The Puppies Of Terra

Chapter Seven
In which I stand in debt to N. Gogol.

Let us say nothing of frying pans and fires. Let us say nothing of probabilities. To have parachuted smack-dab into the middle of the enemy’s camp (and the neatest bomb could not have dropped on its target more truly than I had, by blind chance) is an event so deficient in probability that only the incontrovertible fact of its having happened can ease my embarrassment in relating it. In fiction such a coincidence would be inexcusable; in history these things happen all the time.

So, to return to la chose véritable…

“You have been,” I asked, hesitatingly, “expecting me?”

Captain Frangle twirled a moustache craftily. “There have been rumors… a word dropped here, and a word there… Nothing you can put your finger on, you understand… nothing explicit, but nevertheless.”

“Rumors, you say? Exactly what sort of rumors?”

“Oh—vague rumors, sir! Extremely vague and indistinct. Almost unbelievable, but nevertheless…” And the Captain winked knowingly.

“Nevertheless?” I insisted.

“What I meant to say was—nevertheless, here you are, you see. Which shows, I think, that there must have been something in the rumors after all. Then again, perhaps not. Far be it from me to say, one way or the other. You would certainly know better than I, Major.” He trailed off into a laugh of consummate self-deprecation. Then, turning to two of his underlings who had been gathering up the folds of the parachute, he bade them hurry up with their work—in quite opposite tones.

Now fortunately I was at that time well enough acquainted with “The Inspector General”, that splendid comedy by the Russian master, Nikolai Gogol, to suspect a certain congruence between the situation of Gogol’s hero and my own plight. The eagle on the shoulder of my borrowed overcoat had apparently deceived Captain Frangle into thinking I was his superior officer; it also seemed that he had been anticipating the visit of a senior officer—and not with relish. For the time being I could hope to keep up the bluff, but it was not an imposture that could be maintained indoors, for beneath my overcoat and rubber boots I was naked as Laocoön.

“A cup of coffee, Major? Or if you prefer something more… spirited? Eh? Something to bring color to the cheek and a smile to… Eh? That is to say, if you don’t object to a glass… or two? Eh?” All the while, Captain Frangle was edging toward a lighted doorway at the corner of the compound.

“A few questions first, Captain, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means, sir! Abso-lute-ly! We’ve nothing to hide from you, sir. Our hearts… and our hands… are as open for your inspections as if… and, if you wish, our pocket-books, too! Only joking, you understand, but feel free, Major. Make yourself right at home in our little penitentiary here.”

“How many officers are here beside yourself? And how many guards?”

“Officers? Well, Lieutenant Mosely, of course. Good man, Mosely. You’ve already met him, I think, when you were at the Shroeder evacuation.”

“Oh yes, Mosely. Where is Mosely?”

“He was in the shower when you landed. I suppose he’s getting dressed. He should be out here any minute now. And you might count Palmino. He’s only a warrant officer, but he runs the radio shack and keeps the generator working for us. We couldn’t get on very well without Palmino, I’m afraid. Though he’s not really a gentleman… not like you and me, Major. And then there’s Doc Quilty and the Reverend Captain. The Reverend Captain will probably want to discuss a matter of religion with you, sir. About these goddamned pets. You see, he thinks they should all be Baptists… now, understand, I have nothing against Baptists… some of my best friends are… you know? But the shock—that’s what I object to… all that current! I mean…”

“Later, Captain. How many guards?”

“No doubt you’ve seen my last memo on that subject. There is nothing to add. The situation has only become worse: desertions, betrayal, sabotage… I need guards to guard the guards, and that’s a fact. You see, now that the shouting’s over, now that the monotony’s setting in again, all the volunteers are… you know? And only the regulars—the old Corps members, like myself…”

“I didn’t ask for excuses, Captain. Only for a number.”

“Hundred and twenty. Less. I think. You see, sir, I can explain, if…”

“A hundred and twenty? For how many pets?”

“I’m not sure of the exact number. It changes all the time. I don’t understand. But this prison was never meant to accommodate…”

“Captain! The number!” This in my most peremptory tone.

“Thirteen thousand, sir. Give or take a few hundred.”

“One guard for every hundred pets! How do you keep them under control?”

“Oh, that’s no problem. I could probably get by with ten guards if I had to. They’re only pets, after all. It’s not as if… I mean, they aren’t like us. They don’t seem quite… what is the word… human? They know their place, and they keep in it. And then, you know, they’re in pretty poor spirits, thinking that their Masters have sold them back to us for slaves.”

“Slaves! The Masters? But that isn’t so?”

“Of course, it isn’t lit-erally true, but how are they to know? Eh?” Captain Frangle had recovered some of his earlier bounciness now that the worst of the interrogation seemed to be over, and he began edging back toward the open doorway.

“Captain Frangle, I did not give you permission to leave me!”

“No sir! I only thought… that is, wouldn’t you be more comfortable…”

“Don’t concern yourself with my comfort, Mister! I am interested solely in the management of this repatriation center. Or should I say mismanagement? I suspect, Captain… I suspect…”

Captain Frangle had come tremblingly to attention, and he listened to my improvised diatribe with visible dread. “Suspect, sir? May I ask what? May I ask… who?”

“Ha! Do you think I shall reveal that so easily? It would make it altogether too easy for you, sir. Or, if not for you, then for whoever has been… responsible… for these crimes.”

“Not me! No, you’ve been misinformed about… The petty cash is short, perhaps, I don’t know… I would have to examine… it may take days… and another thing, I have my own way of bookkeeping… a safer way, I must explain it to you first…”

“First, Captain, I would like you to assemble all the guards in this compound. Where I can see them. See that Lieutenant What’s-His-Name looks after that.”

“Lieutenant Mosely.”

“Him, yes. And I wish the barracks and rooms to be left in exactly the condition they’re in now. The men will assemble here in their shorts. And in stocking feet. The officers as well. See to it, Captain!”

While Captain Frangle roused up those few guards who had not already been roused by the news of my so-sudden arrival, I withdrew into the shadows and deliberated my next steps. When all guards and the four other officers were present in ranks before me, I had Captain Frangle show me to the door of the barracks.

“Mosely’s room is in this building?”

“The next floor up, sir. His name is on the door.”

“And your room, Captain?”

“I have the third floor to myself. I must explain… before you go up there… that not everything you may find up there is what you would call, in the strict sense, mine. I’m holding some articles in safekeeping for friends in town… citizens who were afraid of the anarchists, the vandals, you understand how it’s been…”

“You will return to your men, Captain Frangle, and see that they remain at attention. I do not tolerate laxity. There will be no conversations out there, not even among the officers.”

“Just as you say, sir.”

“Before you go, Captain—your uniform. Leave it on that…” What was the word? I couldn’t remember the word! “…on that… thing there.”

“The bunk, you mean? But, Major, consider my position—my dignity. What will the men think if they see me out there in my dirty… that is to say, in the same state they’re in?”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Oh, thank you, Major, I knew you’d understand.” Captain Frangle began to leave, but once more I brought him up short.

“I didn’t give permission to go, Captain. I must still insist on a complete inspection. But you may submit to it here instead of in the presence of your men. I expect to find you undressed by the time I’ve returned from my inspection upstairs.” With these words (which guaranteed that, for the time being, the Captain would not have any opportunity to converse with Mosely or anyone else who might have regarded my imposture with a keener eye) I turned my back on the Captain and went up a spiral staircase to the next floor.

Lieutenant Mosely’s room showed a pedantic respect for military punctilio. The walls were daubed the same drab olive as the metal bedposts and wall locker. The uniforms inside the locker were arrayed as if for an inspection. After assuring myself of complete privacy, I took down his best dress uniform and pulled on the trousers. The Lieutenant, fortunately, had a good figure, and the pants fit reasonably well. His shirt proved to be a little loose at the collar, but I was able to correct that by tightening the tie.

The tie! That was nearly the death of my whole scheme. I had never worn a tie in my life, and if I had, I certainly would not have been obliged to tie it myself. I tried to improvise a knot or two, but nothing I could manage bore any resemblance to what I had seen about Frangle’s neck. Desperately I emptied out Mosely’s footlocker, hoping there might be a pre-knotted tie there. Instead, I found his Manual of Arms, where on page 58 there are instructions for the approved military four-in-hand. As the alarm clock on the window sill ticked off the minutes, I fumbled with the maddening piece of silk. At last it passed muster (Lax muster.) By then I was in such a state of frazzlement that I nearly forgot to remove the silver bars from the shoulders of Mosely’s jacket and replace them with the gold oak leaf from the overcoat I had been wearing. Then I tried to squeeze into Mosely’s parade shoes.

No go. They were sizes too small. I tried in the next room. (Capt. C. Quilty, M.D., the placard on the door announced.) Quilty’s shoes, though nowhere near so well polished, fit snugly. I left Mosely’s shoes in Quilty’s locker to cover up my theft.

As a finishing touch, I retrieved a ragged copy of G.I. Jokes from the tumble of personal items that had fallen out of the footlocker. Then, smartly turned out in dress uniform, I returned to the dismantled, dismayed Captain Frangle on the floor below.

“I’ve found what I sought, Captain. You may dress and accompany me back to the compound.”

Outside Captain Frangle was able to obtain silence (and they were supposed to be at attention!) by lifting one hand. After he’d given them appropriate hell, I had him place Lieutenant Mosely under arrest. His hands were cuffed, his feet shackled, and his mouth securely gagged.

“I have in my right hand,” I then announced in my stagiest voice, “evidence that this man, known to you as Mosely, is in reality an impostor, a spy, an agent and a tool of the Mastery. The High Command first grew suspicious of him at Shroeder, when he was seen to go alone into the bombed power station there…” A gasp went up among the men. “Captain, do you have a stone wheel—or something equally suitable for starting a fire?”

“I have a cigarette lighter.”

“Set this so-called ‘jokebook’ on fire, please. What harm has been done cannot be undone, but the enemy shall not receive this report, at least. Pray God we have stopped their plot in time.”

While the jokebook burned, Lieutenant Mosely struggled against his bonds and went: Mmmph! Mmmph! Nn! Nn! Mmmmph!

“Captain, I presume you have a cell where this man may be kept to await trial in solitary confinement?”

“We do, but there are ten pets locked in there now. We’re filled up… right to the brim, as I explained before, but of course… if you say…”

“Put the pets elsewhere. Mosely is to be kept strictly incommunicado. He will receive bread and water twice a day—under my personal supervision. The man is known to be devilishly persuasive. We can’t take chances. As for his room, I shall take that for myself. There may be other documents secreted there.”

“Yes sir. Will that be all, sir? May I release the men?”

“Not just yet. I must see Mosely put away, and then I’d like you to accompany me on a tour of the prison itself. If I wait till tomorrow the whole point of this inspection may have been lost. I trust you take my meaning, Captain?”

“Perfectly,” the old man assured me. “Like crystal.” But truth to tell, he did look a bit puzzled.

It was easy enough to put it in terms he did understand. “And then, my good Captain, you may explain your system of bookkeeping.” Which Frangle understood perfectly, like crystal.

Such is the wonder of military discipline that the guards remained at attention out in the compound until two a.m. and were quiet as churchmice all the while. Meanwhile I dined (the best meal I’d had since coming to Earth and the most heartily appreciated of my life), then with Frangle at my side took a leisurely tour of the prisons. It was…

Unspeakable: the crowding; close, fetid air; inadequate sanitary facilities. Since the meager electric current produced by the prison’s own emergency generators was required for the operation of the security system, the only light in the cellblock was what leaked in through the barred windows. The place was as gloomy as the Dark Ages. Miseries heaped upon miseries, tier upon tier. And this was only a single cellblock!

“How many more are there of these?”

“Besides this, nine.”

After I’d gone past only a few of the cells, playing the beam of a flashlight over those sad heaps of still-proud bodies (so much finer than the ramshackle flesh of the guards standing outside), meeting their anguished, pleading gazes, I felt the bottom drop out. Pity consumed me, and rage seemed close behind. Often, the puppies, less perfectly in control, would come to the bars and stretch out their little hands for food. Captain Frangle would slap them away with an indignant bellow. I am ashamed to say that I tolerated his behavior, for I was still afraid he would construe my humanitarian impulses as being un-Dingolike, and begin to suspect…

“Oh sir,” one of the puppies begged, “can’t you spare a scrap of food? For pity’s sake, sir, some food!”

“Food? You’ll get food, you little sonofabitch! You’ll taste this fist if you don’t lie back down there. Food? If you’re hungry you have only your father to blame—if you know who that is. There’s plenty enough food outside these walls for them as are willing to gather it up.”

This seemed to exceed the reasonable limits of abuse, and I said as much.

“But it is their fault, Major, if you’ll forgive my saying so. We’ve sent out work parties of hundreds of men to take in the harvests from the abandoned farms around here. It’s August, and that food is rotting away. The birds are eating it up, but these goddamned pets are so goddamned lazy they won’t lift their hands to feed their mouths.”

Though this seemed not quite credible, I determined to consult a calmer authority—if I ever had the time.

Time—that was the difficulty! For though I did feel obliged to exert the full force of my spurious but nonetheless potent authority for the welfare and (if possible) the freedom of these thirteen thousand pets, I knew that each new hour I spent with Frangle only made my discovery that much more inevitable. My mask was slipping, slipping…

But—if I could release them that very night, I would not only have done the prisoners a service but would myself benefit by their escape, for their very numbers would act as a smokescreen to conceal my own departure.

“I intend to examine all ten cellblocks, Captain, but you needn’t accompany me. Just give me the keys. The ones for the individual cells, as well as those for the cellblocks.”

“Impossible, Major. We don’t use keys, you know. Everything is done by electricity. You can’t beat that, you know… electricity!” He seemed to lay special importance upon this notion, and I nodded sagely. Encouraged, he went on: “Electricity is man’s most powerful servant. It is the doorway to tomorrow. It’s another Aladdin’s Lamp. I love electricity, and electricity loves me.”

“Fine. I love it too. But who’s the electrician here—the man who can open the doors? I want to get this inspection over with.”

“We don’t have an electrician—in the strict sense. Palmino—the warrant officer—he does that sort of thing for us—in an amateur sort of way. Nothing very refined about him, you understand, but he keeps it running.”

“Let me see the switchbox that controls the cells—and send Palmino to meet me there. You, meanwhile, can put the time to use ordering your books.”

Frangle grasped my hand with speechless gratitude. He didn’t need speech, for he had just slipped me five hundred-dollar bills in the Dingo currency. I put the bribe in my pocket, and tears sprang to the eyes of Captain Frangle.

The man who came into the radio shack had a head of black hair so thick with dirt and oil that it looked like an engine component. His swarthy skin was corrugated by decades of acne, and his narrow eyes, magnified by thick glasses, glistened with rheum. He was short; he was overweight; he was ill-proportioned. He was, in short, exactly my idea of a Dingo.

The Dingo saluted smartly. “Major Jones? Warrant-Officer Palmino reporting for duty, as ordered, sir.”

I returned what I hoped was a convincing salute, but I boggled in replying to him. By what title should an officer address a warrant officer? There were whole worlds of protocol I was still innocent of. I had got through the bit with Frangle by piecing together faded memories of novels and Von Stroheim movies. Slipping, slipping…

“Very well, Palmino,” I replied, turning away from him, simulating absentmindedness. “I wish all the cellblocks to be opened. And then all the cells themselves. For my inspection. Immediately.” I turned to leave.

“I’m afraid that can’t be done, Major Jones. They can only be opened in sequence. That’s S.O.P.” Then, as though in mockery. “Standard operating procedure, you know.”

“My orders override standard procedure, Palmino. You will obey my orders.”

The Dingo laughed aloud. “I don’t think so, sir. If I may make a suggestion, sir, I think you will obey mine.” Palmino took a pistol from the drawer of his desk and pointed the end with a hole in it at me.

The show was over, obviously. The mask was off. “How…”

“There were a dozen signs, sir—easily a dozen. Though I have been admiring the way you ride right over them. With me helping out, it will be a lot easier now.”

“Helping out?”

“Don’t interrupt me, sir,” he commanded meekly. “I was just telling you how I figured it all out. First, there was an announcement over the radio here that a pet had escaped from an airplane flying from Duluth to St Paul—” (So, I thought, that’s where Julie will be!) “—which pet was said to be last seen wearing a major’s overcoat. That was a very suggestive clue to me, sir. The report came over the air a few moments after you’d landed. I put two and two together.”

“Helping me, you say?”

“And then observed that you had about two inches of skin showing between the hem of your coat and the top of your boots, whereas when you came out of the barracks you was wearing what appeared to me to be Lieutenant Mosely’s parade uniform. Ah-ha! I said to myself, there’s something fishy going on!”

“I have money, if that’s what you want…”

“Finally, when I came in here I addressed you as Major Jones, if you recall. Whereas the name of the Major we’ve been expecting is Worthington. When you didn’t object to being called Jones, everything seemed to fit together. Like the pieces of a jigsaw. It all came to me in a flash.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

“You didn’t listen! You pets are all alike—snobs! You think you’re so much better than we are, and you’re not worth the bullets it would take to kill you. If I didn’t need you to help me, I’d like to… I’d make you live in my body for a while. That would show you!” Palmino’s eyes grew rheumier; his pistol trembled with emotion.

“What is it you want of me? Practically speaking, that is.”

“I want to be a pet.”

“I’m sure we all do. All thirteen thousand of us. But the Masters have gone. They’ve deserted us.”

“They’ll return. We’ll wait for them. Here.”

“That’s fine for you, but I can’t stay on indefinitely. When the real Major Worthington arrives—”

“We’ll see he has a good funeral. Mosely, too. I never did like that bastard Mosely. And Frangle—you’re going to start putting the screws on Frangle. Oh, we’ll have fun while we wait, sir, let me tell you. There are about five thousand bee-yoo-tiful bitches in those cells, sir. Five thousand—goddamn!”

“Really, Palmino, if you want to become a pet, you’re going about it in the wrong way. I appreciate your cooperation, but no Master would tolerate the kind of actions you have in mind.”

“So? When they get me, they can reform my character. I won’t object to that. I’d probably like myself a lot better then. They can cure my acne and deepen my voice. They can give me 20-20 vision and fill me brimful with hormones and sweet charity. I’m willing. But meanwhile I’ll enjoy myself.”

“I need time to think about this. By myself.”

“Take fifteen minutes. But remember—if you don’t go along with me, you’ll be going against me. In which case, Captain Frangle will learn all about Major Jones. Think about it—but don’t think you can do with me like you did with Mosely—because I’ve already told four of the guards—friends of mine—which way the wind is blowing. And I don’t intend to let you know which four. But you go right ahead and think about it.”

I went to Mosely’s room. The window above the bed was not barred, and it was a negligible fifteen-foot drop from the ledge. No one would observe me, since the guards were still assembled at attention in the compound. It would be a simple matter to escape across the fields and hide out in other abandoned farmhouses as I worked my way south to St Paul and Darling, Julie. What purpose, after all, could I expect to serve by releasing these thousands of prisoners? What had they that was worth escaping to? Why should they risk their lives? The Masters’ return was, as Palmino had pointed out, their only hope, and the Masters would not be much hindered by prison walls.

I was perched on the window ledge, ready to leap, my feet dangling down over the rough stones, when I heard, distantly, a tenor voice, ineffably sad, a voice that could have melted even so adamantine a heart as Palmino’s with its melancholy refrain:

(Which I would translate roughly thus:

It was the last act of Il Trovatore! It was St Bernard!

St Bernard’s voice was joined by Clea’s faltering soprano. It is unreasonable, I know—it was madness—but I decided that moment that, willy-nilly, I would have to stay. My mother had thought nothing of deserting me when I was the merest pup, but my conscience would not be eased by that. I would have to rescue Motherlove from the Dingoes.