Fatso leaped from Peter's shoulder, screamed at them from the branch above. "I will," he shrieked. "I'm going to tell Jenkins."
The wolf snarled at him with a sudden, red-eyed rage. "You dirty little squealer. You lousy tattle-tale."
"I will so," yelled Fatso. "You just wait and see. I'm going to tell Jenkins."
He flickered up the tree and ran along a branch, leaped to another tree.
The wolf moved swiftly.
"Wait," said Peter, sharply.
"He can't go in the trees all the way," the wolf said swiftly. "He'll have to come down to the ground to get across the meadow. You don't need to worry."
"No," said Peter. "No more killings. One killing is enough."
"He will tell, you know."
Peter nodded. "Yes, I'm sure he will."
"I could stop him telling."
"Someone would see you and tell on you," said Peter. "No, Lupus, I won't let you do it."
"Then you better take it on the lam," said Lupus. "I know a place where you could hide. They'd never find you, not in a thousand years."
"I couldn't get away with it," said Peter. "There are eyes watching in the woods. Too many eyes. They'd tell where I had gone. The day is gone when anyone can hide."
"I guess you're right," the wolf said slowly. "Yes, I guess you're right."
He wheeled around and stared at the fallen robin.
"What you say we get rid of the evidence?" he asked.
"The evidence-"
"Why, sure-" The wolf paced forward swiftly, lowered his head. There was a crunching sound. Lupus licked his chops and sat down, wrapped his tail around his feet.
"You and I could get along," he said. "Yes, sir, I have the feeling we could get along. We're so very much alike."
A telltale feather fluttered on his nose.
The body was a lulu.
A sledge hammer couldn't dent it and it would never rust. And it had more gadgets than you could shake a stick at.
It was Jenkins' birthday gift. The line of engraving on the chest said so very neatly:
TO JENKINS FROM THE DOGS
But I'll never wear it, Jenkins told himself. It's too fancy for me, too fancy for a robot that's as old as I am. I'd feel out of place in a gaudy thing like that.
He rocked slowly back and forth in the rocking chair, listening to the whimper of the wind in the eaves.
They meant well. And I wouldn't hurt them for the world. I'll have to wear it once in a while just for the looks of things. Just to please the Dogs. Wouldn't be right for me not to wear it when they went to so much trouble to get it made for me.
But not for every day – just for my very best.
Maybe to the Webster picnic. Would want to look my very best when I go to the picnic. It's a great affair. A time when all the Websters in the world, all the Websters left alive, get together. And they want me with them. Ah, yes, they always want me with them. For I am a Webster robot. Yes, sir, always was and always will be.
He let his head sink and mumbled words that whispered in the room. Words that he and the room remembered. Words from long ago.
A rocker squeaked and the sound was one with the time-stained room. One with the wind along the eaves and the mumble of the chimney's throat.
Fire, thought Jenkins. It's been a long time since we've had a fire. Men used to like a fire. They used to like to sit in front of it and look into it and build pictures in the flames. And dream But the dreams of men, said Jenkins, talking to himself – the dreams of men are gone. They've gone to Jupiter and they're buried at Geneva and they sprout again, very feebly, in the Websters of today.
The past, he said. The past is too much with me. And the past has made me useless. I have too much to remember – so much to remember that it becomes more important than the things there are to do. I'm living in the past and that is no way to live.
For Joshua says there is no past and Joshua should know. Of all the Dogs, he's the one to know. For he tried hard enough to find a past to travel in, to travel back in time and check up on the things I told him. He thinks my mind is failing and that I spin old robot tales, half-truth, half-fantasy, touched up for the telling.
He wouldn't admit it for the world, but that's what the rascal thinks. He doesn't think I know it, but I do.
He can't fool me, said Jenkins, chuckling to himself. None of them can fool me. I know them from the ground up – I know what makes them tick. I helped Bruce Webster with the first of them. I heard the first word that any of them said. And if they've forgotten, I haven't – not a look or word or gesture.
Maybe it's only natural that they should forget. They have done great things. I have let them do them with little interference, and that was for the best. That was the way Jon Webster told me it should be, on that night of long ago. That was why Jon Webster did whatever he had to do to close off the city of Geneva. For it was Jon Webster. It had to be. It could be no one else.
He thought he was sealing off the human race to leave the earth clear for the dogs. But he forgot one thing. Oh, yes, said Jenkins, he forgot one thing. He forgot his own son and the little band of bow and arrow faddists who had gone out that morning to play at being cavemen – and cavewomen, too.
And what they played, thought Jenkins, became a bitter fact. A fact for almost a thousand years. A fact until we found them and brought them home again. Back to the Webster House, back to where the whole thing started.
Jenkins folded his hands in his lap and bent his head and rocked slowly to and fro. The rocker creaked and the wind raced in the eaves and a window rattled. The fireplace talked with its sooty throat, talked of other days and other folks, of other winds that blew from out the west.
The past, thought Jenkins. It is a footless thing. A foolish thing when there is so much to do. So many problems that the Dogs have yet to meet. Over-population, for example. That's the thing we've thought about and talked about too long. Too many rabbits because no wolf or fox may kill them. Too many deer because the mountain lions and the wolves must eat no venison. Too many skunks, too many mice, too many wildcats. Too many squirrels, too many porcupines, too many bear.
Forbid the one great check of killing and you have too many lives. Control disease and succour injury with quick-moving robot medical technicians and another check is gone.
Man took care of that, said Jenkins. Yes, men took care of that. Men killed anything that stood within their path – other men as well as animals.
Man never thought of one great animal society, never dreamed of skunk and coon and bear going down the road of life together, planning with one another, helping one another – setting aside all natural differences.
But the Dogs had. And the Dogs had done it.
Like a Brother Rabbit story, thought Jenkins. Like the childhood fantasy of a long gone age. Like the story in the Good Book about the Lion and the Lamb lying down together. Like a Walt Disney cartoon except that the cartoon never had rung true, for it was based on the philosophy of mankind.
The door creaked open and feet were on the floor. Jenkins shifted in his chair.