The bear rumbled in his throat. “One of the Dogs was telling me that Jenkins claims webster ain’t their name at all. Says they aren’t websters. Says that they are men—”
“What’s men?” asked Lupus.
“Why, I was just telling you. It’s what Jenkins says—”
“Jenkins,” declared Lupus, “is getting so old he’s all twisted up. Too much to remember. Must be all of a thousand years.”
“Seven thousand,” said the bear. “The Dogs are figuring on having a big birthday party for him. They’re fixing up a new body for him for a gift. The old one he’s got is wearing out—in the repair shop every month or two.”
The bear wagged his head sagely. “All in all, Lupus, the Dogs have done a lot for us. Setting up feeding stations and sending out medical robots and everything. Why, only last year I had a raging toothache—”
The wolf interrupted. “But those feeding stations might be better. They claim that yeast is just the same as meat, has the same food value and everything. But it don’t taste like meat—”
“How do you know?” asked Bruin.
The wolf’s stutter lasted one split second. “Why … why, from what my granddad told me. Regular old hellion, my granddad. He had him some venison every now and then. Told me how red meat tasted. But then they didn’t have so many wardens as they have nowadays.”
Bruin closed his eyes, opened them again. “I been wondering how fish taste,” he said. “There’s a bunch of trout down in Pine Tree creek. Been watching them. Easy to reach down with my paw and scoop me out a couple.”
He added hastily. “Of course, I never have.”
“Of course not,” said the wolf.
One world and then another, running like a chain. One world treading on the heels of another world that plodded just ahead. One world’s tomorrow another world’s today. And yesterday is tomorrow and tomorrow is the past.
Except, there wasn’t any past. No past, that was, except the figment of remembrance that flitted like a night-winged thing in the shadow of one’s mind. No past that one could reach. No pictures painted on the wall of time. No film that one could run backward and see what-once-had-been.
Joshua got up and shook himself, sat down and scratched a flea. Ichabod sat stiffly at the table, metal fingers tapping.
“It checks,” the robot said. “There’s nothing we can do about it. The factors check. We can’t travel in the past.”
“No,” said Joshua.
“But,” said Ichabod, “we know where the cobblies are.”
“Yes,” said Joshua, “we know where the cobblies are. And maybe we can reach them. Now we know the road to take.”
One road was open, but another road was closed. Not closed, of course, for it had never been. For there wasn’t any past, there never had been any, there wasn’t room for one. Where there should have been a past there was another world.
Like two dogs walking in one another’s tracks. One dog steps out and another dog steps in. Like a long, endless row of ball-bearings running down a groove, almost touching, but not quite. Like the links of an endless chain running on a wheel with a billion billion sprockets.
“We’re late,” said Ichabod, glancing at the clock. “We should be getting ready to go to Jenkins’ party.”
Joshua shook himself again. “Yes, I suppose we should. It’s a great day for Jenkins, Ichabod. Think of it—seven thousand years.”
“I’m all fixed up,” Ichabod said, proudly. “I shined myself this morning, but you need a combing. You’ve got all tangled up.”
“Seven thousand years,” said Joshua. “I wouldn’t want to live that long.”
Seven thousand years and seven thousand worlds stepping in one another’s tracks. Although it would be more than that. A world a day. Three hundred and sixty-five times seven thousand. Or maybe a world a minute. Or maybe even one world every second. A second was a thick thing—thick enough to separate two worlds, large enough to hold two worlds. Three hundred sixty-five times seven thousand times twenty-four times sixty times sixty—
A thick thing and a final thing. For there was no past. No going back. No going back to find out about the things that Jenkins talked about—the things that might be truth or twisted memory warped by seven thousand years. No going back to check up on the cloudy legends that told about a house and a family of Websters and a closed dome of nothingness that squatted in the mountains far across the sea.
Ichabod advanced upon him with a comb and brush and Joshua winced away.
“Ah, shucks,” said Ichabod, “I won’t hurt you any.”
“Last time,” said Joshua, “you damn near skinned me alive. Go easy on those snags.”
The wolf had come in, hoping for a between-meals snack, but it hadn’t been forthcoming and he was too polite to ask. So now he sat, bushy tail tucked neatly around his feet, watching Peter work with the knife upon the slender wand.
Fatso, the squirrel, dropped from the limb of an overhanging tree, lit on Peter’s shoulder.
“What you got?” he asked.
“A throwing stick,” said Peter.
“You can throw any stick you want to,” said the wolf. “You don’t need a fancy one to throw. You can pick up just any stick and throw it.”
“This is something new,” said Peter. “Something I thought up. Something that I made. But I don’t know what it is.”
“It hasn’t got a name?” asked Fatso.
“Not yet,” said Peter. “I’ll have to think one up.”
“But,” persisted the wolf, “you can throw a stick. You can throw any stick you want to.”
“Not as far,” said Peter. “Not as hard.”
Peter twirled the wand between his fingers, feeling the smooth roundness of it, lifted it and sighted along it to make sure that it was straight.
“I don’t throw it with my arm,” said Peter. “I throw it with another stick and a cord.”
He reached out and picked up the thing that leaned against the tree trunk.
“What I can’t figure out,” said Fatso, “is what you want to throw a stick for.”
“I don’t know,” said Peter. “It is kind of fun.”
“You websters,” said the wolf, severely, “are funny animals. Sometimes I wonder if you have good sense.”
“You can hit any place you aim at,” said Peter, “if your throwing stick is straight and your cord is good. You can’t just pick up any piece of wood. You have to look and look—”
“Show me,” said Fatso.
“Like this,” said Peter, lifting up the shaft of hickory. “It’s tough, you see. Springy. Bend it and it snaps back into shape again. I tied the two ends together with a cord and I put the throwing stick like this, one end, against the string and then pull back—”
“You said you could hit anything you wanted to,” said the wolf. “Go ahead and show us.”
“What shall I hit?” asked Peter. “You pick it out—”
Fatso pointed excitedly. “That robin, sitting in the tree.”
Swiftly Peter lifted his hands, the cord came back and the shaft to which the cord was tied bent into an arc. The throwing stick whistled in the air. The robin toppled from the branch in a shower of flying feathers. He hit the ground with a soft, dull thud and lay there on his back—tiny, helpless, clenched claws pointing at the treetops. Blood ran out of his beak to stain the leaf beneath his head.
Fatso stiffened on Peter’s shoulders and the wolf was on his feet. And there was a quietness, the quietness of unstirring leaf, of floating clouds against the blue of noon.
Horror slurred Fatso’s words. “You killed him! He’s dead! You killed him!”