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"You will want to choose a dream," said the spokesman of the robots. "We can show you many samples. We can blend them to your taste. We can-"
"Thank you," said Webster. "I do not want a dream." The robot nodded, understanding. "I see, sir. You only want to wait, to pass away the time."
"Yes," said Webster. "I guess you'd call it that."
"For about how long?"
"How long?"
"Yes. How long do you want to wait?"
"Oh, I see," said Webster. "How about forever?"
"Forever!"
"Forever is the word, I think," said Webster. "I might have said eternity, but it doesn't make much difference. There is no use of quibbling over two words that mean about the same."
"Yes, sir," said the robot.
No use of quibbling. No, of course, there wasn't. For he couldn't take the chance. He could have said a thousand years, but then he might have relented and gone down and flipped the switch. And that was the one thing that must not happen. The dogs had to have their chance. Had to be left unhampered to try for success where the human race had failed. And so long as there was a human element they would not have that chance. For man would take over, would step in and spoil things, would laugh at the cobblies that talked behind a wall, would object to the taming and civilizing of the wild things of the earth. A new pattern – a new way of thought and life – a new approach to the age – old social problem. And it must not be tainted by the stale breath of man's thinking.
The dogs would sit around at night when the work was done and they would talk of man. They would spin the old, old story and tell the old, old tales and man would be a god.
And it was better that way.
For a god can do no wrong.
NOTES ON THE SEVENTH TALE
Several years ago an ancient literary fragment came to light. Apparently at one time it had been an extensive body of writing and although only a small part of it was discovered, the few tales that it contained were enough to indicate that it was a group of fables concerning the various members of the animal brotherhood. The tales are archaic and the viewpoints and ma
Their title is Aesop. The title of this tale likewise is Aesop and the tale's title has come down intact with the tale itself from dim antiquity.
What, ask the scholars, is the significance of this? Tige, quite naturally, believes it is yet another link in his theory that the present legend is human in its origin. Most of the other students fail to agree, but so far have advanced no explanation which would serve instead.
Tige points, too, to this seventh tale as proof that if there is no historic evidence of Man's existence it is because he was forgotten deliberately, because his memory was wiped out to assure the continuance of the canine culture in its purest form.
In this tale the Dogs have forgotten Man. In the few members of the human race existing among them they do not recognize Man, but call these queer creatures by the old family name of Webster. But the word, Webster, has become a common instead of a proper noun. The Dogs think of men as websters, while Jenkins still thinks of them with the capital W.
"What's men?" Lupus asks and Bruin, when he tries to explain, can't tell him.
Jenkins says, in the tale, that the Dogs must never know about Man. He outlines for us, in the body of the story, the steps that he has taken to wipe away the memory of Man.
The old fireside tales are gone, says Jenkins. And in this Tige sees a deliberate conspiracy of forgetfulness, perhaps not so altruistic as Jenkins makes it sound, to save Doggish dignity. The tales are gone, says Jenkins, and must stay gone. But apparently they weren't gone. Somewhere, in some far corner of the world, they still were told, and so today we have them with us yet.
But if the tales persisted, Man himself was gone, or nearly so. The wild robots still existed, but even they, if they ever were more than pure imagination, are gone now, too. The Mutants were gone and they are of a piece with Man. If Man existed, the Mutants probably existed too.
The entire controversy surrounding the legend can be boiled down to one question: Did Man exist? If, in reading these tales, the reader finds himself confused, he is in excellent company. The experts and scholars themselves, who have spent their lives in the study of the legend, may have more data, but are just as confused as you are.
VII. AESOP
The grey shadow slid along the rocky ledge, heading for the den, mewing to itself in frustration and bitter disappointment – for the Words had failed.
The slanting sun of early afternoon picked out a face and head and body, indistinct and murky, like a haze of morning mist rising from a gully.
Suddenly the ledge pinched off and the shadow stopped, bewildered, crouched against the rocky wall – for there was no den. The ledge pinched off before it reached the den!
It whirled around like a snapping whip, stared back across the valley. And the river was all wrong. It flowed closer to the bluffs than it had flowed before. There was a swallow's nest on the rocky wall and there'd never been a swallow's nest before.
The shadow stiffened and the tufted tentacles upon its ears came up and searched the air.
There was life! The scent of it lay faint upon the air, the feel of it vibrated across the empty notches of the marching hills.
The shadow stirred, came out of its crouch, flowed along the ledge.
There was no den and the river was different and there was a swallow's nest plastered on the cliff.
The shadow quivered, drooling mentally.
The Words had been right. They had not failed. This was a different world.
A different world – different in more ways than one. A world so full of life that it hummed in the very air. Life, perhaps, that could not run so fast nor hide so well.
The wolf and bear met beneath the great oak tree and stopped to pass the time of day.
"I hear," said Lupus, "there's been killing going on."
Bruin grunted. "A fu
"Symbolic killing," said the wolf.
Bruin shook his head. "You can't tell me there's such a thing as symbolic killing. This new psychology the Dogs are teaching us is going just a bit too far. When there's killing going on, it's for either hate or hunger. You wouldn't catch me killing something that I didn't eat."
He hurried to put matters straight. "Not that I'm doing any killing, brother. You know that."
"Of course not," 'said the wolf.
Bruin closed his small eyes lazily, opened them and blinked. "Not, you understand, that I don't turn over a rock once in a while and lap up an ant or two."
"I don't believe the Dogs would consider that killing," Lupus told him gravely. "Insects are a little different than animals and birds. No one has ever told us we can't kill insect life."
"That's where you're wrong," said Bruin. "The Canons say so very distinctly. You must not destroy life. You must not take another's life."
"Yes, I guess they do," the wolf admitted sanctimoniously. "I guess you're right, at that, brother. But even the Dogs aren't too fussy about a thing like insects. Why, you know, they're trying all the time to make a better flea powder. And what's flea powder for, I ask you? Why, to kill fleas. That's what it's for. And fleas are life. Fleas are living things."