He would live as the other raccoons had lived before the Dogs had come along with their ideas about the Brotherhood of Beasts. Like animals had lived before they could talk with words, before they could read the printed books that the Dogs provided, before they had robots that served in lieu of hands, before there was warmth and light for dens.
Yes, and before there was a lottery that told you if you stayed on Earth or went to another world.
The Dogs, Archie remembered, had been quite persuasive about it, very reasonable and suave. Some animals, they said, had to go to the other worlds or there would be too many animals on Earth. Earth wasn't big enough, they said, to hold everyone. And a lottery, they pointed out, was the fair way to decide which of them would go to the other worlds...
And, after all, they said, the other worlds would be almost like the Earth. For they were just extensions of the Earth. Just other worlds following in the track of Earth. Not quite like it, perhaps, but very close. Just a minor difference here and there. Maybe no tree where there was a tree on Earth. Maybe an oak tree where Earth had a walnut tree. Maybe a spring of fresh, cold water where there was no such spring on Earth.
Maybe, Homer had told him, growing very enthusiastic... maybe the world he would be assigned to would be a better world than Earth.
Archie hunched against the hillside, felt the warmish sun of autumn cutting through the cold chill of autumn's wind. He thought about the black haws. They would be soft and mushy and there would be some of them lying on the ground. He would eat those that were on the ground, then he'd climb the tree and pick some more and then he'd climb down again and finish off the ones he bad shaken loose with his climbing of the tree.
He'd eat them, and take them in his paws and smear them on his face. He might even roll in them.
Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the scurrying things running in the grass. Like ants, he thought, only they weren't ants. At least, not like any ants he'd ever seen before.
Fleas, maybe. A new kind of flea.
His paw darted out and snatched one up. He felt it running in his palm. He opened the paw and saw it running there and closed the paw again.
He raised his paw to his ear and listened.
The thing he'd caught was ticking!
The wild robot camp was not at all the way Homer had imagined it would be. There were no buildings, just launching ramps and three spaceships and half a dozen robots working on one of the ships.
Although, come to think of it. Homer told himself, one should have known there would be no buildings in a robot camp. For the robots would have no use of shelter and that was all a building was.
Homer was scared, but he tried hard not to show it. He curled his tail over his back and carried his head high and his ears well forward and trotted towards the little group of robots, never hesitating. When he reached them, he sat down and lolled out his tongue and waited for one of them to speak.
But when none of them did, he screwed up his courage and spoke to them, himself.
"My name is Homer," he said, "and I represent the Dogs. If you have a head robot, I would like to talk to him."
The robots kept on working for a minute, but finally one of them turned around and came over and squatted down beside Homer so that his head was level with the dog's head. All the other robots kept on working as if nothing had happened.
"I am a robot called Andrew," said the robot squatting next to Homer, "and I am not what you would call the head robot, for we have no such thing among us. But I can speak with you."
"I came to you about the Building," Homer told him.
"I take it," said the robot called Andrew, "that you are speaking of the structure to the north-east of us. The one you can see from here if you just turn around."
"That's the one," said Homer. "I came to ask why you are building it."
"But we aren't building it," said Andrew.
"We have seen robots working on it."
"Yes, there are robots working there. But we are not building it."
"You are helping someone else?"
Andrew shook his head. "Some of us get a call... a call to go and work there. The rest of us do not try to stop them, for we are all free agents."
"But who is building it?" asked Homer.
"The ants," said Andrew.
Homer's jaw dropped slack.
"Ants? You mean the insects. The little things that live in ant hills?"
"Precisely," said Andrew. He made the fingers of one hand run across the sand like a harried ant.
"But they couldn't build a place like that," protested Homer. "They are stupid."
"Not any more," said Andrew.
Homer sat stock still, frozen to the sand, felt chilly feet of terror run along his nerves.
"Not any more," said Andrew, talking to himself. "Not stupid any more. You see once upon a time, there was a man named Joe..."
"A man? What's that?" asked Homer.
The robot made a clucking noise, as if gently chiding Homer.
"Men were animals," he said. "Animals that went on two legs. They looked very much like us except they were flesh and we are metal."
"You must mean the websters," said Homer. "We know about things like that, but we call them websters."
The robot nodded slowly; "Yes, the websters could be men. There was a family of them by that name. Lived just across the river."
"There's a place called Webster House," said Homer. "It stands on Webster's Hill."
"That's the place," said Andrew.
"We keep it up," said Homer. "It's a shrine to us, but we don't understand just why. It is the word that has been passed down to us... we must keep Webster House."
"The websters," Andrew told him, "were the ones that taught you Dogs to speak."
Homer stiffened. "No one taught us to speak. We taught ourselves. We developed in the course of many years. And we taught the other animals."
Andrew, the robot, sat hunched in the sun, nodding his bead as if be might be thinking to himself.
"Ten thousand years," he said. "No, I guess it's nearer twelve. Around eleven, maybe."
Homer waited and as he waited he sensed the weight of years that pressed against the hills, the years of river and of sun, of sand and wind and sky.
And the years of Andrew.
"You are old," be said. "You can remember that far back?"
"Yes," said Andrew. "Although I am one of the last of the man-made robots, I was made just a few years before they went to Jupiter."
Homer sat silently, tumult stirring in his brain.
Man... a new word.
An animal that went on two legs.
An animal that made the robots, that taught the Dogs to talk.
And, as if he might be reading Homer's mind, Andrew spoke to him.
"You should not have stayed away from us," he said. "We should have worked together. We worked together once. We both would have gained if we had worked together."
"We were afraid of you," said Homer. "I am still afraid of you."
"Yes," said Andrew. "Yes, I suppose you would be. I suppose Jenkins kept you afraid of us. For Jenkins was a smart one. He knew that you must start fresh. He knew that you must not carry the memory of Man as a dead weight on your necks."
Homer sat silently.
"And we," the robot said, "are nothing more than the memory of Man. We do the things he did, although more scientifically, for, since we are machines, we must be scientific. More patiently than Man, because we have forever, and he had a few short years."
Andrew drew two lines in the sand, crossed them with two other lines. He made an X in the open square in the upper left hand corner.
"You think I'm crazy," he said. "You think I'm talking through my hat."
Homer wriggled his haunches deeper into the sand.
"I don't know what to think," he said. "All these years..."
Andrew drew an O with his finger in the centre square of the cross-hatch he had drawn in the sand.
"I know," he said. "All these years you have lived with a dream. The idea that the Dogs were the prime movers. And the facts are hard to understand, hard to reconcile. Maybe it would be just as well if you forgot what I said. Facts are painful things at times. A robot has to work with them, for they are the only things he has to work with. We can't dream, you know. Facts are all we have."
"We passed fact long ago," Homer told him. "Not that we don't use it, for there are times we do. But we work in other ways. Intuition and cobblying and listening."
"You aren't mechanical," said Andrew. "For you, two and two are not always four, but for us it must be four. And sometimes I wonder if tradition doesn't blind us. I wonder sometimes if two and two may not be something more or less than four."
They squatted in silence, watching the river, a flood of molten silver tumbling down a coloured land.
Andrew made an X in the upper right hand corner of the cross-hatch, an O in the centre upper space, and X in the centre lower space. With the flat of his hand, he rubbed the sand smooth.
"I never win," he said. "I'm too smart for myself."
"You were telling me about the ants," said Homer. "About them not being stupid any more."
"Oh, yes," said Andrew. "I was telling you about a man named Joe..."