A Day for Damnation

SIX

THE CHOPPER was an hour late, and it was another hour before we got off the ground. Then there was a spring storm over most of Utah, so the pilot chose to detour south. It would be daylight before we touched down in California.

And the only reading matter aboard was the briefing book. It was incomplete and took only twenty minutes to finish. It was all background, nothing about our assignment, and it didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. The infestations were spreading faster than our ability to burn them out.

There was one interesting footnote, however. Oakland had two worms now, but they didn't really know what to do with them because they didn't know how to interpret their behavior. The note said they needed a worm expert, someone who knew the creatures in their normal habitat.

I pointed out the use of the word "normal" to Duke. He snorted too when he saw it.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," he added. He closed his eyes again and appeared to go back to sleep.

I envied him. I can't sleep on airplanes. I can doze, but I keep waking up suddenly. Any little noise, any little bump or bounce, any change in engine sound and I'm instantly alert, wondering if everything is all right. I get off airplanes exhausted.

I stared out the window at the distant flashes of lightning. The storm was a nasty one. The cloud banks towered like the walls of a canyon-a gigantic one. The moonlight gave them an eerie blue sheen. Every few seconds, one or another of the towering masses would crackle and flare and light up the whole sky. Beautiful-and terrifying.

I wondered about the people below. Did anyone still live out there?

We were a planet of scattered survivors, all scranblivg like inad to stay alive long enough to get the crops in. Somewhere between seventy and ninety percent-there was no way to know for sure-of the human race had died in the first three years. There was no way to know how many had been lost to the plagues and how many to associated disasters and aftereffects. I'd heard a rumor, unconfirmed, that the suicide rate was still climbing.

I wondered about that too. When you've lost everything and have nothing left to live for-I wondered how close I was-

It was a long flight....

Eventually, the sun tinged the horizon behind us and we began dropping toward Oakland. I was on the wrong side of the ship to see San Francisco. I was disappointed in that-I wanted to sec how bad it looked from the air. They said the city was still iii pretty grim shape. I'd seen pictures, of course, but it wasn't the samc. Besides, my dad had died in San Francisco

Well, disappeared anyway....

There was a car waiting for us on the ground, but we were delayed by the inevitable decontamination baths-no telling what bugs were still floating around-and then had to wait again until our vaccinations could be updated.

It was another hour before we were in the Jeep and on otir way south. We didn't have a driver-the car knew the way without one. There was the standard taped welcome on the screen, which Duke and I both ignored, and a thermos of te

The jeep delivered us to the Special Forces officers' billet-formerly the downtown Oakland Holiday hin. "Probably because they couldn't find worse," Duke explained. There were no humans on duty here either-just a couple of terminals, a bell-cart and a mindless robot, noisily polishing the lobby floor. We had to step around it to get to the desk.

The terminal beeped and clucked, checked our ID, issued us key-cards and wished us a nice stay. It also called us "Mr. and Mrs. Anderson."

Duke wasn't amused.

"It must have heard what you said-" I pointed out. We were following the bell-cart down the hall. "You know, all these machines talk to each other. They compare notes."

Duke gave me a withering sideways glance. I shut up. One day I would learn-Duke did not appreciate whimsy. "Clean up quickly," he said.

"No sleep-?"

"You'll sleep in October. There's a war on, remember?" Right.

A hot shower and a shave later-the second-best substitute for six hours sleep, (the first-best being eight hours sleep)-Duke handed me hardcopy orders. "There's a colloquium at ten hundred about the worms. You're already cleared through. I want you to specifically see if anyone knows anything about nesting habits. They've already got the disks of yesterday's mission. Find out if they've seen them. I think we're seeing another shift in behavior. Oh yeah-and be polite. The science boys are starting to chafe at the presence of the military."

"Right. "

As interested as I was in the Chtorran ecology, I still would have preferred the sleep. With luck, I could sleep in the session-as long as they didn't put me in the front row.

The Oakland Control Section of the United States Ecological Agency was hidden behind a long range of rolling hills. The jeep whined as it rolled up the winding slope. As it came over the top, I saw that most of the buildings below were hardened inflatables. They were large and roomy and blandly amorphous. A platoon of twenty shining robots was mowing the lawns around the buildings. Lawns! I didn't know whether to laugh at the extravagance-or be annoyed at the waste of energy. But the grass was green and lush looking.

I showed my credentials to the gort at the entrance-it scanned them with an evil-looking eye; these machines weren't designed for friendliness-and then passed me through. I still hadn't seen another human being yet.

The jeep headed toward the largest of the domes. It rolled right into the building and delivered me to a tall set of double-steel doors and an armed sergeant in a glass booth. The glass looked thick and the sergeant wore a grim expression.

The jeep beeped. Something clicked. The red lights went on above the doors. Surveillance cameras swiveled to look at meand so did other devices that weren't cameras.

Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought.

The sergeant looked up, saw I was an officer and saluted perfunctorily. Then he directed me to approach the booth and stand on the white platform in front of it.

After he finished scanning me, the sergeant let me take two steps forward to state my business. He studied his screens for a moment, nodded and hit a button. The red lights went off, the surveillance cameras swiveled back into their housings-so did the other devices-and I relaxed. Somewhat.

The sergeant touched another button and the steel doors groaned and slid apart, revealing a bright-lit maze of doors, passageways, stairs, halls, catwalks and elevators. There were conduits and pipes everywhere, all brightly colored and labeled with large stenciled letters and numbers. It looked like they'd forgotten the interior walls of the building.

I looked to the sergeant with what I hoped was a questioning expression.

The sergeant nodded-obviously he'd seen the expression before-and pointed to a door. He directed me down a long featureless corridor-follow the red stripe on the floor-and into an anteroom, through the double doors and

A lady in a white coat looked up from her desk and greeted me with a frown. "You're-?"

"McCarthy, James Edward, Lieutenant, Special Forces."

She looked back to her terminal. "You're not on my list-"

"I just arrived in Oakland two hours ago="

"I'll have to double-check this-" She was already reaching for the phone.

I said the magic words: "-and I'm in the Uncle Ira Group." She replaced the phone neatly on the hook. "Right." She slid her chair back and stood up. I saw that she needed a cane to walk. "Follow me, please-"

Through another set of double doors, and down another corridor-why bother with security, I wondered; just paint out all the stripes and nobody will be able to find anything-and into a small angular theater, already darkened. The seats were stacked in steep rows overlooking a curtained wall. A young-looking woman in a lab coat stood at the podium. I saw a lot of uniforms and lab coats and grim faces. I looked for a place in the rear of the room, preferably a comfortable one

"There's one down here, Lieutenant-" the woman at the podium said. She looked familiar.

I threaded my way down toward the front row. Damn. "Oh-it's McCarthy. I thought I recognized the Special Forces." Now I knew her. I smiled back-weakly. Her name was Fletcher-but she'd once introduced herself as Lucrezia Borgia. I didn't know her first name. As I took my seat, she said, "Good to see you again, Lieutenant."

The man sitting in the next chair glanced at me curiously. I flushed with embarrassment.

"All right," said Dr. Fletcher. "Let's get back to work. Dr. Abbato at the Cairo Institute has raised an interesting question about the gastropedes-and their place in their own ecology-and that's opened up a very interesting, and perhaps very fruitful, line of research. I think you'll find today's demonstration very-" she allowed herself a smile, "-enlightening."

I propped my elbow on the chair arm and my chin on my knuckles, and tried to look awake.

Dr. Fletcher had close-cropped dark hair. She had high cheekbones and wore thin-rimmed glasses-and she had that professional look, neither plain nor pretty. She looked competent. I guessed it was the crisp way she handled herself.

"Dr. Abbato has posed the question-what kind of ecology could produce creatures like the Chtorran worm? What is the home planet like? That's where he began.

"All right-these are today's answers:

"Heavier gravity, we know that. The musculature of Chtorran creatures, the strength of their shells and skeletons, the rigidity of Chtorran plant stems-we are assuming that Chtorr had a minimum gravity of 1.1 Earth normal and a maximum of 1. 5. That latter figure is probably a little high, but we're giving ourselves a margin for error.

"A thicker atmosphere, of course, but we have no way of really knowing its makeup. Chtorran plants and animals are extraordinarily good at extracting oxygen from this atmosphere, so we are allowing the assumption that the Chtorran air has somewhat less free oxygen.

"We do think that the Chtorran primary is a red star. Very old. Perhaps very close to final collapse. Chtorran plants seem to prefer red light, the redder the better, and Chtorran eyes seem to work best in the red end of the spectrum.

"And finally, we think that the Chtorran ecology is at least a half-billion years older than ours. That means-if Chtorr evolved anything like Earth-that there were the equivalent of mammals, or even more advanced life-forms, walking the surface of Chtorr when the best this planet had to offer was slime not even distinctive enough to make an interesting fossil. That means that the Chtorran ecology has at least a half-billion-year head start in the evolution race."

I tried to stifle a yawn. I knew all this

Dr. Fletcher looked over at me. "We'll get to the good parts in a minute, Lieutenant. Try to stay awake until then, if you can." I blushed embarrassedly and straightened in my seat.

Dr. Fletcher continued, "If the same processes of evolution have held true on Chtorr, then the planet should have evolved a particularly nasty and competitive food chain-and so far, that's exactly what we've seen.

"Using our own ecology as a model-the only ecology we have to base a model on-we know that the process of evolution is a process of continually adding links to the food chain. Reptiles evolved out of fish to eat fish-and then each other. Mammals evolved out of reptiles to eat reptiles and fish-and each other.

"What comes after mammals? And what comes after that? And after that? And whatever comes after that-presumably, that's what rules Chtorr. Whatever it is, it has to be at the top of its food chain.

"That was the initial hypothesis. I'll give you a minute to think about that. The implications are interesting. Dr. Abbato did his homework on this one."

Dr. Fletcher studied her notes for a moment, then looked back up with a smile. "The first one is that a sentient species has to be at the top of its food chain. It can't be otherwise. Think about it. New forms always arise to feed on the old. What else can they feed on? The high levels have to be predatory. And predators are the life-forms most likely to develop intelligence. You're probably all familiar with Dr. Cohen's famous remark, `Intelligence develops first in predators. After all, how much brains does it take to sneak up on a blade of grass?"'

There were polite chuckles. It was an old joke.

But Dr. Fletcher wasn't interested in laughs. She pushed on. "It's pretty clear that the higher level the predator, the higher its capacity for intelligence. Carrying that one step further, we think that sentience is most likely to develop in a top-level omnivore." Dr. Fletcher allowed herself an impish smile. "We recognize, of course, that we may be biased in that assumption-because we are the only proof of it we have.

"But, we think it is also what we will find with the Chtorran sentient Chtorran species-when we meet it. We expect that they will be nothing less than the most cunning and sophisticated predator of all Chtorran life-forms. And, of course, that implies-given the half-billion-year evolutionary advantage of the Chtorr-that the primary perception that sentience can have of us, specifically our ecology, will be as prey. Food. Another kind of snack. At best, lunch.

"In fact, given that half-billion-year advantage, the rest of the Chtorran ecology can be expected to operate the same way. We are nothing more than fuel for them-and probably not even very efficient fuel, at least not as efficient as they're probably used to, which is probably why they need to burn so much of it-us. As a matter of fact, the Chtorran ecology has demonstrated a voraciousness that is nothing less than stunning. Of course, that also suggests that the Chtorran ecology has to generate a prodigious supply of life-support to fuel its primary species.

"So, given all of that, we have been making the assumptionand so did Dr. Abbato-that the Chtorran species we've seen so far are just the advance guard of a much greater invasion still to come. The assumption is that whatever agency or sentience is responsible for the infestation depends on these creatures for lifesupport-and that we are not going to see the arrival of the next level of infestation until such time as this life-support level is safely and solidly established. As a matter of fact, our whole war effort has been geared not toward eradication-because we don't yet have the resources or the knowledge necessary for that, perhaps someday-but toward destabilizing the interrelationships of the infestation. Finally, that brings us back to Dr. Abbato. And the questions he was left with.

"Dr. Abbato wondered, `If all of these assumptions are indeed true, then what is the purpose of the gastropedes in the Chtorran food chain? What function do they serve?"'

I wondered if she had an answer-and if we'd get to it today. I snuck a glance at my watch.

"This is one of those questions that seems very innocuous, until you get into it-then you find out it's actually a major paradigm-shifter. It's forcing us to rethink everything we know, so pay attention here. You too, Lieutenant-"

She didn't miss a thing! No more front row seats.

"We've been assuming that the worms are at the top of the Chtorran food chain-that is, this particular subset of it. We've not yet found a worm predator. Considering the voraciousness of the worms, I'm not sure we want to see a next step. We still don't know how to cope with this one. But, if the worms actually are at the top of the food chain, then they would also have to be the sentient species-and so far there's no evidence of that. In fact, there's quite a bit of evidence to the contrary. So, we're pretty sure that the worm predator has not yet shown up or established itself. Which brings us back to Dr. Abbato's question. What are the worms?

"As a matter of fact, the worms seem to be something of an anomaly even in their own ecology. For instance, what do the worms feed on?"

They eat people, I answered. But I didn't say it aloud.

"We can't identify a prey species," Dr. Fletcher said. "Yes, we've seen the worms eating millipedes and other Chtorran life-forms-that's to be expected-but for the most part, the worms have been feeding on the host planet ecology: cattle, sheep, horses, dogs, and humans, unfortunately.

"We've analyzed the protein requirements of an average-size worm and measured it against the amount of millipedes and other Chtorran life-forms it would have to consume to generate that amount of protein, and the ratio is simply unworkable. The worms can't eat enough millipedes and shambler bushes and libbits to survive. These Chtorran life-forms are simply not high enough on the chain to be the primary food source for the worms. The worms are not the predators for these Chtorran species, and these species are not the prey for the worms. If this is a food chain as we understand it, then there are links missing from this food chain!

"And that brings us to this very important question: if the worms are supposed to be predators, then where-or what-are the creatures they are supposed to prey on?

"Dr. Abbato has advanced a very interesting hypothesis-albeit an unpleasant one-that we are the intended prey."

Huh? I sat up straight.

Dr. Fletcher had paused to let the murmurs of her audience to die down. She looked out over the room. Abruptly, she pointed at someone behind me. "Yes, you have a question?"

I turned around in my seat to look. It was a tall man in an army uniform. A grim-looking colonel. He had a tight mouth. I wondered, do colonels get special training to master that expression? He asked, "Can you prove that?"

Dr. Fletcher nodded and rubbed the side of her neck thoughtfully. She looked as if she were debating whether to give the long answer or the short one. She glanced up at the rest of us. "The question is, how do we know that the purpose of the worms is to eat people? The answer is, because that's exactly what they're doing."

"That's not the kind of answer I was expecting-" the colonel said.

Dr. Fletcher nodded in agreement. "I know it sounds flip," she said. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Kinsey summed up all animal behavior a long time ago: the only unnatural act is the one you can't do. If the worms couldn't eat Terran life-forms, they wouldn't."

I held my tongue-it made sense. Too much sense. The realization was a pain in the gut.

"Dr. Abbato has based a very interesting argument on this fact. He is postulating that this circumstance is not accidental. He is suggesting that the real purpose of the worms is a cleanup of the top level of the Terran ecology. The worms are specifically targeted to eat those humans who have survived the plagues."

My stomach felt like it was contracting into a pinhole. I almost missed what she said next.

"Dr. Abbato thinks that it is unlikely that the worms are food for the next step in the invasion. The worms are too efficient a predator. Too specialized for sentience? Rather, he thinks that the worms are a partner species and that ultimately, they will serve some kind of support function for the real invaders." She paused and looked carefully around the room. "Do you get it? The worm's are domestic animals! Dr. Abbato guesses that they're the equivalent of sheep dogs; they function as guardians of the host species' property."

Urk. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. I didn't want to know this. My belly hurt.

"If this is so-" Dr. Fletcher was pointing out, "then it means that the worms can be tamed." She stopped and looked out over us. "Think about it. Think about the possibilities. If we can tame them-perhaps we can turn them into an ally. Perhaps we can even use them as the first line of defense against the sentients who put them here."

I doubted that, but she had my attention. You couldn't have dynamited me out of my chair. Stomach pain and all.

"The question is-how do you tame a worm?

"But let's get even more basic than that. How do you communicate with a worm? Or even--can we communicate with the worms? In fact, even more basic than that, the question is this: how intelligent are the worms? That's what we need to know first, and that is the point of today's demonstration."

Huh? Demonstration? Had I slept through something?

She lifted her podium and carried it over to the right side of the stage. "I'll open the curtain in a minute and you can see the specimen we're currently working with. We call it 'Tiny'-you'll see that it's anything but. I think you'll also see that the question of intelligence is very clearly answered by this demonstration.

"Tiny was captured near Mendocino late last year. At that time, the specimen massed four hundred and fifty kilos. It is now twice that weight. Tiny is living proof that the gastropedes have an incredible rate of growth. By the way, you'll notice that we try to be very careful not to use `he' or `she' when talking about the worms. We're still not certain of their sexuality and we don't want to accidentally prejudice our own perceptions."

She touched a button on her podium and the curtains behind her slid open to reveal a pink-lit chamber. The theater overlooked a deep-walled room, large and almost featureless; we were staring down into it. "The color of the light is halfway between Earthnormal and what we believe to be Chtorr-normal."

Dr. Fletcher touched another button and a panel on the opposite wall of the chamber slid open. There was darkness beyond. "This is Tiny," she said. A medium-sized worm slid out of the darkness, sniffing the air as it moved. It was thick and red. The brain case hump on its back was very pronounced and it held its eyes high and alert. They swiveled back and forth, up and down, scanning the entire space. The worm hesitated, blinked and paused and looked up toward us.

I'd seen worms in viewing theaters before. I always had the impression that they could somehow see through the glass-that they knew we were out here. This time was no different. Tiny looked curious. Its long dark arms were still folded against the brain case, but the claws were twitching gently. At a guess, I'd say the creature was a little impatient.

"Now," said Fletcher, "-you need to know that Tiny is essentially a child, a youngster, and like all youngsters Tiny likes an occasional treat. With dolphins you use fish, with chimps you use grapes-with Tiny, we use rabbits."

She touched another button and another panel on the wall slid open. There was a fat brown rabbit in a glass case at Tiny's eyelevel. Below the case was a complicated assembly of rods and gears and latches. In front of that was a panel of assorted knobs and switches; all were thick and heavy-looking. "That's our test setup," said Fletcher. "It's a puzzle. Each one of those knobs and levers controls a different part of the lock. If Tiny operates them all in the right order, the glass case will open and it can have the treat."

Tiny cocked its eyes sideways and looked at the rabbit. The rabbit was huddling in the corner of the case. Tiny cocked its eyes the opposite way and studied the rabbit from a different angle. The gesture gave the worm a floppy, hand-puppet expression. It would have been funny if I didn't know how dangerous a worm could be.

Tiny hunched around to examine the case and the lock and the panel of switches closer. Through the speakers we could hear the thoughtful clicking of its mandibles. It made a grunting noise and then moved up to the panel of knobs and switches.

The worm unfolded its arms and arched them over its eyes and down to the puzzle. It let is claws drift thoughtfully over the controls of the locks before it selected one.

"For your information," Fletcher said, "Tiny has never seen this puzzle before. It is not the most complicated one we've assembled, but for the purposes of this demonstration we thought we'd keep it short. All of our puzzles are rigged to keep a record of Tiny's moves-and once Tiny goes to work the life-expectancy of the rabbit can be measured in minutes. The longest Tiny has ever taken was half an hour."

Tiny was already hard at work, turning the knobs and observing what effect they had on the machinery, sliding the levers back and forth and peering cockeyed at the lock.

"As you can see," Fletcher said, "Tiny has a high degree of manipulative curiosity. We think this indicates a pretty good spatial sense for all worms-but again, that's only an extrapolation and not to be treated as hard fact."

"A question-" It was the same grim-looking colonel.

"Yes?" Fletcher asked.

"How does a human being compare on these same puzzles?" he asked.

"A good question," Fletcher acknowledged. "We haven't been running direct comparisons, but I can tell you that humans usually take at least forty-five minutes-even on the easy ones."

"So you're saying that these worms are smarter than men?"

"Not at all, Colonel. They just have a highly advanced manipulative sense. They should be very good with tools, but-" she added, "-so far, we haven't found much evidence that they use tools. At least, not naturally."

"Mm hm," said the colonel. He wasn't impressed. A chime sounded then-

"That means Tiny's solved the puzzle," said Fletcher. - the glass case popped open.

Tiny grabbed the rabbit with one dark claw, lifted it up high, it squealed, I didn't know that rabbits could scream-and shoved the creature into its gaping maw. There was a wet slobbery crunching sound, and then Tiny uttered a soft trill of pleasure, and looked around for more.

Behind me, I could feel the room stiffening. It was not pleasant to watch a worm eat. I didn't like being reminded.

Dr. Fletcher touched a control and the panel with the puzzle slid closed. She said, "Tiny took eleven minutes to solve this problem. We are now going to reset the puzzle. It'll take about two minutes. Does anyone have any questions, so far? Yes-"

A dark man with an Indian accent. "Your work is remarkably advanced, Dr. Fletcher. I am most impressed. May I ask you, how do the worms reproduce?"

"We don't know. I'm sorry, I can't even give you a good guess. There aren't any. Next? Yes-" She pointed.

"Dr. Fletcher, why do they call these things worms?" asked a broad ruddy-faced man. "It looks more like a big pink caterpillar to me. Hell, I've picked bigger caterpillars off my rosebushes back home in Amarillo." There was good-natured laughter in the room.

Even Dr. Fletcher smiled. She replied, "The first reliable sighting of a worm actually occurred about a year before the outbreak of the first plagues. Some of you may even remember. It happened in Northern Canada. A troop of scouts was on a three-day outing. They were on horseback. One of the girls was momentarily separated from the rest of the troop. She had stopped to readjust her saddle straps. Something attacked her horse. The rest of the troop heard her screams and started back for her. They met her halfway. She was so hysterical they almost couldn't catch her to calm her down. The most they could get out of her was that it was big, it was dark, it looked like a giant worm, and it kept saying, `Chtorrrr! Chtorrrrrr! "'

Dr. Fletcher added, "The troop leader and two of the boys went back to investigate. They found the horse had been half-eaten. They did not see a worm. They did not hear it cry, `Chtorrrr!' The Royal Canadian Mounted Police later searched the surrounding area as thoroughly as it could-it was near the Canadian Rockies-but they found nothing.

"Naturally, the news media played it for laughs. It was a dull summer, so The Giant Canadian Rocky Mountain Worm filled a lot of space on otherwise slow news, days. Of course, once the plagues broke out it was forgotten. It wasn't until much later that we realized that this event, and several others like it, were actually harbingers.

"We know now that the worms have a fairly thick coat of fur, and that the name `worm' is something of a misnomer. We think that what we've seen is another Chtorran adaptation to the planet. The first worms to appear did have very little fur, and they really did look like worms. But over the last three years, we've seen the worms developing thicker and thicker coats. But what it means, I can't tell you. Actually, it's not even fur-it's sensory antennae. The creature is coated with nerve fibers. So, probably what we're seeing is a more-you should pardon the expression-sensitive worm. And yes, you're right; they do look like caterpillars." '

She glanced down at her podium display. "I see the puzzle has been reset-"

I looked down into the chamber again. Tiny was still positioned eagerly in front of the panel. Apparently the worm had learned to anticipate its second chances at the puzzles.

The panel slid open before it. There was a new rabbit in the cage. The puzzle machinery had been reset. Tiny slid quickly forward and began to operate the levers and knobs. Its claws moved with a certainty that hadn't been present before.

The chime sounded. The cage popped open. There were gasps in the room.

"Forty-three seconds," Dr. Fletcher said dryly. Tiny was already eating the rabbit. The sound was hideous. I remembered the feeding room in Denver. And the dogs. And the people who liked to watch.

Dr. Fletcher waited in silence until Tiny was finished, then touched another button on her podium and opened the passage back to its cell. The worm slid obediently into it. She remarked, "We've found Tiny to be surprisingly cooperative. It seems to appreciate the discipline." She checked that the passage was clear, then closed the panel-and then the curtain.

She looked calmly out over the room. "I think that pretty well answers the question: how intelligent is a worm? The answer is very. And they learn fast. As you have seen, incredibly so. Our tests with the second specimen confirm that Tiny's responses are not atypical. The other worm is even faster than Tiny-and as other specimens become available for testing, we expect to see the same facility in them as well.

"We're beginning another set of tests next Monday, this time with a completely different type of problem. We're going to further explore the worms' ability to conceptualize. Conceptualization is the key to communication. We're clear that if the worms can conceptualize, they can communicate. But let me caution you, don't confuse conceptualization with sentience. Even a dog can conceptualize; Pavlov proved that. And I think most of you will grant that a dog is capable of a certain rudimentary level of communication. When I talk about communication with the worms, I'm talking about that dog-level of communication. I'm talking about taming.

"And in fact, that's the very next question that has to be answered. How can we create a relationship with a worm so that it's willing to communicate? In other words, how do we domesticate a worm? Your consideration of this particular problem will be much appreciated." She glanced at her watch. "The discussion part of this session will take place this afternoon at fifteen hundred hours. Dr. Larson will be mediating. I thank you for your time and your attention."

I went straight to the men's room and threw up.