Slowly, cringing, King drew himself up to look down at what lay on the bed, and to nuzzle it. It didn't look like Doc. Doc had been young and alive, clean-shaven and with dark hair. The body was too thin, and the long beard and hair were stark white. Yet the odor said unquestionably that this was Doc-and that Doc was old-and dead!

Standing with his front feet on the bed, King lifted his muzzle upward, his mouth opening while the deep, long sound ached in his- chest. But no sound came. He brought his face down to that of Doc and nuzzled again, whimpering.

It did no good.

For a long tune he lay there, whining and crying. The voice went on and something ticked regularly on the wall. There was the sound of the wind outside, faint here, but rising steadily. Once King heard his own name used by Doc's voice from the box, and his ears half-lifted.

". . . King and the other three. Probably starved by now, though, since there are no land animals left for them to feed on. King was a smart dog, but ..."

His name wasn't repeated, though he listened for a while. Later, the voice stopped entirely, while the tape hummed a few more times, clicked, and began flapping a loosened end that knocked-over a bottle of pills beside Doc's frozen hand. It clicked again, and slowed to si- lence, leaving the ticking of the clock the only sound in the room.

Abruptly, tKere ;was a rustling noise. King shot to his feet, whirling to face the source, just as a large white rat scuttled from the shadows near the door.

It went rigid at his movement, coming slowly to its hind feet, its eyes darting from King to the body of Doc. It let out a high squeak.

The dog dived for it, snarling. But a thread of familiarity was clutching at his mind, slowing his charge. The rat twisted around and through the door, quavering out a series of squeaks. It went scuttling along the hall, through the opened door, and across the steps to the wasteland beyond. By the time King reached the outside, it was heading for the great tower across the street and halfway to the rocket field.

King could smell its spoor mixed thickly with that of Doc as he leaped the fence and followed. He heard it squeal once more as it saw him, and heard its claws sc.r.a.pe against the rotted metal of the tower as it scurried up beyond his reach.

But he was slowing already. The tower was dead now, with the great ball of fire gone from its top, but the memory of the tingling, itching false smell that had plagued him while the fire glowed was rising in his mind to drive him back. He hated it as Doc had hated it-and there was still fear for what it had been. He stopped fifty feet beyond the ma.s.sive girders, bristling as he backed around it.

The concrete hut under it was broken now though, and the guards were gone. He saw some of the guns scattered about-or what was left of them, in the jumble of sand and human skeletons that still lay around the tower. Some of the skeletons were farther back, mixed with axes and other guns. An arm was still tangled with a shred of rope that connected to a faded metal sign. Where the great cable had been, a blackened line curved toward the tower, pitting the metal more deeply.

Somehow, King knew the tower of the tingling fire was dead. But he had waited too long. The rat hadscrambled down and was heading toward the rocket field. He started after it again, halted, and reluctantly turned back toward the laboratory.

There was pleading in his whine as he found the body of Doc again, which still bore the smell of death. Instinct told King that Doc was dead, and would never be anything but dead. Yet there was the half-remembered smell of his brother Boris, after the sweet smells and the p.r.i.c.kings, lying on the table while Doc and the men stood around. Boris had smelled dead-and Boris had walked again, smelling freshly alive. Before that, there had been the dead rats that would not stay dead. And the rabbits-though when the rabbits finally smelled dead, they were all dead, and no more rabbits lived.

He circled Doc uneasily, his lips lifted. He paced to the outer door, searching for any return of the rat, while his mind slowly remembered the other rats. With a quick check on Doc, King darted up the stairs, his legs making a familiar pattern of it, and into the great laboratory there.

There were no more rats. The cages were empty, and the scents he had learned here as a puppy were almost gone. Only the room itself was the same as the one that had haunted his hunger-driven dreams.

There had been the rats on the table when he was young and the tower was only a banging beyond the window. The rats that died, and the three that did not, when the men drank smelly liquid and shouted and danced all night, shaking their fists at the base of the tower. The table was still there, beyond the place where the men mixed the strange smells. The table where strange things happened to him later that he could not remember. The tau he had owned before the last time on the table still hung there. There had been another wild night when the bandages came off his new tail, puppy-small and weak, but growing quickly enough. This room had been a good place, and some of his later dreams had been good.

Other dreams had brought back the bad times, as they returned to his mind now.

The night the tower blazed with fire, Doc swearing while King felt the tin- gling until it was, cut off. The men arguing with Doc, not coming back--even moving toward the hated tower. The huge celebration outside when the tower blazed again, while Doc and his one friend cried. The wild frenzy of stringing wires over the Promethean lab and into a vile-smelling box. After that, there was no more tingling* in his nostrils inside the lab, but things had grown worse in spite of it.

King was trembling as he finished his inspection for rats, and his legs beat a frantic tattoo down the stairs. The fear was as thick as it had been when the men came and took him and his brothers away from Doc, to jam them into planes with other dogs and dump them far away, where the rabbits were thick-and almost useless for food.

Doc had fought then, even moving outside the safety of the laboratory, but the men had taken the dogs. Yet Doc had been alive. And now he was dead.

Fear twisted in King, settling into something sick. He paced around the body, growling and whining. Once he stopped to lick the hand; it was colder now, and there was no moisture on it. The scent was growing more wrong as the body cooled.

Life had not come back while he was gone., He licked Doc's hand again, and an answering chill went through the dog. The feeling of death began to settle deeper-a feeling inside that grew and swallowed him, a hungry feeling. He tried to shake it away, as he would have shaken the neck of the rat, but it stuck.

There was real hunger mixed with it. Eating was never good on the trip south, and he had burned too much energy chasing about that morning. The fish had not been enough. The smell of stale food of some kind in the room tantalized him, though he could find none, and reminded him there had been traces of the same odors along the path the rat had taken. The saliva was rising in his mouth at the thought. It drew him out, while the death inside pressed him away.He started off twice, to return each time for another inspection. He whimpered and tried tugging at the sleeve of the arm. The rags parted, but Doc gave no sign. The death smell was stronger. King paced about, fighting the hunger and misery until they were too much. There was the food smell, the rat-and he would come back to Doc. ...

A faint mist was being driven along by the wind as he reached the tower again, braving it this time without stopping. Until the rain washed it away, the spoor would be all the stronger for the moisture in the air, and he followed it easily, until it ended on the blasted area of the rocket field.

King stopped at the sight of the bent and worn take-off cradles. From the distance, the first faint roll of thunder came, and he bolted stiff-legged, snarling with fear, as if one of the monster ships he had seen the men building so frantically were blasting up again.

The excitement of the frenzied construction had drawn him to it, even when it meant sneaking away from Doc-so that he had been present after the infants were all aboard, and the rocket took off. The thunder-booming roar, the gout of eye-searing flame and the smell that paralyzed his nose for hours had sent him cringing back to shiver at Doc's feet for hours, and each new takeoff had brought a fresh attack. He still wanted nothing to do with the rockets.

The cradles were empty now, however-except for something that looked like one that had broken and was lying on its sides, the big tubes ripped away, and the ground scorched around it. And as he looked, the distant form of the rat appeared from below it and leaped upward through a door there.

King edged toward it, following the trail that led there, uncertain. It looked dead, but the other that had roared away on its lightning and thunder had also seemed dead. Then real lightning and thunder boomed behind him, and he forced himself to a faster trot.

The hulk seemed harmless. There were none of the chemical smells now, and the fumes of the ancient blast that had fizzled were gone. He moved gingerly toward the door, his nose twitching at the odors that came from it, just as the rat appeared.

It saw him and squeaked sharply, dashing back in- side. King abandoned his caution. With a low growl, he leaped through the doorway above the ground. The edge of the metaf tore at him, thin projections sticking out where it had been crudely hacked away. He snapped at it, then turned to find the rat.

There was enough light inside to see dimly. The rat had retreated into a narrow pipe that ran back. King tried to poke his nose into it, then fished with his paw. The rat drew back and snapped at him. Its teeth missed, but it was enough to teach him caution.

He drew back, crunching across a litter of dried papers, foil, and junk he did not recognize. A thicker bundle twisted under his feet, and the thick, heavy smell of meat-red meat, not the weak flesh of fish-filled his nostrils.

Without thinking, he snapped down.

The stuff was dry and hard, disappointing at first. But as he chewed, over the salt and the odd flavorings, the almost forgotten flavor came through, sending saliva dripping from his mouth. From the odors here, he knew the rat had been eating it before he came, but it didn't matter. He finished the package, spitting out the wax, metal, and plastics that surrounded it as best he could.

Then his nose led him along the trail of the rat's gnawing, back to the few tons of concentrate that were left.

The wrappings let through no smell to guide him, but he had learned to find food where it could be discovered. He tore into a package, gasping as a thick, fruity stuff seared at his tongue. He tried again, farther away. He ripped away the covering first, and settled down with the brick between his paws, working on it until it was gone.

Outside, the rain had increased to a torrent. He studied the rat and the viewoutside, and finally curled up against the door, blocking the rat's egress.

Some rain came through, making a small puddle on the floor and wetting his coat, but he disregarded it at first, until the thirst began to grow in him.

He lapped at the puddle, finding some relief.

His stomach began to feel wrong then. It was heavy, full and miserable. He fought against it, lapping more water. The rat came out of its hole and found another brick of food. He heard it gnawing, but the effort of moving was too great.

When the sickness finally won, he felt better. But it was an hour later, while the storm raged and the lightning split the sky with waves of solid fear, before he could pull himself back to another brick. This time he ate more carefully, stopping to drink between parts of his meal. It worked better. The food stayed with him, and his hunger was finally satisfied.

He lay near the doorway of the old rocket, staring out through the darkness that was still split by lightning. The rat scurried about behind him, but he let it go. Now that it was harmless and his stomach was filled, some of the old patterns began to stir in his mind. The rat was one he had known so long ago, its smell grown old, but still clearly identifiable.

He had tried twice to leave the ship and force his way back to where Doc was lying, but the lightning drove him back. Now he lifted his voice in a long, mournful bark. There was no answering call from Doc. He began working himself up for another try.

Lightning crashed down in the direction of the laboratory. The building itself stood out in the glare, with every wire of its outer covering glowing white hot. There was a roll of sharp thunder close by, and then another explosion that seemed to open the laboratory up in a blossom of flame through the abating rain.

King muttered unhappily, licking his lips uneasily, while his tail curved tighter against him. But now, while the flame still smoldered around the distant building and the lightning might come back, now was no time to risk it.

He turned around several times, sc.r.a.ping away the litter, buried his nose in the tuft of his tail, and tried to relax. He was almost asleep when he felt the rat creep up to him. It must have recognized his smell, too, since it settled down against him as it had done when they were both together in the laboratory with Doc. He snarled faintly, then let it alone, and went to sleep.

Surprisingly, there were no dreams to. bother him. , The rat was goner in the morning when King awoke, and the sun was hMng, though the quieter wind held a coldness that was too close to freezing to suit him. He hesitated, turning back toward the food stores. Then the sight of the rat, racing across the s.p.a.ce near the tower, decided him. With an unhappy growl, he dropped from the hulk of the rocket and took out after it.

If the rat got there before he did, and Doc needed him ...

In open running, the rat was no match for him. It drew aside, its high voice chattering, as he thundered up. He did not turn, but drove on, heading at a full run for the laboratory.

There was no laboratory! The steps were there, blackened and cracked. Some of the walls still stood. But the building he had known was gone. Beside it, the trunk of one of the big trees had been blasted apart, and now had its tattered remnants strewn over the dirt, mingling with the coals from the fire that had gutted the building. A few were still smoking, though the rain had put out the blaze before it had completely burned out by itself. The heavy, acrid scent of damp, burned wood loaded the air, concealing everything else from his scent.

He uttered a short, anguished yelp and went dashing through the doorway. The ashes were hot, and the stones left from the floor were hotter, but he could bear them. He hardly felt them as he swung toward what had once been the room where Doc lay.The box from which the voice had come was gone, but the twisted wreck of the tape machine was there. And beside it, charred sc.r.a.ps showed what had once been a bed.

King cried out as his nose touched the heat, but he was pawing frantically, disregarding the pain. He could stand it-and he had to. He shoveled the refuse aside, digging for something that was his. And finally, under the charred raggedness, there were traces. There was even enough to know that it had once been Doc.

And Doc was still dead-as dead as the meat that once came from cans had been dead.

King whimpered over the remains, while the rat climbed onto a section of the wall and chattered uneasily. But the dog was already backing away. He stopped beyond the hot ruins of the building to lift his head. For a second, he held the pose while the rat watched him, before his head came down and he turned slowly away.

The food in the rocket lay to his right, and the old gate through which he had first come was on his left. He licked his lips as his eyes turned to the rocket, but his legs moved unwaveringly left. The steady walk turned into a trot, and his stride lengthened, carrying him back to the rooming-house section, and on into the former business section. There had been other fires, and one had spread across several blocks. He swung around it and back to the street he had first taken.

Ahead of him, the bridge came into view, and nearer was the bank of the river on this side.

King did not waver from his course. His legs paced out onto the rotten pavement that would carry him across the stream. He moved on, slowing as he had to walk the girders again. When he was past that section, and at the midpoint of the bridge, something seemed to turn him.

The town lay behind him from here, most of it visible at the crest of the bridge. The rain and the storm had made changes, but they were too small to notice. And the university lay at the edge of King's vision, though some of the tower could be seen. He faced toward it, and then unerringly toward the place where the laboratory should have been.

Now his muzzle lifted into the air as he sank to his haunches. He seemed to brace himself, and his lungs expanded slowly. He could feel it, and the need of it. The instinct behind it was too old for remembrance, but the ritual came finally by itself, with no conscious control.

His mouth opened, and the dirge keened on the air, lifting and driving upward toward the empty sky above.

There was only, the single requiem. Then King swung back toward the distant sh.o.r.e, picking his way along the worn bridge.

He slipped downHhe crumbled bank to the thin edge of sand near the steam and turned southward, trotting on steadily with'the cold wind at his back.

Somewhere, there would be a place to fish for his breakfast.

Little Jimmy

I'VE ALWAYS THOUGHT that meeting a ghost would be a pretty comforting thing.

By the time a man is past fifty and old enough to realize death, anything that will prove he doesn't come to a final, meaningless end should be a help. Even being doomed to haunt some place hi solitude through all eternity doesn't have the creeping horror of just not being!

Of course, religion offers hope to some-but most of us don't have the faith of our forefathers. A ghost should be proof against the unimaginable finality of death.

That's the way I used to feel. Now, I don't know. If I could only explain little Jimmy . . .

We heard him, all right. At Mother's death, the whole family heard him, right down to my sister Agnes, who's the most complete atheist I know. Even heryoungest daughter, downstairs at the time, came running up to see who the other child was. It wasn't a case of collective hallucination, any more than it was something that can be -explained by any natural laws we know.

The doctor heard it, too, and from the way he looked, I suppose he'd heard little Jimmy more than once before. He won't talk about it, though, and the others had never been around for a previous chance. I'm the only one who will admit to hearing little Jimmy more than that single time. I wish I didn't have to admit it, even to myself, j We were a big" family, though the tradition for such families was already dying at the turn of the century. Despite the four girls who died before they had a chance to live, Mother and Dad wanted lots of children. Six of us boys and three girls lived, and that justified it all to Mother. There would have been more, I guess, if Dad hadn't been killed by an angry bull while I was away saving the world for Democracy. Mother could have had other husbands, maybe-the big Iowa farm with its huge old house would have guaranteed that- but she was dead set against it. And we older kids drifted into city jobs, helping the others through college until they had jobs of their own.

Eventually, Mother was left alone in the old house, while the town outgrew itself until the farm was sold for lots around it.

That left her with a small fortune, particularly after the second war. She didn't seem to need us, and she was getting "sot" in her ways and hard to get along with. So little by little, we began visiting her less and less. I was the nearest, working in Des Moines, but I had my own life, and she seemed happy and capable, even at well past seventy. We're a long-lived, tough clan.

I sent, her birthday and holiday notes-or at least Liza sent them for me-and kept meaning to see her. But my oldest boy seemed to go to pieces after the second war. My daughter married a truck driver and had a set of twins before they found a decent apartment. My youngest boy was taken prisoner hi Korea. I was promoted to president of the roofing company. And a new pro at the club was coaching me into breaking ninety most of the time.

Then Mother began writing letters-the first real ones in years. They were cheerful enough, filled with chitchat about some neighbors, the new drapes on the windows, a recipe for lemon cream pie, and such. At first, I thought they were a fine sign. Then something in them began to bother me. It wasn't until the fifth one, though, that I could put my finger on anything definite.

In that, she wrote a few words about the new teacher at the old schoolhouse. I went over it twice before realizing that the school building had been torn down fifteen years before. When that registered, other things began connecting. The drapes were ones she had put up years before, and the recipe was her first one-the one that always tasted too' sweet, before she changed it! There were other strange details.

They kept bothering me, and I finally put through a call. Mother sounded fine, though a little worried for fear something had gone wrong with me. She talked for a couple of minutes, muttered something about lunch on the stove, and hung up quickly. It couldn't have been more normal. I got out my clubs and was halfway down the front steps before something drove me back to her letters.

Then I called Doctor Matthews. After half a minute identifying myself, I asked about Mother.

His voice a.s.sumed a professional tone at once. She was fine-remarkably good physical condition for a woman of her age. No, no reason I should come down at once. There wasn't a thing wrong with her.

He overdid it, and he couldn't quite conceal the worry in his voice. I suppose I'd been thinking of taking a few days off later to see her. But when he hung up, I put the clubs back in the closet and changed my clothes. Liza was out at some civic betterment club, and I left a note for her. She'd taken the convertible though, so I was in luck. The new Cadillac was just back from atune-up and perfect for a stiff drive. There'd also be less chance of picking up a ticket if I beat the speed limit a little; most cops are less inclined to be tough on a man who's driving one of those cars. I made good time all the way.

Matthews was still at the same address, but his white hair gave me a shock. He frowned at me, lifting his eyes from my waistline to what hah-1 had left, then back to my face. Then he stuck out his hand slowly, stealing a quick glance at the Cadillac.

"I suppose they all call you A. J. now," he said. "Come on in, since you're here!"

He took me back through the reception room and into his office, his >eyes going to the car outside again. From somewhere, fye drew out a bottle of good Scotch. At my nod, he^mixed it with water from a cooler. He settled back, studying me as he took his own seat. "A. J., heh?" he commented again, sounding a sour note here, somehow. "That sounds like success. Thought your mother mentioned something about your having some trouble a few years back?"

"Not financial," I told him. I'd thought only Liza remembered it. She must have written to Mother at the time, since I'd kept it out of the papers. And after I'd agreed to buy the trucking line for our son-in-law, she'd finally completely forgiven me. It was none of Matthews' business-but out here, I remembered, doctors considered everything their business. "Why, Doc?"

He studied me, let his eyes sweep over the car again, and then tipped up the gla.s.s to finish the whisky. "Just curiosity. No, d.a.m.n it, I might as well be honest. You'll see her anyhow, now. She's an old woman, Andrew, and she has what might be called a tidy fortune. When children who haven't worried about her for years turn up, it might not be affection. And I'm not going to have anything happen to Martha now!"

The hints in his remarks too closely matched my own suspicions. I could feel myself tightening up, tensing with annoyance and a touch of fear. I didn't want to ask the question. I wanted to get mad at him for being an interfering old meddler. But I had to know. "You mean-senile dementia?"

"No," he answered quickly, with a slightly lifted eyebrow. "No, Andrew, she isn't crazy! She's in fine physical shape, and sane enough to take care of herself for the next fifteen years she'll probably live. And she doesn't need any fancy doctors and psychiatrists. Just remember that, and remember she's an old woman. Thirteen children in less than twenty years! A widow before she was forty. Lonely all these years, even if she is too independent to bother you kids. An old woman's ent.i.tled to whatever kind of happiness she can get! And don't forget that!"

He stopped, seeming surprised at himself. Then he stood up and reached for his hat. "Come on, I'll ride out with you."

He kept up a patter of local history as we drove down the streets where corn had grown when I last saw this section. There was a hospital where the woods had been, and the old spring was covered by an apartment building. The big house where we had been born stood out, sprawling in ugly warmth among the facsimile piano-boxes they were calling houses nowadays.

I wanted to turn back, but Matthews motioned me after him up the walk. The front door was still unlocked, and he went in, tilting his head toward the stairs. "Martha! Hey, Martha!"

"Jimmy's out back, Doc," a voice called down. It was Mother's voice, unchanged except for a puzzling lilt I'd never heard before, and I drew a quick breath of relief.

"Okay, Martha," Matthews called up. "I'll just see him, then, and call you up later. You won't want me around when you see who I brought you! It's Andrew!"

"How nice! Tell him to sit down and I'll be dressed in a minute!"

Doc shrugged. 'Til sit out hi the garden a few minutes," he told me. "ThenI'll catch a cab back. But remember-your mother deserves any happiness she can get. Don't you ruin it!"

He went through the back door, and I found the parlor, and dropped onto the old sofa. Then I frowned. It had been stored in the attic in 1913, when Dad bought the new furniture. I stared through the soft dimness, making out all the old pieces. Even the rug was the way it had been when I was a child. I walked into the other rooms, finding them the same as they had been forty years before, except for the television set in the dining room and the completely modern kitchen, with a pot of soup bubbling on the back of the stove.

I was getting a thick feeling in my throat and the anxiety I'd had before when the sound of steps on the stairs brought my eyes up.

Mother came down, a trifle slowly, but without any sign of weakness. She didn't rest her hand on the banis- ter. She might have been the woman to match the furnishings of the hoflge, except for the wrinkles and the white hair. And the dress was new, but a perfect copy of one she'd worn when I was still a child!

She seemed not to hear my gasp. Her hand came out to catch mine, and she bent forward, kissing me on the cheek. "You look real good, Andrew. There, now, let's see. Umm-hmm. Liza's been feeding you right, I can see that. But I'll bet you could eat some real homemade soup and pie, eh? Come out in the kitchen. I'll fix it in a minute."