Robert Reed - Lying to Dogs

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*Lying to Dogs*

by Robert Reed

Robert Reed tells us that one inspiration for this story comes from a family legend

his mother swears is true. His second inspiration for this tale, unlike "Oracles"

(_Asimov's,_ January 2002), a story he wrote around the same time that assumed

intelligent life is common and relatively easy to find, comes from the assumption that

intelligent life occurs very rarely in the universe. Mr. Reed's next novel, _Sister Alice, _is

scheduled for publication in May of 2003.

--------

_When I was a boy, my family owned a black Labrador retriever. Our dog lived for

cold autumn mornings and long rides into the country and the intoxicating stink of fear

leaking from the hunted birds. But there were days when dogs weren't welcome. For

instance, there was this river-rat buddy of my father's with a goose blind hiding on an

isolated sandbar. The river was deep and relentless; it was no place to take your animal

swimming. That's why on the first day of goose season, Dad rose before dawn, dressed in

his warmest camouflage, then carried his gun to the car and drove off alone. And the way

my mother tells the story, the poor dog was devastated by this betrayal. He stood at our

front door all day long, howling and sobbing, outraged by what was obviously a horrible,

horrible crime._

_Dad came home happy, but his joy didn't last._

_Mom corralled him in their bedroom, and after a melodramatic replay of her day,

they hatched a simple plan. If my father wanted to hunt on the river, he had to slip his gun

and clothes out to the car the night before, preferably while our dog was busy terrorizing

the squirrels in the backyard. Then in the predawn blackness, he would dress for church:

A good suit, a crisp and conservative tie, and shiny black leather shoes. Dad looked

exceptionally pious as he drove away. And our Labrador, in delicious innocence, would

sleep untroubled at my mother's feet._

_It was a lie, but it was a compassionate and moral lie._

_About that, I haven't the faintest doubt._

--------

Imagine an enormous coincidence.

And now cube it.

By coincidence, Opal is using the entire array, building a comprehensive map of

the Virgo cluster. In the midst of measuring the soft glare of an enormous galaxy, she

notices something decidedly odd. Buried inside that wealth of natural light is a coherent

pulse. A structured glow. A luminous song born millions of years in the past. And because

Opal has a wealth of talents, she quickly teases the song into its assorted notes,

discovering oceans of data waiting to be found -- oceans created by a higher intelligence,

designed to be obvious and decipherable, as well as utterly compelling.

"I could have been looking anywhere else," Opal admits. "We should have missed

the signal. A fantastic amount of energy was utilized, but the signal was propagated in all

directions. 'For every imaginable ear,' they claim."

"Who claims?" asks Aisha.

Opal emits a high-pitched squawk. "It's their name for themselves," she admits.

"From what they tell me, it means the Blessed."

"A pleasant name," Sue remarks.

The rest of us say "The Blessed" aloud, as if it helps us understand our new

neighbors in the cosmos.

Aisha glances at me, but she's speaking to Opal, asking, "So what do the Blessed

look like?"

"Very much like you," Opal responds.

An image blossoms on the main screen: The creature is a biped with arms and

legs and a recognizable head. But the resemblance stops there. The body is squat and

strong and hairless, a thick hide of rhino-like flesh folded neatly at the elbows and

shoulders and knees. Each hand has four long fingers, any one of which might be called

the thumb, while the feet are triple-toed and resemble bald paws. The alien face has a

carp's sucking mouth and no nose that I can find, and what seems to be the single eye is

a flattened ellipse that reaches around the backside of the slick leathery head. Two round

pupils swim inside the eye, both moving down to where the nose should be, crowding

together and staring out at us.

"Hello, there!" Conrad jokes.

Tenwolf points out, "It doesn't look at all human."

"Not to you, perhaps," Opal replies. "But to me, it's practically your twin."

Everyone enjoys a good laugh.

Then our AI continues explaining the image. "The Blessed had DNA genetics and

an oxygen-sugar metabolism. Their homeworld was substantially more massive than the

Earth, with deeper oceans and a thicker atmosphere. But their sun was very much like

ours."

Sue asks, "Is it male or female? Or something else, maybe?"

"Female," Opal says. Then she creates a second, nearly identical image that

stands beside the first alien. "This is the male Blessed. If you notice, he's more heavily

built and his head is a little more tapered."

Five humans stare at the newly discovered aliens. We are not stupid people. We've

proven ourselves to be creative and adaptable individuals, not easily shaken by things

unexpected. But our tongues have been stolen. None of us can whisper even the most

obvious questions.

Opal decides to repeat herself. "I could have missed their signal. Any other day,

and I wouldn't have noticed it. And since this is the only facility sensitive enough to find

and decipher their message, we can assume that nobody else knows about the Blessed."

"Speaking of which," says Conrad. "How soon can we talk to Nearside?"

"Our main link is still inoperative," Opal reports. "And our secondary system won't

be repaired for another seventy-four hours."

This is a second, decidedly smaller fluke. Our problematic com-satellite has gone

on one of its little vacations, while our land-based system -- three thousand kilometers of

naked glass cable -- was severed by a careless construction robot somewhere near

Hadley.

Aisha asks, "What's our tertiary system?"

"A solar observation satellite," says Opal.

"Good," Conrad exclaims.

"But this is a flare season, and it's making some delicate, highest-priority

measurements. It won't be available for another three hours."

"So we've got the story of the millennium," Conrad grumbles, "and we have to wait

to deliver our news."

Again, everyone laughs.

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Robert Reed - Lying to Dogs

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