John Christopher - Socrates.pdf - John Christopher - margozap

Socrates

John Christopher

I HAD closed the lab for the afternoon and was walking down toward

the front gate, meaning to take a bus into town, when I heard the squeals

from the direction of the caretaker’s cottage. I’m fond of animals and hate

to hear them in pain, so I walked through the gate into the cottage yard.

What I saw horrified me.

Jennings, the caretaker, was holding a young puppy in his hand and

beating its head against the stone wall. At his feet were three dead

puppies, and as I came through the gate he tossed a fourth among them,

and picked up the last squirming remnant of the litter. I called out

sharply, “Jennings ! What’s going on ?”

He turned to face me, still holding the puppy in his hand. He is a

surly-looking fellow at best, but now he looked thunderous.

“What the hell do you think I’m doing ?” he demanded. “Killing off a

useless litter—that’s what I’m doing.” He held the pup out for me to

observe.

“Here,” he went on, “have a look at this and you’ll see why.”

I looked closely. It was the queerest pup I had ever seen. It had a dirty,

tan coat and abnormally thick legs. But it was the head that drew

attention. It must have been fully four times the size of any ordinary pup

of its breed; so big that, although its neck was sturdy, the head seemed to

dangle on it like an apple on a stalk.

“It’s a queer one, all right,” I admitted.

“Queer?” he exclaimed. “It’s a monster, that’s what it is.” He looked at

me angrily. “And I know the cause of it. I’m not a fool. There was a bit in

the Sunday papers a couple of weeks back about it. It’s them electrical

X-ray machines you have up at the house. It said in the paper about

X-rays being able to influence what’s to be born and make monsters of

them. And look at this for a litter of pedigree airedales; not one that would

make even a respectable mongrel. Thirty quid the price of this litter at the

very least.”

“It’s a pity,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure the company won’t accept

responsibility. You must have let your bitch run loose beyond the inner

gate and there’s no excuse for that. It’s too bad you didn’t see that bit in

the Sunday paper a few weeks earlier; you might have kept her chained up

more. You know you’ve been warned about going near the plant.”

“Yes,” he snarled, “I know what chance I’ve got of getting money out of

those crooks. But at least I can get some pleasure out of braining this lot.”

He prepared to swing the pup against the wall. It had been quiet while

we were talking, but now it gave one low howl and opened large eyes in a

way that seemed frantically to suggest that it had been listening to our

conversation, and knew its fate was sealed. I grabbed hold of Jennings’

arm pretty roughly.

“Hold on,” I said. “When did you say those pups were born?”

“This morning,” he growled.

I said, “But its eyes are open. And look at the color! Have you ever seen

an airedale with blue eyes before?”

He laughed unpleasantly. “Has anybody ever seen an airedale with a

head like that before, or a coat like that? It’s no more an airedale than I

am. It’s a cur. And I know how to deal with it.”

The pup was whining to itself, as though realizing the futility of making

louder noises. I pulled my wallet out. “I’ll give you a quid for it,” I said.

He whistled. “You must be mad,” he said. “But why should that worry

me? It’s yours for the money. Taking it now?”

“I can’t,” I said. “My landlady wouldn’t let me. But I’ll pay you ten bob a

week if you will look after it till I can find it a place. Is it a deal?”

He put his hand out again. “In advance?”

I paid him.

“I’ll look after it, guv’nor, even though it goes against the grain. At any

rate it’ll give Glory something to mother.” At least once a day, sometimes

twice, I used to call in to see how the pup was getting along. It was

progressing amazingly. At the end of the second week Jennings asked for

an increase of 2/6d in the charge for keeping it, and I had to agree. It had

fed from the mother for less than a week, after which it had begun to eat

its own food, and with a tremendous appetite.

Jennings scratched his unkempt head when he looked at it. “I don’t

know. I’ve never seen a dog like it. Glory didn’t give it no lessons in eating

or drinking. It just watched her from the corner and one day, when I

brought fresh stuff down, it set on it like a wolf. It ain’t natural.”

Watching the pup eat, I was amazed myself. It seemed to have more

capacity for food than its mother, and you could almost see it putting on

weight and size. And its cleverness! It was hardly more than a fortnight

old when I surprised it carefully pawing the latch of the kennel door open,

to get at some food that Jennings had left outside while going out to open

the gates. But even at that stage I don’t think it was such superficial tricks

that impressed me, so much as the way I would catch it watching

Jennings and me as we leaned over the kennel fence discussing it. There

was such an air of attentiveness about the way it sat, with one ear cocked,

a puzzled frown on that broad-browed, most uncanine face.

Jennings said one day, “Thought of a name for him yet?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to call him Socrates.”

“Socrates?” repeated Jennings. “Something to do with football?”

I smiled. “There was another great thinker with that name several

thousand years ago. A Greek.”

“Oh,” Jennings said scornfully. “A Greek…”

One Friday, evening I brought a friend down to see Socrates —a man

who had made a study of dogs. Jennings wasn’t in. This didn’t surprise me

because he habitually got drunk at least one evening a week and Friday

was his favorite. I took my friend around to the kennels.

He didn’t say anything when he saw the pup, which was now, after three

weeks, the size of a large fox terrier. He examined it carefully, as though

he were judging a prize winner at Cruft’s. Then he put it down and turned

to me.

“How old did you say this dog is?” he asked.

I told him.

He shook his head. “If it were anyone but you who told me, I would call

him a liar,” he said. “Man, I’ve never seen anything like it. And that head…

You say the rest of the litter were the same?”

“The bodies looked identical,” I told him. “That’s what impressed me.

You are liable to get queer freak mutations around these new labs of

ours—double-headed rats and that sort of thing—but five the same in one

litter! That looked like a true mutation to me.”

He said, “Mutations I’m a bit shaky about, but five alike in one litter

look like a true breed to me. What a tragedy that fool killed them:”

“He killed a goose that might have laid him some very golden eggs,” I

said. “Quite apart from the scientific importance of it—I should imagine a

biologist would go crazy at the thought—a new mutated breed like this

would have been worth a packet. Even this one dog might have all sorts of

possibilities. Look!”

Socrates had pushed an old tin against the wall of the kennel and was

using it in an attempt to scale the fence barring the way to the outer

world. His paws scrabbled in vain a few inches from the top.

“Good God!” my friend said. “If it can do that after a month…”

We turned and left the kennels. As we came out I collided with

Jennings. He reeled drunkenly past us.

“Come to feed little Shocratesh,” he said thickly.

I held his shoulder. “That’s all right,” I said. “We’ve seen to them.”

When I dropped in the following day, I was surprised to see a huge,

roughly painted sign hanging over the kennel door. It read:

“PRIVATE. NO ADMITTANCE.”

I tried the door, but it was locked. I looked around. Jennings was

watching me.

“Hello, Professor,” he said. “Can’t you read?”

I said, “Jennings, I’ve come for the pup. My friend is going to look after

him at his kennels.”

Jennings grinned. “Sorry,” he said, “the dog’s not for sale.”

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “I bought him four weeks ago. And

I’ve been paying you for his keep.”

“You got any writing that says that, Professor ?” he asked. “You got a

bill of sale?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jennings,” I said. “Open the door up.”

“You even got any witnesses?” he asked. He came over to me

confidentially.

“Look,” he said, “you’re a fair man. I heard you telling your friend last

night that dog’s a gold mine. You know I own him by rights. Here, I’m a

fair man myself. Here’s three pounds five, the money I’ve had from you in

the last four weeks. You know he’s my gold mine by rights. You wouldn’t

try to do a man like me. You know I paid five quid stud fee for that litter.”

“It was a bargain,” I said. “You were going to throw the pup at the

wall—don’t forget that. You wouldn’t even know the dog was anything out

of the ordinary now, except for listening to a private conversation last

night.” I found my wallet. “Here’s ten pounds. That will make good the

stud fee and a little extra profit for yourself into the bargain.”

He shook his head. “I’m not selling, Professor. And I know my rights in

the law. You’ve got no proof; I’ve got possession.”

I said, “You idiot! What can you do with him? He will have to be

examined by scientists, tested, trained. You don’t know anything about it.”

Jennings spat on the ground. “Scientists!” he exclaimed. “No, I’m not

taking him to no scientists. I’ve got a bit of money saved up. I’m off away

from here tomorrow. I’ll do the training. And you watch the theaters for

the big billboards in a few months’ time—George Jennings and his

Wonder Dog, Socrates! I’ll be up at the West End inside a year.”

It was only three months later that I saw the name on the bills outside

the Empire Theater in Barcaster. There had been no word from Jennings

during that time. As he had said he would, he had gone with the dog,

vanishing completely. Now he was back, and the bill read as he had told

me it would:

GEORGE JENNINGS

AND HIS WONDER DOG,

SOCRATES

I went in and bought a seat in the front row. There were some

knockabout comedians fooling together on the stage; and after them a

team of rather tired-looking acrobats. Jennings was the third in

appearance. He strode on to a fanfare of trumpets, and behind him loped

Socrates.

He was bigger and his rough, tan coat was shaggier than ever. His head

was more in proportion to his body, too, but it was still huge. He looked

nearer to a St. Bernard than any breed I could think of, but he was very

little like a St. Bernard. He was just Socrates, with the same blue eyes

blazing that had surprised me that afternoon four months before.

Jennings had taught him tricks, all right. As they reached the center of

the stage, Socrates staggered up on to his hind legs, waddled to the

footlights and saluted the audience. He swung effortlessly from the

trapezes the acrobats had left, spelled out words in reply to Jennings’

questions, pulling alphabet blocks forward with his teeth. He went

through all the repertoire that trick dogs usually follow, capping them

John Christopher - Socrates.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: