The guy’s eyes narrowed. His finger twitched.
“Let me try that again.”
“You’re making a joke.” He looked bewildered. Slowly, comprehension spread across his face.
Next thing Dashaud knew, his hand was being gripped and eagerly pumped up and down.
“Cantrell. Abel. It’s an honor to meet you. Didn’t recognize you at first.”
“Do we know each other?”
“Skin color didn’t match. You look lighter than your photo. Threw me off. You know how it is. Can’t be too careful. Let me show you around.”
Dashaud turned out to be something of a hero of his. Once over the recog hump, he got the red carpet treatment, beginning with the house, then the grounds, an acre and a half of high desert with an unobstructed view of more of the same, all the way to the horizon. The tour ended in the other building on the property, the workshop, which was the jewel box, and dwarfed the house.
Big, airy, neat, and bright, with four large stainless-steel tables on the ground floor, two more on the upper, equipment of every sort hanging on pegboards, resting on overhead racks, standing on edge against walls, and hidden in meticulously labeled cabinets and drawers. On one of the tables was an open metal box stuffed with wires and circuit boards, with a sleeve jutting out that connected to a jointed arm that ended in a cup with a rubber ball. (A game of catch? Batting practice? His host didn’t seem the type. Of fetch? More likely, but with what? He’d seen no pets.) On another was version 3.4 of his patented, custom-made, automated feline feeder, adapted to the outdoors to service ferals, and equipped with mo detection and facial analytics to exclude skunks, raccoons, opossums, rats, and other party crashers. It was working well except for the opossums, which were somehow eluding the software.
“Maybe they’re playing possum,” suggested Dashaud.
Cantrell gave him a look. “What else would they be playing?”
Industrious, inventive, and literal to a fault. Dashaud loved the guy. He was there for a reason but didn’t mind putting it off.
Cantrell moved the metal box, then returned to the table, which was bolted to the concrete floor. He pulled out his handheld, entered a code, and a tawny, green-eyed tabby appeared on-screen. He touched one of the tabby’s eyes, swept his finger to an ear, then a paw, then repeated this in reverse. After the third time the tabby mewed, and scampered offscreen. Cantrell stepped back. Four previously hidden seams appeared in the floor, which opened like a door. The table swung up and over to reveal a set of stairs.
“My hideaway,” said Cantrell.
“They’re down there?”
“Safe and sound. Go ahead. Light’ll come on by itself.”
He hadn’t set eyes on one for years. Had made his peace. You did what you did. In hindsight everyone was guilty of something.
He started down.
The light came on.
Water under the bridge.
He reached the bottom.
The losers were the ones who never did anything.
The room was cave-like. A refrigeration unit sat on the floor in front of him, connected via hose to a cupboard-sized stainless-steel panel mounted on a wall.
They were in the panel. Had to be.
His heart was in his throat.
Cantrell was right behind him. “Excited?”
He shrugged.
“Guess that’s a yes. Let’s not prolong the suspense.”
He strode forward, put his hand on the panel, then paused, prolonging it. “Not that there is any. Don’t get the wrong idea. They’re in tip-top shape.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“You bet they are. Couldn’t be better.” He ran his finger along the panel’s edge with evident affection. “I check them regularly. I have a system. You don’t want to take too long. Don’t want to risk disturbing them.”
One by one he released the panel’s clamps, and slowly removed the cover. There were three of them nestled behind a thick plate of glass, curled like commas, barely touching, suspended in translucent fluid, with no room to spare.
Dashaud’s stomach lurched.
His mind rebelled. He took a step back, repulsed.
What had he done?
And yet.
When was progress ever black and white? How else did men and women advance?
They were hideous. Appalling.
But beautiful, too.
Beautifully conceived, designed, and executed. He couldn’t forget the day they came to life. His pride and joy.
His creations.
Cantrell was champing at the bit. “So? What do you think?”
“They’re hibernating?”
“Of course.”
He had a welter of emotions, which he cloaked behind a professional veneer. “Fully functional?”
“Will be, once they’re thawed out.”
Naturally, he’d say this. “How cold do you keep them?”
“Cold as I can without harming them. Just above freezing. Never lower than point-three, higher than point-seven. Narrow range.”
“You made the cooling system?”
“All of it. Cooling, housing, electronics.”
“Impressive.”
“The premade stuff is junk. Even the good stuff is never quite what you need. Doing it yourself saves time in the end. Saves money.” He touched the glass, traced the outline of one of them. “I’m quite fond of this particular system.”
Dashaud leaned in to study it closer. An intricate puzzle of hoses, filters, gauges, housing, and circuitry. Ingenious and original, though his eye, understandably, kept wandering to the living contents.
“It’s a work of art,” he said.
“Does the job,” replied Cantrell, basking.
“How long have you had them?”
“Ten years next month.”
“Like this?”
“Pretty much.”
“Long time.”
“They’re worth holding onto.”
Not what he was getting at. “How do we know they’re still good?”
“It’s a good system. Works on mice, rabbits, monkeys. All your basic vertebrates. No reason it’s not going to work with these. Would have been easier if you’d engineered them with an eye toward longevity. But they’ll be fine. Warm ’em up, you’ll see.”
He replaced the cover, clamped it down, and ushered Dashaud upstairs. In the workshop he pointed out a similar-looking panel, this one portable.
“Longevity wasn’t our aim,” Dashaud replied defensively. “Our concerns were more immediate.”
“Knee-jerk,” said Cantrell.
“Urgent.”
“Ecologically unsound.”
“How so?”
“You made them disposable.”
“Readily available and easy to use,” said Dashaud. The description the makers preferred.
“Not saying it was a flaw in the design. In the planning, more like. Strictly short-term. Not seeing the forest, et cetera, et cetera. What governments do.”
“What’s the forest?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Completely different reason. There’s no threat, real or otherwise. No danger. No anything.”
Cantrell wasn’t buying it. “You’re just spending money for the fun of it? You’re a collector maybe? A dealer in rare things?”
He was fishing, and wasn’t far off. In a way they did belong in a museum.
“Research,” said Dashaud.
“On what?”
“Classified. Sorry.”
Cantrell nodded knowingly, a gleam in his eye, then escorted his guest out of the workshop. In the house he offered him shark and Aquavit.
Dashaud was touched: the guy had done his research, and gone out of his way. But shark? In the desert? A thousand miles from any ocean, not to mention the chill waters of Iceland, where proper sharks were caught, beheaded, fermented, and hung to dry. Nothing could touch them for flavor and taste. He’d been spoiled by perfection, and took a pass.