Toby hugged him. Then in hushed, conspiratorial tones: "Okay, see, we're in a rebel starfighter on the edge of the Crab Nebula. I'm the captain and ace Inner You're a super-superintelligent alien from a lanet that circles the Dog Star, plus you're psychic, you can read the thoughts of the bad aliens in their starfighters, trying to blow us apart, which they I don't know. They don't know… They're crabs with sort of hands instead of just claws, see, like this, crab hands, rack-scrick-scrack-scrick, and they're mean, really really vicious. Like after their mother gives birth to eight or ten of them at once, they turn on her and eat her alive! You know? Crunch her up.
Feed on her. Mean as it, these guys. You know what I'm saying?"
Falstaff regarded him face-to-face throughout the briefing and then licked him from chin to nose when he finished. "All right, you know!
Okay, let's see if we can ditch these crab geeks by going into hyperspace-jump across half the galaxy and leave em in the dust. So what's the first thing we got to do? Yeah, right, put up e cosmic-radiation shields so we don't wind up full of pinholes from traveling faster than all the subatomic particles we'll be passing through." He switched on the reading lamp above his headboard, reached to the draw cord- "Shields up!" — and pulled the privacy drapes all the way shut. Instantly the alcove bed became a cloistered capsule that could be any sort of vehicle, ancient or futuristic, traveling as slow as a sedan chair or faster than light through any part of the world or out of it.
"Lieutenant Falstaff, are we ready?" Toby asked. Before the game could begin, the retriever bounded off the bed and between the bunk drapes, which fell shut again behind him. Toby grabbed the draw cord and pulled the drapes open.
"What's the matter with you?" The dog was at the stairwell door, sniffing. "You know, dogbreath, this could be viewed as mutiny."
Falstaff glanced back at him, then continued to investigate whatever scent had fascinated him. "We got crabulons trying to kill us, you want to go play dog." Toby got out of bed and joined the retriever at the door. "I know you don't have to pee. Dad took you out already, and you got to make yellow snow before I ever did." The dog whimpered again, made a disgusted sound, then backed away from the door and growled low in his throat.
"It's nothing, it's some steps, that's all." Falstaff's black lips skinned back from his teeth. He lowered his head as if he was ready for a gang of crabulons to come through that door right now, scrackscrick-scrack-scrick, with their eye stalks wiggling two feet above their heads. "Dumb dog. I'll show you." He twisted open the lock, turned the knob.
The dog whimpered and backed away. Toby opened the door. The stairs were dark.
He flipped on the light and stepped onto the landing. Falstaff hesitated, looked toward the half-open hall door as if maybe he would bolt from the bedroom
You're the one was so interested," Toby reminded him. "Now come on, I'll show you-just stairs." As if he had been shamed into it, the dog joined Toby on the landing. His tail was held so low that the end of.it curled around one of his hind legs. Toby descended three steps, wincing as the first one squeaked and then the third. If Mom or Dad was in the kitchen below, he might get caught, and then they'd think he was sneaking out to grab up some snow-in his bare feet! — to bring it back to his room to watch it melt. Which wasn't a bad idea, actually.
He wondered whether snow was interesting to eat. Three steps, two squeaks, and he stopped, looked back at the dog. "Well?" Reluctantly, Falstaff moved to his side. crural. Trying to make as little noise as possible. Well, one of them was trying, anyway, staying close to the wall, where the treads weren't as likely to creak, but the other… one had claws that ticked and scraped on the wood. Toby whispered,
"Stairs.
Steps. See? You can go down. You can go up. Big deal. What'd you think was behind the door, huh? Doggie hell?" Each step they descended brought one new step into view. The way the walls curved, you couldn't see far ahead, couldn't see the bottom, just a few steps with the paint worn thin, lots of shadows because of the dim bulbs, so maybe the lower landing was just two steps below or maybe it was a hundred, five hundred, or — maybe you went down and down and around and around for ninety thousand steps, and when you reached the bottom you were at the center of the earth with dinosaurs and lost cities. "In doggie hell," he told Falstaff, "the devil's a cat. You know that?
Big cat, really big, stands on his hind feet, has claws like razors " Down and around, slow step by slow step. " this big devil cat, he wears a cape made out of dog fur, necklace out of dog teeth.
… " Down and around. " and when he plays marbles " Wood creaking underfoot. " he uses dogs' eyes! Yeah, that's right "
Falstaff whimpered. " he's one mean cat, big mean cat, mean as shit." They reached the bottom. The vestibule. The two doors.
"Kitchen," Toby whispered, indicating one door. He turned to the other. "Back porch." He could probably twist open the deadbolt, slip onto the porch, scoop up a double handful of snow, even if he had to go as far as the yard to get it, but still make it back inside and all the way up to his room without his mom or dad ever knowing about it.
Make a real snowball, his first. Take a taste of it. When it started to melt, he could just put it in a corner of his room, and in the morning, there'd be no evidence. Just water. Which, if anyone noticed it, he could blame on Falstaff.
Toby reached for the doorknob with his right hand and for the dead-bolt turn with his left. The retriever jumped up, planted both paws on the wall beside the door, and clamped his jaws around Toby's left wrist.
Toby stifled a squeal of surprise. -Falstaff held the wrist firmly, but he didn't bite down, didn't really hurt, just held on and rolled.his eyes at Toby, as if what he would have said, if he could speak, was something like, No, you can't open this door, it's nuts, forget it, no way. "What're you doing?" Toby whispered. "Let go." Falstaff would not let go. "You're drooling on me," Toby said as a rivulet of thick saliva trickled down his wrist and under the sleeve of his pajama tops.
The retriever worked his teeth slightly, still not hurting his master but making it clear that he could cause a little pain anytime he wanted. "What, is Mom paying you?" Toby let go of the doorknob with his right hand. The dog rolled his eyes, relaxed his jaws, but didn't entirely let go of the left wrist until Toby released the thumb-turn on the lock and lowered his hand to his side. Falstaff dropped away from the wall, onto all fours again.
Toby stared at the door, wondering if he would be able to move quickly enough to open it before the dog could leap up and seize his wrist again. The retriever watched him closely. Then he wondered why Falstaff didn't want him to go outside. Dogs could sense danger.
Maybe a bear was prowling around outside, one of the bears that Dad said lived in the woods. A bear could gut you and bite your head off so quick you wouldn't have a chance to scream, crunch your skull up like hard candy, pick its teeth with your armbone, and all they'd find in the morning was a bloody scrap of pajamas and maybe a toe that the bear had overlooked. He was scaring himself.
He checked the crack between the door and the jamb to be sure the deadbolt was actually in place. He could see the dull brass shine of it in there. Good. Safe.
Of course, Falstaff had been afraid of the door above too, curious but afraid.
He hadn't wanted to open it. Hadn't wanted to come down here, really.
But nobody had been waiting for them on the steps. No bear, for sure.
Maybe this was just a dog who spooked easy. "My dad's a hero," Toby whispered. Falstaff cocked his head. "He's a hero cop. He's not afraid of nothin', and I'm not afraid of nothin', either." The dog stared at him as if to say, Yeah? So what next? Toby looked again at the door in front of him. He could just open it a crack. Take a quick look. If a bear was on the porch, slam the door fast. "If I wanted to go out there and pet a bear, I would." Falstaff waited. "But it's late. I'm tired.