idea. Canine intelligence is of intense interest to me. We’ve studied dogs here at the museum.”
“And cats.”
Becky winced. The Museum of Natural History had been embroiled in a violent controversy about some experiments using live cats, which Wilson naturally brought up.
“That’s irrelevant,” Ferguson said quickly, “another department. I’m in exhibits. My work on dogs ended in 1974 when the Federal money ran out. But up to then we were making great strides. I worked very closely with Tom Rilker.” He raised his eyebrows. “Rilker’s a hell of a dog man. We were trying to breed increased sensitivity to certain odors. Drugs, weapons—bred right in, no training needed.”
“Did you succeed?”
He smiled. “A secret. Classified information, compliments of Uncle Sam. Sadly enough, I cannot even publish a paper on it.”
“You were telling us about canine intelligence.”
“Right. Well, I think dogs know a lot more about the human world than we do about theirs. The reason is that their sensory input is so different. Smell, sound—those are their primary senses. Sight is a distant third. For example, if you put on a friend’s clothes your dog won’t recognize you until you speak. Then he’ll be confused. The same way if you take a bath and walk out naked without talking your dog won’t know who, or necessarily what, you are. He’ll see a shape moving, smell the water. He might attack. Then when he hears your voice he’ll be very relieved. Dogs can’t stand the unknown, the unfamiliar. They have a tremendous amount of information pouring in through their noses and ears. Under certain circumstances it’s more than they can handle. For example, a bloodhound will get completely exhausted on a track long before he would if he was just running free. It’s psychic exhaustion. Generally the more intelligent the dog, the more all this data coming through the nose means. To a wolf, for example, it all means much more than to a dog.”
“A wolf?”
“Sure. They’re much more intelligent and more sensitive than dogs. A good bloodhound might have a nose a hundred million times more sensitive than a human nose. A wolf would be two hundred million times more sensitive. And wolves are correspondingly more intelligent, to handle the data. But even so there’s a tremendous richness of data, more than their minds can possibly assimilate.”
Wilson moved from his spot by the door and picked up the plaster paw model. “Is this closer to a wolf or a dog?”
“A wolf, I’d say. Actually it does look more like the paw of a giant wolf—except for those extended toes. The toes are really wonderful. A marvelous evolution. They are beyond canine, as I understand the genus. That’s why I keep asking you for a head. I just can’t do more with this thing unless I get more of the body. It’s too new, too extraordinary. Right now whatever made those pawprints is outside of science. That’s why I’m asking for more.”
“We can’t give you more, Doctor,” Becky said, it seemed for the hundredth time. “You know the trouble we’re in. We’d be lucky even to get a picture.”
“We wouldn’t, and live,” Wilson put in. “These things are too vicious for that.”
He signaled Becky with his eyes. He wanted to get moving. Since night had fallen Wilson had kept on the move. Officially they were on an eight-to-four, but neither of them was recognizing duty hours right now. They had been cut loose from their division, their squad, their block and put on this thing alone. Nobody was marking their names on a blotter. Nobody was counting their presence or giving them calls.
They were on the case because the Chief felt there was a remote chance that something unusual was indeed happening. Not enough to really do anything about, just enough to keep the wheels turning very, very slowly. Which meant a single team, alone, digging as best they could. And being available as scapegoats—if needed.
“We ought to go,” Becky said to Ferguson. “We figure our best bet is to keep on the move.”
“You’re probably right.”
Wilson stared at him. “Sorry about the way we came in. No other way to reach you, the museum was closed.”
Ferguson smiled. “What if I hadn’t been here?”
“No chance. You’re really running after this. It’s got under your skin. I knew you’d be here.”
Ferguson walked with them through the dim corridors, to a side door where a single guard nodded under a small light. “I’m leaving with you,” he said. “I haven’t had a bite to eat since lunch and I don’t think I can accomplish anything just sitting and staring at that paw.”
Their feet crunched in the snow as they crossed the quiet grounds of the museum. Becky could see their car on Seventy-seventh Street where they had left it, now covered with a dusting of snow. They had perhaps twenty yards to walk up a disused driveway before they reached the safety of the car. Nothing seemed to be moving among the shadows of the trees that surrounded the museum, and there were no tracks visible in the new snow. The wind was blowing softly, adding the crackle of bare limbs to the hiss of the falling snow. The clouds hung low, reflecting the light of the city and covering everything with a green glow stronger than moonlight. Even so, the trip to the car seemed long. By the position of his hand Becky knew Wilson felt the same way: he was touching the butt of the pistol he kept holstered under his jacket.
As they reached the car Ferguson turned, saying he was going to take the Number 10 bus up Central Park West to his apartment. They let him go.
“I wonder if we should have done that,” Becky said as she started the car.
“What?”
“Let him go off on his own. We have no way of knowing how much danger he’s in. If they were watching us, they saw us with him. What would that mean to them? Kill him too, maybe? I think he’s in more danger than he knows.”
“Get moving. Put on the damn radio. Let’s listen to the traffic.”
“You handle the radio, man, you’re not doing anything else.”
