A Better Mantrap

CROSSING THE LINE

When Hewitt picked the dog up he got the impression it was slightly heavier than a real animal, but that might have been because it was still inert, a dead weight in his hands. He ran his fingers through the wiry hair, noting as he did so that the markings of a Lakeland terrier had been perfectly simulated. There was no doubt that the dog was very well made, but there was a lingering question in his mind as to whether it was worth a month’s salary. He turned the compact body upside down and gave it a tentative shake.

“It won’t rattle,” Burt Pacer said, from behind the commissary counter. “Fluid solenoid construction throughout. Just like real muscles.”

“I can tell it’s a good machine, Burt.” Hewitt frowned into the dog’s immobile face. “It’s just the money.”

Pacer smiled sympathetically. “We’re a long way from Earth.”

Hewitt nodded, wondering if the comment was meant to explain the cost of the little robot or to justify the extravagance of buying it. There were other things he and Liz could do with the money, and for weeks he had been stoutly rejecting the idea of getting a dog for Billy. The trouble with domestic budgets, however, was that they were sometimes required to accommodate items whose true value could not be reckoned in cash. Yesterday evening, for instance, Hewitt had stood at the rear window of his house and had watched his eight-year-old son scamper to the far end of the mowed plot which was their back garden. There had been nothing to stop Billy running on through the longer grass of the plain beyond, but the boy had come to a halt and had stood there, reluctant to advance into alien territories. The sight of the small figure – utterly alone, upright, probably thinking of friends he had left behind on Earth – had filled Hewitt with sadness. With the emotion had come uncertainty about the ambitions which had led him to subject his family to the rigours of the Ferrari Transfer, and he had reacted by deciding to enquire about a dog first thing in the morning. The memory of how he had felt at that moment resolved the conflict in Hewitt’s mind.

“Okay,” he said. “You talked me into it.”

“Right.” Pacer took Hewitt’s citizenship card and showed it to the computer terminal along with the dog’s specification tag. He worked with an airy casualness which was intended to remind people that he was a qualified electronics man and only helped out at the commissary on a voluntary basis, for the good of the colony.

His official ownership of the dog, now confirmed, prompted Hewitt to start activating it. He probed at the back of its skull with his fingertips, searching for the subcutaneous push-button which was mentioned in the instruction leaflet.

“What are you doing?” Pacer said with some show of concern.

“Trying to turn it on.”

“I thought it was for your boy.”

Hewitt was mildly surprised. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“It’s best if the prime owner is the one who activates the dog,” Pacer said. “His should be the first face it sees.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No joke, Sam. All our dogs are the same. We programme in a canine personality which causes each dog to fixate on one special owner.”

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” Hewitt said slowly.

“Oh, it’ll be friendly to everyone else in the family, but it’s important to have that one special relationship with the owner – that’s what the whole boy-and-his-dog thing is all about.” Pacer had forgotten to be nonchalant, and a note of evangelical zeal was creeping into his voice.

“I just wanted to make sure it works,” Hewitt said defensively. “I was going to switch it off again.”

“You can’t do that, Sam.”

“What? Why not?”

“The brain is too sensitive and complex for that sort of treatment. It can be wiped clean, of course, but it has to be done progressively, using special equipment.”

“What have I bought here?” Hewitt set the rodog down in a swath of sunlight which lay across the counter. The individual hairs of its coat gleamed brown and black and white. “It sounds like it’s going to be as much trouble as a real dog.”

“A piece of clockwork wouldn’t be much use to your boy,” Pacer commented, folding his thin freckled arms. ’Besides, there’s the security aspect – the way the dog is made, no stranger can come along and steal it and blank out its memory of the proper owners.”

“I must be mad,” Hewitt said as Pacer fitted the dog into its carrying case. “I can’t afford to pay eight hundred monits for a supertoy.”

“You can always bring it back.” Pacer closed up the plastic case and slid it across the counter. “If young Billy gets tired of it, or maybe you get another transfer, bring it in and I’ll give you a fifty percent refund.”

“Can you do that?”

“No trouble. We can wipe the brain clean and sell the dog to somebody else. There’s a big demand for this sort of product on Mesonia.”

“I may take you up on that,” Hewitt said. He lifted the case and went out into the bright mid-morning ambience of the street. This part of the colony had been in existence for eighty years and the maturing shrubs and ornamental trees outside the buildings created a sense of homeliness and permanence. Feeling the warmth of the spring air, Hewitt was glad he had decided to walk to the commissary building. He was tall for a colonist and he enjoyed the exercise of striding along the busy street in the direction of the southern residential development where he lived.

His route home took him past the arrivals and induction centre, which was a pyramidal structure whose architecture reinforced the dual-space properties of the pyramid-shaped receiving chamber at its heart. The number of vehicles parked outside it suggested to Hewitt that the null-space transmission conditions were favourable and that new colonists were being brought through. He could imagine them stepping out of the chamber, naked and hungry, stunned with the realization that they – in one instant – had left Earth and all its ways forty light years behind them. The Ferrari Transfer was psychologically brutal, as well as being fantastically expensive, but it was the only practicable form of interstellar travel that mankind had ever devised.

At least, Hewitt thought, inhaling the scented air, the newcomers are getting a good day for it.

As he walked up the long slope his views of the surrounding terrain became more extensive and he could see, stretching away to the west, the manufacturing areas which were supplied from the mineral-rich hills beyond. He was always impressed and stirred by the visible evidence of how the original cadre of pioneers, equipped with only a few basic machines, had managed to create a viable settlement on an alien planet. That was where the real challenge and excitement of colonization lay – in being in the first hundred, stepping out of the chamber on to virgin soil, living rough and working hard to pave the way for others. It was also where the big money lay. Tax-free quadruple pay for the first four years, with nothing much to spend it on, and – at the end of that time – prestige and a plushy engineering consultancy. As an expert on extraterrestrial soil mechanics, Hewitt was doing well on Mesonia – on a raw planet it was vital to know how much or how little in the way of foundations each costly new structure required. But he had arrived seven years behind the trail-blazers, when the bloom was off the cosmic grape, and his only chance of rapid advancement lay in the possibility that he might be selected for a later outward thrust.

Hewitt neared the end of the main road and turned in to the side avenue in which his single-storey house was the last one before the sea of grass began. Billy was sitting on the front step, alone as usual. The Company encouraged settlers with young families, for the simple reason that a child’s body had less mass than an adult’s and therefore could be transmitted far more cheaply. It was an economical way of getting future colonists into space. Few people who underwent the Ferrari Transfer liked bringing children with them, however, and the colony tended to be a lonely place for a boy of eight. Billy, ever watchful, saw Hewitt as he turned the corner and came running to meet him.

“Hi, Dad!” Billy fell into step beside Hewitt and took his hand. “What’s in the case?”

“Guess.” Hewitt had not said anything about going to look at a dog because his common sense might have reasserted itself in time to prevent the purchase.

“Well,” Billy said soberly, taking measured paces, “it can’t be a dog.”

“Can’t it?”

“Dad!” Billy looked up at him, his round face an absurd caricature of delight, and Hewitt experienced a pang of pure happiness. He handed the case to his son and almost laughed aloud with pleasure as Billy darted ahead and disappeared around the corner of the white-painted house. Hewitt followed at an unhurried pace and was met at the kitchen door by Liz, who was wearing a silver spark-suit which emphasized the blackness of her hair. The Saturday-morning aroma of coffee wafted around her through the open door.

“Thanks, Sam,” Liz said, pressing her cheek against his lips. “I know we can’t really afford it, but it’ll be so good for Billy.”

“It’s all right.” He drew her against him. “We’ll just economize on toothpicks and string and things like that for a while.”

“You’re crazy,” she said warmly. “Come in and have some coffee.”

“Okay, but I’ll show Billy how to get the dog going first.” Hewitt paused as he heard his son talking to someone in the living room. “Who’s in there?”

Liz looked apologetic. “Carl’s here.”

“Aw, Christ! This is supposed to be my day off.”

“I know, darling, but I can’t very well send him away when he calls at the door.”

Hewitt closed his eyes for a moment, then went through to the living room, suppressing his resentment over a family occasion having been invaded and spoiled. Carl Mendip was slightly older than Hewitt and was his immediate senior in the constructional engineering section. He boasted a lot about being able to bank most of his salary, and spent much of his off-duty time sitting in Hewitt’s favourite chair extolling the pleasures of bachelorhood. When Hewitt entered the room Mendip already had the dog out of its case and was handing it to Billy.

“Morning, Sammy boy,” Mendip said. These things aren’t worth the money, you know.”

“It was worth it to me.”

Mendip shrugged. “I wouldn’t have paid it.”

“Did anybody ask you to?”

“In a bad mood, are we?” Mendip examined Hewitt with calm amusement.

Hewitt stared back at him, trying to be impassive, wishing he had controlled his tongue. One man in their engineering section was likely to be transferred to Nimrod, a world which had been broached only recently. As the senior and most experienced man, Mendip had the best chance, but Company policy had dictated that he should also nominate a member of his section for consideration, and – with an unsubtle display of magnanimity – he had put Hewitt’s name forward. Ever since then the dominating factor in their relationship was that Mendip’s recommendation could be withdrawn by him at any moment. It was a yoke which Hewitt wore with increasing irritation even though he knew the situation was fairly temporary.

“Sorry, Carl,” he said, and turned his attention to Billy, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with the rigidlimbed dog in his lap. “What are you going to call it, son?”

“I think I’ll call him Bramble,” Billy replied.

“What a name!” Mendip gave a hoot of derision. “You can’t call it that.”

Billy looked puzzled. “Can’t I, Dad?”

“Bramble suits him very well and that’s what we’ll call him.” Hewitt moved in between the other man and his son and knelt down. He guided Billy’s finger on to the activating button and explained what he had to do. Liz came into the room at that moment and watched as Billy held the dog with its face towards him and depressed the button. There was no sound, but the rodog yawned as though wakening from a sleep, its eyes brightened into life, the short legs stirred slightly as they adjusted to distribute the weight, and the ribcage began to pulsate in a simulation of breathing.

“Bramble!” Billy spoke in a rapt voice. “Bramble!”

Bramble began to wag his tail.

In spite of himself, adult though he was, Hewitt felt a thrill of awe at the achievement of the robotics engineers. “Set him down and go into the kitchen and see if he’ll come to you,” he said.

Billy put the dog on the floor, backed away from it until he was out of sight in the kitchen and called its name. Bramble wagged his tail, then bounded across the room and skidded into the kitchen with the exuberant clumsiness of a real pup. Billy reappeared with the dog clutched to his chest and a beatific expression on his face.

“Can I take him outside, Dad?”

“All right, but don’t go far – he still has to learn his way around.” Hewitt was unable to repress a fond grin as the boy ran out into the sunlight at the back of the house. He would have liked to complete the indulgent parent act by standing with an arm around Liz and watching Billy at play, but Mendip’s presence ruled that out.

“I hope you get your money’s worth out of it,” Mendip said, lowering himself into an armchair. His pale oval face turned this way and that as he surveyed the room.

“Perhaps I already have,” Hewitt answered.

Mendip nodded. “I guess I’d feel guilty about bringing a kid out here.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” Hewitt said quickly.

“Well, maybe I used the wrong word, but you know what I mean – when a kid can’t even have a real dog…’

“Bramble is programmed to be as good as a real dog. Better.”

“It ought to be better if you’re laying out a month’s salary for it. Hell’s fire!” Mendip shifted to make himself more comfortable. “I suppose you and Liz will have to tighten the old belts for a while.”

Hewitt shook his head. “We don’t go out much anyway.”

“That’s right – you don’t. A place like Mesonia is okay for somebody like me who can get around and enjoy the social life. You’d be surprised at what goes on at some of the parties over on the East Hill, Sammy boy.” Mendip gave a ruminative laugh. “You know Marie Duchamp, the systems analyst in Structures One? Well, she and another girl…’

“Carl,” Hewitt put in evenly, ‘what are your plans for today?”

Mendip blinked. “Plans? I thought I’d just visit with you and Liz. Keep you company.”

“You’ve no plans to get around a few wild parties?”

Mendip smiled his thin-lipped smile. “Sammy! You almost sound as if you didn’t want…’

“Coffee’s ready,” Liz announced, coming into the room with a tray.

“I don’t know if I should have one,” Mendip said to her. “I have a feeling Sammy wants me to clear out.”

“Nonsense! You have to stay for a meal now that you’ve come out this far.” Liz distributed beakers of synthetic coffee, giving Hewitt a reproachful frown as she did so. Hewitt slumped into another chair, sipped the hot liquid and tried to calculate how much he had contributed to his boss’s bank balance in the form of free meals in the past year.

“Sam’s always grouchy in the mornings,” Liz said. “Will you try one of these biscuits, Carl?”

“No, thanks.” Mendip patted his stomach. “I’m keeping my weight down – just in case.”

Liz smiled understanding. “When will you hear about the transfer?”

“Not for another four or five weeks, but I’d rather keep myself light. I don’t like crash diets.”

Hewitt was tempted to cut in and reprove Mendip, a senior engineer, for talking about weight when he meant mass, but he decided against being petty in the hope that the day could be rescued from disaster. He knew what Mendip meant, anyway. The Ferrari Transfer System – instantaneous travel from one location to another which had similar spatial properties – was technologically superb, but from the practical viewpoint it had a major drawback in that its cost/weight graph took the form of a steeply ascending straight line. No matter how much mass the engineers transferred, no matter how many times they did it, no matter how many refinements or improvements they tried to introduce to the system – the expense of transmitting each and every gram of matter remained at the same astronomical figure.

The harsh economics of the Ferrari Transfer ruled out any prospect of easing Earth’s population problems, but by the twenty-second century the world political situation had stabilized enough to permit international funding of a project to seed other planets with the nuclei of human colonies. In philosophical terms, the project was grandiose and far-seeing; in operation terms, it was a matter of paring every cargo down to the absolute miserly limit. The prime qualification for colonists was that they should be slightly built. Even then, they were subjected to rigorous reduction dieting before the outward journey, and were dispatched naked and with all hair removed from heads and bodies. The second qualification for interstellar settlers was, of course, dedication.

Not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come, Hewitt had often quoted to himself. But on this Saturday morning – with suburban placidity on one hand, and Company politics personified by Carl Mendip on the other – the clouds of glory were not in evidence. He felt that he might as well be incarcerated in some hopeless prairie town back on Earth, that the sacrifices he and Liz and Billy had made were going to achieve little unless he got the transfer to Nimrod…

“What are you dreaming about now, Sammy boy?” Mendip said comfortably.

“Dreaming?” Hewitt queried the word, sensitive to his boss’s habit of slipping professional criticism into casual conversation. “I was wondering why they have to take so long to decide who’s going and who’s staying.”

“The mills of the Company grind slow, but if it’ll ease your mind I can let you know your chances aren’t too good, Sammy.”

“Why’s that? I thought you put in a good assessment for me.”

“Oh, I did.” Mendip looked benign. “But there’s an economy drive on – and there are three of you.”

“Three people,” Hewitt said. “That’s the whole point of the operation, isn’t it? The idea is to populate planets – not plant flags on them.”

“I know, but it’s cheaper to produce the people after you get there.” Mendip looked appraisingly at Liz. “I reckon that all women in the colonies should be made available to all men who could impregnate them.”

“That lets you out,” Hewitt said, in an automatic response.

Mendip’s ice-blue gaze fastened on him in the instant. “What do you mean, Sammy boy?”

“Nothing.” Hewitt laughed, wondering if his annoyance had driven him too far.

“Your plan wouldn’t work,” Liz said diplomatically, smiling at Carl. “When the word got back to the girls on Earth that you were waiting for them they’d rush the transfer terminal. The system wouldn’t be able to cope.”

“You’d still have first claim,” Mendip said, mollified. “I’m good to my friends.”

Hewitt stood up, went to the rear window and watched his son playing with the dog on the rectangle of mowed grass. The little robot animal was running, leaping, twisting, barking, scampering around Billy in a manner which made it difficult to believe that it was a machine which had been designed by robotics engineers and built in a factory only a few kilometres away. Billy was totally absorbed in his new companion, rolling on the ground and laughing while it clambered over him in a mock attack.

Late that evening when Mendip had left, after consuming two expensive high-protein meals, Liz spent a few minutes tidying the living room. The dog lay quietly on a rug and watched her moving about, its attention directed to one of its secondary owners now that Billy had gone to bed, its brain establishing pathways of familiarity and memory.

“Why don’t you leave the place the way it is, and I’ll tidy up in the morning?” Hewitt said. “I’m too tired to do it now.”

“It’s tension that’s making you tired,” Liz told him. “You shouldn’t let Carl get under your skin.”

“I can’t help it. If he’s such a hell-raiser why doesn’t he go out and do it instead of spending all his time around here?”

“I should have thought that was obvious. Anywhere else he’d have to meet people on equal terms, and he doesn’t feel adequate for that. With us, he knows his seniority in the Company gives him the edge he needs, especially with a transfer coming up. He can say anything he wants in our house.”

“It doesn’t seem to bother you,” Hewitt retorted.

Liz gave him a level stare. “It bothers me, but we’re dealing with your career, aren’t we? After giving up everything we had on Earth, and travelling forty light years, are we going to risk your getting a bad assessment because I couldn’t jolly your boss along? It’s up to you, Sam – if you want, I’ll pour a pot of coffee into his lap the next time he comes near me.”

“I’m sorry, Liz.”

“It’s all right.” Liz, graceful in her natural generosity, came to him and kissed his forehead. She knelt down beside his chair and began stroking the dog. It licked her hand.

“Why are you doing that?” Hewitt said in genuine bafflement.

“Dogs like to be stroked.”

“But he’s only a machine.”

Liz looked at him with womanly scorn. “He doesn’t know he’s only a machine.”

The following four weeks passed more quickly than Hewitt had anticipated. Mesonia was still in an early stage of its development, and therefore was using a nine-day week in which there was only one rest day. The long stints of concentrated effort usually made Hewitt very tired, but Carl Mendip had taken to remaining in the office as much as possible – waiting for a decision about the transfer to Nimrod – and this freed Hewitt to do a number of field trips to outlying communities. He enjoyed the long silent drives through the Earth-like but unspoiled landscapes.

These pleasures were a bonus posthumously conferred on him by Eugenio Ferrari, whose transfer system enabled men to travel forty light years in exactly the same time that it would take to cover four or four hundred. The near-magic of Ferrari’s physics meant that mankind could be highly selective about the location of colonies, only establishing them on green and friendly worlds. The colonists were faced with hard work, but little danger or discomfort.

Liz’s job as a dental assistant meant she was unable to accompany him on the field trips, but Billy was able to go on days when he was free from classes. He always insisted on bringing the dog, which sat upright on the seat beside him, its brown eyes shining in a semblance of life. Hewitt found himself wishing he understood more about the molecular-circuit electronics of its brain so that he could appreciate what was going on inside the neat, sharp-eared head. All he knew was that the robotics engineers had done their work well, because Bramble had a canine personality all of his own, an individuality which – to Hewitt’s surprise – was not entirely tailored to the convenience of his owners. The little rodog liked chewing shoes, for example, and objected noisily when they were forcibly removed from its jaws. It did not eat, but every day lapped some water which was used to keep its eyes, nose and tongue moist, and it frequently overturned its dish, necessitating mopping-up jobs. When accidentally locked in a room it would whine continuously and scratch at the door until permitted to rejoin its owners.

On one occasion, when the dog had been with them about two weeks, it caused a minor commotion in the Hewitt household by disappearing for several hours. Hewitt thought it was stolen and was angry about the loss of a valuable piece of property, but he was even more concerned about Billy’s reaction. The boy wept inconsolably and ran around the house, pulling open cupboard doors and calling the dog’s name. Later that evening, when Billy was reduced to an occasional exhausted sob, Bramble had been spotted trotting down the avenue towards the house with his head held high, like an animal character in one of the historic Walt Disney cartoons. It transpired that the dog had wandered beyond the area which was properly imprinted on its memory and had spent a long time carrying out a random search for a landmark it knew. Liz had scolded it and slapped its flanks exactly as she would have done with a real pet, and it had responded by scuttling off into Billy’s room with its stubby tail between its legs. Billy had been overjoyed at the reunion with Bramble, and it was then that Hewitt felt the first stirrings of unease at the extent of his son’s preoccupation with what was, after all, only an assemblage of electronic and mechanical components.

In general, however, Hewitt did not pay much attention to the dog. It was providing companionship for his son in a satisfactory manner, and to that extent it had been a worthwhile investment.

And he forgot about it entirely when the news came through that he – and not Carl Mendip – had been selected for transfer to Nimrod.

Mendip came to Hewitt’s desk and watched him for a while with pale, reproachful eyes. “I expect you’re feeling proud of yourself, Sammy boy,” he said eventually.

Hewitt looked up from a site plan he had been pretending to study. “Not especially. It was all in the luck of the draw – and your recommendation must have helped.”

“Don’t you forget it.” Mendip brooded for a moment, unsatisfied. “You’ve put on some weight, you know. You’re going to have a hard time getting rid of it.”

“Only a couple of standard kilos – I can shed that in a week, easily.”

“Liz has put it on, too.”

“Liz is good at dieting.” Hewitt grew wary, sensing that his boss wanted to mar the occasion for him by whipping up antagonism. “She can trim down in time for the medical.”

“That’s going to spoil things a bit for you – women always lose it in the wrong place.” Mendip cupped his hands in front of his own chest, holding imaginary breasts.

“Secondary sexual characteristics aren’t too important to me,” Hewitt said easily, his defences intact. He could swap banter of the most bawdy kind with other men in the office and think nothing of it, but Mendip had a way of particularizing every sexual reference to make it offensive.

“The Company ought to relax the weight rules a little for women,” Mendip continued. “After all, if they’re placing so much emphasis on their role as breeding animals that they’re handing out transfers on the strength of it, they should let them keep their tits. What do you say, Sammy?”

“It’s a point of view.” Hewitt toyed with a heavy scale rule. One part of his mind admired the craftsmanship with which – in one sentence – Mendip had degraded Liz and denigrated Hewitt’s professional standing. Another part of his mind weighed the consequences of flicking the scale rule sideways and shattering Mendip’s front teeth. Such an action would result in his transfer orders being cancelled, which was too great a price to pay, but the temptation was considerable.

“Two points of view,” Mendip said.

“If you don’t mind, Carl, I’d better get on with this.” Hewitt tapped the site plan. “I want to leave a clear desk.”

He lowered his head and stared determinedly at the plastic sheet until the other man had moved away and the moment of danger had passed. The tachygram from Earth had come in only ten minutes earlier, and there had been no time to contact Liz with the news. Hewitt decided against calling her from the office because, with Carl Mendip near, it would have been impossible for him to speak in a natural manner. He worked until the middle of the afternoon before acknowledging that his lack of concentration was rendering the exercise meaningless, then he left the office and walked home, pacing himself to arrive at the house soon after the time when Liz would bring Billy home from school. It was a warm day, and he found Billy sitting on the back lawn with a glass of yeastmilk in one hand and a book in the other, while contriving to have one arm around the rodog. Bramble came running to meet Hewitt, wagging his tail in the hope of being stroked. Hewitt, as always, was unable to bring himself to show affection for a machine – regardless of how lifelike it might be – and Bramble, looking mildly dejected, returned to his prime owner.

“Hi, Dad,” Billy called contentedly.

“Hello, son,” Hewitt replied. He went into the house and found Liz examining that week’s menu display on their meal dispenser. Her short black hair was combed to the smoothness of an enamelled helmet and she was still wearing the traditional white of the dentist’s surgery.

“Oh, you’re home early,” she said, with a note of disappointment. “Why are you home early?”

“What a greeting!” Hewitt slung his jacket over a chair. “Do you want me to go back to the office?”

“Of course not. It’s just that the menu isn’t too interesting this week and I thought I might prepare the meal myself.” Liz gave him a lingering kiss.

“There’s no need to go to all that trouble – I’ll find something I like in the machine.”

“But I’ll soon have forgotten how to cook,” Liz protested.

“That’s what you think,” Hewitt said triumphantly. “It’ll be quite a while before they have meal dispensers on Nimrod.”

Liz stepped back from him at once. “Do you mean…?”

Hewitt nodded. “I’ve got the Nimrod posting.”

“I’m glad for you,” Liz said slowly. She walked to the window and stood with her back to him, looking out to where Billy was sitting on the grass. “I know it’s what you wanted.”

“What I wanted? It’s a big thing for all of us, isn’t it?” Hewitt was disturbed by his wife’s reaction. “It’s equivalent to my getting about six promotions all at once.”

“That’s why I’m glad for you. I really am glad about it, Sam.” Liz walked to the meal dispenser. “I guess we’d better forget about a special meal for tonight – we’ll have to start cutting down right away.”

“What is this, Liz?” Hewitt caught her arm and turned her to face him. “Are you afraid of the Ferrari chamber?”

“I’m not afraid. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

“But you don’t seem … Don’t you want to see a brand-new world?”

“This one is still pretty fresh after only eight years.” Liz gave him a wise, patient smile. “Let’s be honest about that side of it, Sam – the only reason Nimrod has been chosen is that it’s exactly like this world, and exactly like all the others we’re colonizing. There’ll be no difference.”

“Except that I’ll be going in with the rank of Project Leader,” Hewitt said heatedly. “Or doesn’t that count for anything?”

“It counts for a great deal. That’s why I’m glad for you.”

Hewitt began to feel desperate. “Don’t keep saying that. Liz, if you didn’t want to leave here, why didn’t you let me know earlier?”

“Who said I didn’t want to leave?”

“You don’t need to say it. It’s obvious, for God’s sake.”

She looked up at him and spoke with the honesty he had always treasured. “I didn’t say anything because everybody was so certain you wouldn’t be picked. And the reason I don’t want to go is that I believe it would be better for Billy to grow up in one place. The last move upset him, and I think it’s too soon for another.”

Hewitt shook his head. “The Company psychologists advise on that sort of thing.”

“I know. The Company psychologists.”

“They wouldn’t …”

“I’m his mother, Sam, and I know what I’m talking about – but I’m not going to fight you on this thing, because I know Billy will come through it, and I know you’ll do everything you can to help him come through it.”

“Of course I will,” Hewitt said, relieved. “The three of us …”

“There’s just one condition.”

“Anything you say, Liz. What is it?”

“You have to tell him about Bramble.”

“What is there to tell?” Hewitt gave an uncertain laugh. “Do you mean you want me to tell him the dog can’t go?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t mind doing that. Billy’s old enough to understand the position.”

Liz went to the door and opened it. “Go out and tell him now.”

“What’s the hurry?” Hewitt said reasonably.

“Sam, go out and tell him now.” Liz spoke in a faint, cold voice.

“All right! All right!” Hewitt went out to the back of the house, approached his son and knelt in the short grass beside him. “I’ve got a big new job, Billy – so we’re all moving to Nimrod.”

Billy looked all around – taking in the now-familiar view of white-painted dwellings among trees, grasslands sloping down to the river, the valley’s palisade of slate-blue mountains – then lowered his head without speaking. The dog stared up at Hewitt from its nest in Billy’s lap.

“Did you hear me, Billy? I said we’re all going to Nimrod.”

Billy met Hewitt’s gaze directly and his round face was momentarily overprinted with an image of the adult he would one day become. “Dad, I’ll do without pocket money for the rest of my life if you don’t kill Bramble.”

Hewitt’s jaw almost sagged. “What’s all this about killing him? You can’t kill a machine, Billy.”

“Don’t take him back to the store when we go.”

“But we couldn’t leave him running around here. It would be …’ Hewitt stopped abruptly, having almost defeated his own case by speaking of cruelty. If one could not kill a machine, it was equally impossible to be cruel to it.

“Why shouldn’t I take him … it back to the store?”

“Because they would do something to his head and he wouldn’t know us any more. He’d be in a box.”

“It’s all for the …”

“Dad, let me leave Bramble with somebody, somebody from school, and then someday I could come back and get him. He’s got a good memory. He’s got the best memory you ever saw! He wouldn’t forget …”

“Billy!” Hewitt was surprised by the force of his anger. “There’s a four hundred monit trade-in on that machine, and we’re not going to walk off and leave it. Now try to grow up!”

He jumped to his feet and was striding back to the house when Bramble came scampering and growling around his ankles. Hewitt gave an irritated flick of his right foot which caught Bramble squarely on the ribcage. The little rodog yelped as it rolled over, then dashed back to Billy. Hewitt slammed the kitchen door behind him and stood there, breathing unevenly, staring at his wife.

“Don’t forget,” she said, turning away from him, “you’ve still to decide what we’re having for dinner.”

Prior to their departure, Hewitt and his wife were awarded three full days of leave from work. The break was officially supposed to give them the chance to make final arrangements, but in fact it was a time of mental preparation for a little death. People who underwent the Ferrari Transfer simply walked away from all their material possessions, leaving one life as naked as they had entered it, being born into another in exactly the same condition. The only assets they took with them were their personal attributes and skills, plus – by the grace of the Company – their credit ratings.

Hewitt had originally intended to let Billy keep the rodog until the last day, but the boy had stopped eating and spent most of his time in his room with Bramble in his arms. Sometimes when Hewitt was passing the bedroom door he heard Billy whispering to the pet, at others there was a silence broken by painful sobs, and he decided it would be better not to prolong an unhealthy situation.

Accordingly, immediately after breakfast on his first day’s leave, he picked the rodog up while it was lapping at its water dish and – without any announcement – took it out to his car. It was not until he saw Billy’s shocked face staring at him through a window that Hewitt admitted to himself that he had been hoping to get away from the house unseen. He dropped the warm sentient bundle on to the car’s rear seat and drove away with the maximum acceleration the magnetic engine could produce. At the corner of the main road he glanced back once and saw that Billy had run halfway along the avenue behind the car before giving up. He was standing there, helpless. Bramble had raised himself on his hind legs to look out through the rear window, and he gave one low bark as Billy was lost to view.

Hewitt swore savagely, cursing the dog’s designers and manufacturers for sins they were unaware of having committed. He slowed the car down and drove into the central area, past the gleaming pyramid of the transfer building, and stopped outside the commissary. When he picked up the rodog it squirmed in his grasp, but in a playful manner, its main objective apparently being to lick his face. Hewitt tucked it firmly under his arm and pushed his way through a transparent door to the domestic electronics department. Burt Pacer, who had sold him the rodog, was again on duty behind the counter.

“Morning, Sam,” Pacer said cheerfully. “And congratulations – I heard about your transfer.”

“Thanks.” Hewitt set Bramble on the counter, keeping a tight grip of the studded collar as the dog’s feet skidded about on the slick plastic. “I wish I’d known it was coming. I could have saved myself a lot of money and trouble.”

“Didn’t it work out?” Pacer lifted the dog in his thin freckled arms and examined it critically while it strove to lick his face.

“Too well – that was the trouble.”

“I might be able to let you have five hundred on it, seeing as how you only had it a few weeks.”

“That would be good,” Hewitt said. “What’ll you do with it now?”

“We’ll blank out the brain … wipe it, you know … and deactivate the mutt and put him back into inventory.”

“Does it take long?” Hewitt was not sure why he was asking.

“About ten minutes should take care of it,” Pacer replied. “Malcolm Harris does these things because he knows more about molecular logic circuits than I do, but he’s out having his coffee right now. Do you want to talk to him about it?”

“No – I just wondered.” Hewitt walked to the door, then turned to look back at the dog which was scrabbling frantically on the counter in an effort to follow him. “It’s a hell of a thing when they have to build robot bloody dogs.”

Pacer shrugged. “We’re a long way from Earth.”

Hewitt nodded and went back to his car. Before moving off he sat and watched the struggling rodog being carried away into the rear of the store. He drove homewards slowly, taking detours and spinning the journey out to fifteen minutes so that Bramble would have been returned to inventory, and the episode finally closed, before he had to speak to Billy again. The first thing he saw when he reached the house was a blue Company car often used by Carl Mendip parked in the driveway. For once, the sight was quite welcome because the presence of an outsider could be useful in keeping emotional pressures down. Hewitt went in through the back door and found Liz alone in the kitchen. Her eyes had a slightly pinkish look, as if she had been crying, but her face was composed.

“Where’s Billy?” he said.

“Where do you think? In his room.” Liz’s voice was completely neutral. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No – I have to watch my fluid intake.” Hewitt went through to the living room to where Mendip was prowling around, sipping coffee and examining various small ornaments with critical interest.

“How’s it going?” Mendip said with a rare joviality.

“Okay.” Hewitt sat down in his favourite chair.

“I took an hour off to come out and see how you and Liz were getting on.”

“Thanks, Carl.” Hewitt watched as Mendip continued his course around the room, picking up recently-acquired trinkets and setting them down again. The principal items of furniture belonged to the Company and would be renovated for use by another colonist, but Hewitt and Liz had tried to personalize the place to some extent by buying extra pieces, such as flower vases, since their arrival on Mesonia. None of their purchases had been expensive – because of the ever-looming possibility of being transferred – but they helped make a standard Company house into the Hewitt home, and Hewitt disliked the casual way in which Mendip was handling them.

“It’s a weird business, being transferred,” Mendip said. “It would be better if you had a lot of packing to do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Keep you busy, keep your mind off it.”

“I’m not bothered,” Hewitt said.

Mendip sniffed disbelievingly. “Young Billy was crying when I came in.”

“He’s upset about the dog.”

“I told you that was a bum investment, Sammy boy. How much did you drop on the deal?”

“Three hundred.”

Mendip hissed his breath inwards. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed out alone.” He picked up a small ceramic glow-clock and dropped it into his pocket.

“Carl?” Hewitt sat upright. “What are you doing?”

“It’s all right – I checked with Liz.” Mendip gave a frosty smile. “You can’t take it with you, you know.”

Hewitt felt himself nearing a dangerous edge. “Put the clock back,” he said.

“I told you Liz said it was all right for me to take a few things. There’s no point in letting the Company have them.”

Hewitt stood up. “Put the clock back where it was.”

“But what will you do with it?” Mendip made no move to return the clock.

Hewitt considered for a moment. “On the morning we leave I’ll put it in a pile with our other things and smash them up with a hammer. Just to keep the buzzards off.”

“I don’t like that remark.” Some of the scanty colour had left Mendip’s face. “I could put in a report about your attitude.”

“And I could put in a counter-report about you being a looter.”

Mendip slowly took the ceramic piece from his pocket and weighed it in his hand. “Is this your idea of gratitude, Sammy boy? Is this the way you treat a friend?”

Hewitt put on a look of surprise. “No. I wouldn’t dream of treating a friend this way.”

“I see.” Mendip turned to Liz, who was just entering the room. “Did you hear that, Liz?”

“I heard.” Liz looked at Hewitt with an impersonal gaze. “I paid for that clock – so I’m entitled to give it away.”

“What is this?” Hewitt said. “We don’t go in for separate ownership.”

“That’s what I used to think. Until this morning.” Liz turned to Mendip and closed his fingers around the clock. “Put it away in your pocket, Carl.”

“Thanks, Liz.” Mendip smiled serenely at Hewitt.

“If you try to leave here with that clock,” Hewitt said in a shaky voice, aghast at what he was doing and yet unable to draw back, “I … I’ll …”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea to hit me, Sammy.” Mendip put the clock in his pocket. “That way, you’d lose the transfer.”

The words went through Hewitt like a chill wind, enfolding his mind in an icy stasis, bringing time itself to a standstill. He stared helplessly at his wife, and at Mendip, and it seemed to him that they would all be there for ever because he was being required to make decisions of which he was incapable …

“Bramble!” Billy burst into the room with a shout and ran to the front window in a blur of bare arms and legs. “Bramble’s come back!”

Hewitt turned disbelievingly and peered out of the window. He experienced a curious blending of relief, affection and pride as he saw the little rodog, compact and jaunty, trotting along the avenue towards the house. Its head and tail were held high and it looked absurdly pleased with itself, again like an animal character in one of the historic Walt Disney cartoons. Billy jumped down from the window seat, was out through the front door in a second and they saw him running across the front lawn. Bramble abruptly gathered speed, and boy and dog met in mid-air, then rolled in an excited, noisy tangle into a flower bed.

“Well, I’ll be …” Hewitt whispered reverently. “He must have got away from the store.”

Liz moved close to the window. “But how did he find his way back?”

“Damned if I know. Billy said he had a good memory, but I didn’t think this was possible,” Hewitt said. An instinct made him follow Liz to the window and slip his arm around her. She leaned back against him.

“Better not let the kid get too worked up over it,” Mendip said in an oddly taut voice. “I’m going back to the office now – I’ll drop the dog off at the commissary on my way. Save you the extra trip.” He hurried out of the room. Hewitt ran after him and caught up just as Mendip was grasping Bramble by the collar and pulling him out of Billy’s arms.

“Leave the dog alone,” Hewitt snapped.

“What are you talking about?” Mendip faced him on the sunlit grass. “This isn’t a real dog.”

“He’s more real than you are, Carl. Put him down.”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Mendip said.

“Perhaps not.” Hewitt was dimly aware of neighbours beginning to take an interest in the confrontation. “But if you don’t put him down, I’ll put you down.”

“You wouldn’t be that stupid,” Mendip said, brushing past Hewitt towards his car.

Hewitt threw a punch which was meant to land on Mendip’s chin, but which – because he had not tried to hit anyone since he was a boy – connected squarely with the other man’s forehead. Mendip gave a startled moan and dropped Bramble. Hewitt’s right hand was aching from the effects of the blow, he knew he was making a fool of himself in front of the entire neighbourhood, and he also knew he was ruining his chances of fast promotion – but he was filled with a sudden gratitude towards Mendip. It was a deep thankfulness for having made him understand what was important in his own life, and it was a thankfulness which could be expressed only by raining blows on Mendip’s head and upflung arms. The wild punches, often meeting with sharp elbows, threatened to break Hewitt’s own knuckles, but he succeeded in driving Mendip to his knees while Billy backed away holding the dog. Suddenly Liz was beside him, restraining his arms.

“That’s enough, Sam,” she said gently. “I think you’ve made your point.”

Mendip scrambled to his feet, dishevelled but virtually unhurt. “You’ve done it now, Sammy boy,” he panted. This has to go on report. You’re never going to see Nimrod.”

“You can send me a viewcard,” Hewitt said, through his own gasps. “Go away, Carl.”

Mendip turned to Liz. “Of course, it’s you I’m most sorry for.”

She held out her hand and smiled. “We want our clock back, please.”

Mendip took the clock from his pocket, dropped it into her hand and walked to his car without saying another word. They watched him drive away, then Hewitt went into his house, walking slowly and with as much dignity as possible. As soon as he was screened from the view of his neighbours, he held up his skinned and bleeding knuckles, blowing on them to ease the pain.

“Look what I’ve done to myself,” he said. “If I’d hit him once more, he’d have won.”

“I’ll soon fix those,” Liz replied. “Wait till I get the medikit.” A few minutes later, while Hewitt was having his battle wounds dressed, he heard his son laughing outside. He looked out of the rear window and saw Billy and Bramble running down the garden away from the house. They were still gathering speed as they reached the far end of the mowed plot and plunged, unafraid, into the long grass where the rest of the world began.