Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (19 page)

Sixty-seven klicks out of Akutan on the southern slopes of the Laurentian Shield is where they were. How Sapper Morton got here was a question Inspector Queen would want an answer to.

Within one potato there are mountains and rivers.

Recovered steelheads were worthless, but for the public good they could not be left to roam. Separated they had no cohesion, they drifted and hid.

All he needed was Sapper's jaw. Nothing to take but that. That was the job. And he could take the dog too if he wanted. There was enough space in the spinner for that. The daylight weak, but Kard could see the tractor out there rising and falling over the furrows, one headlight piercing the speckled air. The plowman wore goggles and a dust mask. But Kard knew who it was.

The front door was at the back porch. He opened it and went in. One room, one window, one door, walls quilted with old newspapers. A table, a cot, and a chair. There was a pot simmering on the burner next to a pile of potato skins. He removed the Evaluator from his briefcase—six dials, a screen, and a switch.

Always a piano. An upright, scratched and chipped, yellowing keys. A steelhead could lift one in a snap. It was here because Sapper must have carried it. But could he play it? That was a question Kard had never yet asked.

And there was a photo pinned to the wall, Kard had seen it before. Steelheads with pictures of themselves—it was what was left of their pride. All of them had been in the army. No one knew why. The ones who got out and took off always had pianos. But Sapper was the first Kard ever saw with a dog. Both had brown eyes.

Kard's eyes were on the piano keys; he never played one himself, not so much as a note. Then he heard footsteps heavy on the porch, saw the plowman pass the window. The floorboards at the door sagged under the weight of him as he came in.

Sapper was long and strong, unhealthy-looking skin, blotchy, shoulders stooped, eyes sunken, knobby cheekbones. He closed the door, then turned to face Kard, but not directly. Kard's voice was gentle, unsurprised.

Where is your dog, Mr. Morton?

Sapper was shy; it took a few moments to get his words to come.

Outside. Who are you?

I'm from the CPA, Mr. Morton. The Canadian Potato Association.

Pulling himself to attention, Sapper recited the Canadian Potato Association motto:

“Within one potato there are mountains and rivers.”

Kard was impressed. Sapper was either trickier or more evolved than he looked.

That was good. Do you have a name for your dog?

No.

Shall I tell you why I'm here?

Yes.

I'm to do a survey on tenant farmers to see if growth ratio and land allotments are keeping pace with each other. Do you understand?

Sapper dimly nodded, then looked at the Evaluator blinking and purring on the table. Then he looked away, to the soup on the stove, boiling low and steady.

What's that you're cooking there? It smells pretty good.

Sapper went to the burner, checked the pot, then turned to look at Kard. His eyes doggish and sad, hopeful maybe.

Do you want some?

That would be nice. Thank you.

It took time for him to get the bowl. Kard watched him pour soup into it. Carefully, Sapper brought it to the table, with a spoon. There was only the one chair; he stepped aside and waited for Kard to sit on it.

Before I try the soup, Sapper, I want you to sit on the chair. I need to ask you some questions. Will you do that?

I already had my dinner.

Before I have mine, I need you to sit down.

Sapper started to, but hesitated. It was the Evaluator that troubled him.

Do I have to?

You don't have to, but it won't take long. All you have to do is sit down and be very still. Can you do that?

Slowly, as if afraid the weight of him might break the chair, Sapper sat down. Duplicants were disadvantaged from beginning to end, but never knew it. Kard knew it, and it divided him, it made him tired, but he forced himself to pay attention.

Now please, put your hand on the table.

Sapper lifted his hand. His fingers were short and strong, nails like burnt rubber. His hand trembled above the table.

Go ahead, Sapper, it'll be fine, lay it down on the table.

Either Sapper couldn't or he wouldn't. He looked up, one eye twitching, a plea in his gravelly voice.

I took this test before, I think.

Kard preferred to keep the questions in order.
How did you get here? Did anyone help you? Do you play the piano?
But it was too late for that. The pulsing of the Evaluator had increased. Kard knew what was coming next, and for the sake of his ears stepped back.

Nobody ever sees me!

That's not true, Sapper. If it was, I wouldn't be here.

Sapper got louder.

I work with objects, not people—I drive the tractor!

There was no room in the spinner for Sapper, but Kard made the offer—it was in the manual.

Why don't we just leave, and you come back to the city with me?

Sapper had turned dark, indignant. Kard shrugged as Sapper stumbled to his feet, brought his fist down on the table like a hammer. Kard snatched the Evaluator off the table as it collapsed, set it on the counter and turned.

He released the safety on his Fermium and shot Sapper three times, twice in the chest and once in the groin. Sapper went down so hard he cracked the floor. His stout legs buckled under him, no blood, but he was dead.

Kard had four minutes before the cabin contaminated. He bent down, pinched Sapper's cheek. The skin stayed puckered like putty. Kard pulled open the mouth, inserted two fingers, and tugged the jaw loose. He held it up, squinting at the ID. According to the law, nonpersons, animals, and plants had no rights and were regarded as property. Sapper was the product of Culvert Industries.

Kard went to the sink, washed his hands, then turned off the burner. The half-life of a moderated Fermium round was less than a day—the place would be normal tomorrow.

The sun was gone, the land had darkened, but the air still had some light. The dog had moved again; now it was standing by the tractor. As Kard approached, it slinked away.

Sapper had left his goggles and dust mask on the seat; the onboard radio was broadcasting farm bureau weather reports. Kard turned it off and followed the dog back towards the spinner. As he came closer, the dog started to bark and backed away, afraid to run and afraid to stay.

Come on, come on, Jib.

He called it Jib and didn't know why, and whispering, he came closer:

You're gonna be all alone . . . come on, come on . . . I'll take you home.

There was room in the spinner for the dog, on his lap. Kard was about to grab him when suddenly the dog froze and fell over, legs stiff, jaw clamped shut; but the barking continued. For a few moments Kard listened as the sound weakened. He should have known better.

Falling Horse was awake and watching. He wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. Kard climbed in. The hatch slid shut, the turbo revved, and in a whirl of dust, the spinner lifted into the shrouded sky.

END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Bryony Atkinson, who started it, and for Racquel Palmese, whom I could do nothing without, and Jason Patric, who opened the door. For the abiding help of Rosalie and Noah Kaplan, Elizabeth Rubin, Jessica Kerwin Jenkins, Lew McCreary, Mary Beth Hughes. To David Rosenthal for offering the chance. And Sarah Hochman for everything. Thank you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hampton Fancher is an author and screenwriter. His writing credits include
Blade Runner
and
The Mighty Quinn
, and he is the writer and director of
The Minus Man
(winner of the Grand Prix Jury Award, Montreal World Film Festival). He began his career as a flamenco dancer in Europe and has acted in numerous films and television shows. He has taught acting classes in Los Angeles and screenwriting at Columbia and New York Universities. Born in East Los Angeles, he lives in Brooklyn, New York. This is his first work of fiction.