“You want me to go?” Schmidt asked, petting Tuffy to keep the dog still.
“No, I need you to help me,” Wilson said. “You might want to move your hands, though.”
“Oh, right,” Schmidt said, and moved a step away from the dog.
Tuffy moved to go after Schimdt, but Wilson said, “Tuffy!” and snapped his fingers at the same time, drawing the little dog’s attention to himself.
“Good dog,” Wilson said, to Tuffy, who gave him a happy doggie smile and wagged his fluffy little tail.
Wilson accessed his BrainPal and got the feed on the two small monitors the dog had on his body, one at the top of his head and the other on his chest, close to his heart. The two monitors showed Tuffy’s brain and heart electrical activity. There was something else on his body as well, at the back of his neck, close to where his spinal cord met his brain. Wilson didn’t have a monitor for it.
“Tuffy! Sit!” Wilson said.
The dog sat, winningly obliging.
“Good boy!” Wilson said. “Play dead!” He pressed the plunger button in his hand.
Tuffy’s brain and heart monitors flatlined instantly. The Lhasa apso gave a tiny squeak and collapsed stiffly, like a stuffed animal blown over by a wind gust.
“‘Play dead’?” Schmidt said, ten seconds later, after examining the dog. “That’s just cruel.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll have bigger problems than a tasteless joke,” Wilson said. “Now, shut up for a couple of minutes, Hart. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” Schmidt said. Wilson nodded and walked over to the dog on the table.
Tuffy was dead.
Wilson poked the body with a finger. No response at all.
“Any time,” Wilson said. The Icheloe had assured him that their biological systems were similar enough to those of Earth vertebrates that Wilson was willing to risk his little experiment. Nevertheless, he wanted the crown to realize its wearer was dead sooner than later.
A minute passed. Two.
“Harry?” Schmidt asked.
“Quiet,” Wilson said, staring at the crown, still nestled on the dog’s body.
Another two minutes passed. Three.
“What do we do if this doesn’t work?” Schmidt asked.
“Are you asking if there’s a plan B?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah,” Schmidt said.
“Sorry, no,” Wilson said.
“Why are you telling me this now?” Schmidt asked.
“Why didn’t you ask earlier?” Wilson asked.
Another minute.
“There,” Wilson said, pointing.
“What?” Schmidt said.
“The crown moved,” Wilson said.
“I didn’t see anything,” Schmidt said.
“You remember that part where my genetically-engineered eyes are about ten times better than yours, right, Hart?” Wilson said.
“Oh, that,” Schmidt said.
“Remove the crown, please,” Wilson said.
Schmidt reached over to the dog and gently removed the crown from the body. It came off easily.
“Got it,” Schmidt said.
“Thank you,” Wilson said. “Stand back now.” Schmidt backed away from the table.
“Okay, Tuffy,” Wilson said, looked at the dog and raised his wand. “Time to learn a new trick.”
He plunged the button down a second time.
The dog twitched, peed himself and scrambled up from the table, barking furiously.
“Wow, he’s pissed,” Schmidt said, smiling.
“True in more than one way, and a totally appropriate response,” Wilson said, smiling himself.
The Icheloe flooded back into the room, one of them carrying a bag full of red fluid: Tuffy’s actual blood.
“Wait,” Wilson said, and realized the Icheloe had no idea what he was saying. He made himself clear through gestures and then turned to Schmidt. “Tell one of them to go get Ambassador Waverly, please,” he said. “I want her to see that her dog is fine before we transfuse the poor thing again.”
Schmidt nodded and spoke to the Icheloe through his PDA. One of them departed in a hurry.
One of the other Icheloe pointed to the dog and looked at Wilson. “How is it that you could give this animal your blood?” Wilson’s BrainPal translated the Icheloe’s chitter as saying. “You’re not even the same species.”
Wilson reached over and borrowed Schmidt’s PDA. “It’s called SmartBlood,” he said, setting the PDA in front of him. “It’s completely non-organic, so the dog’s body wouldn’t reject it. It also has several times the oxygen-carrying capacity, so we could stop the body’s processes for a longer period of time and still have the tissues survive.” Wilson reached over and picked up the still-damp dog, who had stopped barking by this time. “And that’s what we did. Replaced this little guy’s blood with my blood, then stopped this little guy’s heart and brain long enough for the crown to think he’s dead. Then started him up again.”
“It seems risky,” the Icheloe said.
“It was risky,” Wilson said. “But the alternative was worse.”
“You mean us breaking off our diplomatic relationship with you,” said the other Icheloe.
“Well, I was actually thinking of a dead dog,” Wilson said. “But yes, that, too.”
Ambassador Waverly appeared in the doorway, Abumwe and Praetor Gunztar behind her. Tuffy saw his mistress and barked happily. Wilson set the dog on the floor; Tuffy’s nails skittered adorably across the floor surface as he raced over to Waverly.
Everyone dissolved into a puddle of awwwww.
“This is just about the perfect ending, isn’t it?” Schmidt said to Wilson, quietly.
“Just about,” Wilson agreed.
“And I suppose we are to make a pact never to speak of this again,” Schmidt said.
“I think that’s the wisest course, yes,” Wilson said.
“I concur,” Schmidt said. “Furthermore, I suggest that we now commence to get drunk.”
“Agreed,” Wilson said. “I seem to recall you promising me a drink at the end of all this.”
“Do you want us to pour back in that pint of SmartBlood you gave to Tuffy before we do?” Schmidt said.
“You know, I think I’ll be fine without it,” Wilson said.
They watched as Waverly and Tuffy wandered off together, followed by some very concerned Icheloe, carrying Tuffy’s bag of blood.