaking it: the SMART dog was calling the woman off.

The toe of her boot actually appeared beyond the wall before the guard stopped and responded to the dog's plea.

“What now?” she sighed, exasperated by the dog's odd behaviour. “I thought you wanted me to check the place out.”

A pathetic whimper echoed through the kennel.

“You're some strange puppy tonight,” the guard laughed, turning back and retracing her steps to the cage. “Sometimes I have to wonder just how smart you really are.”

She chatted with her canine friend for a while; obviously the visits were a routine part of her rounds. After a few minutes she said “Good night, girl,” switched off the lights and left, closing the door quietly.

Bob remained hidden until his heart stopped pounding, then stood and hustled up the aisle. As he opened the kennel door the dog growled: a low, soft warning. He turned, recoiling at the fierce eyes glowing in his night vision goggles.

“You didn't want her to get hurt,” he found himself saying. “I didn't want to hurt her either. Thanks.”

The SMART dog seemed to understand. She stopped her threatening rumble and sat on her haunches, staring. She was still staring as he hurried back into the lab to finish his night's work.

The New Generation

A
utumn made way for winter, winter for the blooms of spring. Five pups vied for the place of honour in Libra's womb: who would be firstborn? For two months she'd carried them. Today she would lick clean her sons and daughters, welcoming them into the world.