In time, of course, their additions and refinements exceeded mere human need or comprehension. What do the cows know of the Muzak playing in their dairybarn, except that it makes them feel good? Human labor could manufacture devices according to the Masters’ specification that human understanding would never be able to fathom. But even human labor became obsolete as the Masters—in themselves, a virtually unlimited power supply—stayed on and took things over, setting automatons to do the dirty work, freeing man from the drudgery of the commonplace that had been his perennial complaint. Freeing, at least, those who would accept such freedom—who would, in short, agree to become pets.
Although in many respects the Masters’ innovations had superseded the primitive technology of the 1970’s, they still maintained (largely for the benefit of ungrateful Dingoes) a modified system of electric power lines, lacing the entire world in arcane geometrical patterns that only the Masters could understand—or maintain.
It was to these high-tension lines that the Masters came to bathe and exercise, and so it was to the power lines that I would take my family. Even if there was no way to reach the Masters as they flowed back and forth in the wires overhead, we could follow the lines to some generator or powerhouse, perhaps the one that adjoined Shroeder, perhaps another elsewhere, for kennels were invariably located near power stations.
Once we reached the power line, it would be safe journeying. No Dingo would dare trespass into the very heart of the Masters’ domain.
I rushed to the farm jubilantly. Julie was drawing water at the pump. “Don’t run through the garden, Cuddles,” she called to me. “We’ll need those tomatoes for the winter ahead.”
“It makes… no difference… any more… Darling, Julie!” I had run a long way, and breath came hard. “I found them!… We can go now… home again, home again… jiggety-jog!”
Stumbling up to Julie I gave her a quick kiss and upended the bucket of water over my head, shuddering deliciously. The cold water seemed to stun every nerve ending into a happy numbness. It felt marvelous—almost like the Leash. Julie stood dumbfounded. I kissed her again.
“You beast, you’re soaking wet!”
Clothing does have its inconveniences, the chief of which (once one is used to the discomfort) is absorbency.
“Julie, I found them! I have. We’re practically home already.” And I explained about the power line and what it meant.
Julie looked meditative. “Well, I guess that means we’ll have to leave the farm now?”
“Have to! Mastery, Julie, aren’t you anxious to be away from here?”
“I don’t know. It was coming to seem like our own kennel. It was so nice, so private. And I haven’t started to learn to cook. Do you know what Petite brought home today? Eggs! We can…”
“You want to stay in this wilderness with Dingoes on all sides? Never to be Leashed again? And in this archaic, stinking, ruinous, dirty, foul…” Julie began to cry piteously, and I relented, conscious that I had rather overstated the case. “It would have been every bit that horrible without you. It was nice, Julie, but only on your account. If we go back, I’m sure our Master will let you continue learning to cook. And he’ll rig up a much better kitchen than you have here. With an electric stove.” She brightened, and I pressed my point. “But you know we have to go back. Our Leashes need us. If we stayed here, we’d become no better than Dingoes.”
“I suppose you’re right. I suppose.”
“That’s the spirit! Now, how soon can we be ready? You fix something to carry food in. Blankets would do, and at night we’ll be able to keep warm. And see if you can’t find some shoes that will fit Petite. If we start out early tomorrow, I don’t expect we’ll spend a night in the open, but just in case…”
While Julie improvised knapsacks, I went to the toolshed. There was an ancient weapon there that circumstances had made me uniquely equipped (as it then seemed) to handle—an axe. Not in the flaring Medieval style of St Bernard’s, but lethal enough in its modest way to slice through any number of Dingoes. I found that it was more difficult to throw the thing at a target than it had been at Swan Lake, because the sharp edge of the wedge was as often as not facing in the wrong direction at the moment of impact. However, wielding it by hand I was able to break up armloads of kindling from the broken rafters of the barn. Take that! And that! What ho! What havoc!
Grimly I refined upon the murderous properties of my weapon. I had noticed that the spark-producing machine would put a fine edge on metal that was held against it at the proper angle. After patient experimentation, I had so sharpened the iron blade that the merest touch of it would sliver flesh. Now, I thought, let the Dingoes come!
We set off before noon. Though Petite, still believing it was all a game, was amused and talkative, neither of her parents were in such high spirits. Julie was wistful and melancholic at leaving the farm (though she agreed we had no other choice), and I was nervous and apprehensive. From the hill from which I had espied the power line, we struck out into a wood of scrub pine, birch, and balsam. In the woods there was no way to estimate our progress. The sun can be used as a compass and even, in a rough way, as a clock, but it is no speedometer at all. We walked, and when it seemed that we had walked twice, three times the distance to the power line, we kept on walking. Julie became petulant; I became angry. Then she grew angry and I sulked. But always while we were walking. The brush caught at our pants’ legs, and the mud at the edge of the marshes about which we were forced to detour sucked at our boots. And we walked. Petite, riding pickaback on my shoulders, was having a world of fun slapping the mosquitoes that landed on my forehead. And still we walked.
The sun, striated by long, low, wispy clouds, hung huge and crimson at the horizon behind us; before us a pale sliver of moon peeped over the crest of a hill—and on the hill, black against the indigo of the sky, stood the power line.
Julie dropped her pack and ran up the hill. “Masters!” she cried. “Masters, we’ve come! Leash us. Make us yours again. Bring us home.”
The power line stood stark and immobile, wires swaying gently in the breeze. Julie embraced the wooden pole and screamed at the unhearing wires: “Master, your pets have come back to you. We love you! MASTER!”
“They don’t hear you,” I said softly. “If they could hear you, they would come.”
Julie stood up, squaring her shoulders bravely, and joined me where I had remained at the foot of the hill. There were no tears in her eyes. But her lips were pressed together in a mirthless, unbecoming smile. “I hate them,” she pronounced clearly. “With my whole being, I hate them!” Then she fell into my arms in a dead faint.
Petite stayed awake to keep me company through the early hours of the evening. We listened to the nightsounds of animals and birds and tried to guess what they were. At about nine o’clock by the moon, a complete and utter silence enveloped the land.
“Now that’s strange,” I observed.
“What’s strange, Papa?”
“That when the crickets are quiet, there’s no sound at all. Not a scrap. Aren’t wires supposed to hum? To make some small noise? These don’t. I think they may be dead.”
“Dead?” echoed Petite. “Are the Masters dead? Will the Dingoes eat us now? Will they let me go to the bathroom first? Because when I get scared…”
“No, Pete sweet. The wires are dead, not the Masters. The Masters will never die. Don’t you remember what I told you the other day about God?”