Not you, the creature said. Not I. I can only wait. I can only keep the faith.
Perhaps among the stars, thought Daniels, might be those who did know. Perhaps by listening to the stars, perhaps by trying to break in on their conversations and by asking questions, he might get an answer. Certainly there must be some universal ethics. A list, perhaps, of Universal Commandments. Maybe not ten of them. Maybe only two or three—but any number might be enough.
“I can’t stay and talk,” he said. “I have animals to take care of. Could you stick around? Later we can talk.”
He fumbled for the lantern on the bench against the wall, found the matches on the shelf. He lit the lantern and its feeble flame made a puddle of light in the darkness of the room.
You have others to take care of? asked the creature. Others not quite like yourself? Others, trusting you, without your intelligence?
“I guess you could say it that way,” Daniels said, “I’ve never heard it put quite that way before.”
Could I go along with you? the creature asked, it occurs to me, just now, that in many ways we are very much alike.
“Very much—” But with the sentence hanging in the air, Daniels stopped.
Not a hound, he told himself. Not the faithful dog. But the shepherd. Could that be it? Not the master but the long-lost lamb?
He reached out a hand towards the creature in a swift gesture of understanding, then pulled it back, remembering it was nothing he could touch.
He lifted the lantern and turned toward the door.
“Come along,” he said.
Together the two of them went through the storm toward the barn and the waiting cows.