way shut. Instantly the alcove bed became a cloistered capsule that
could be any sort of vehicle, ancient or futuristic, traveling as slow
as a sedan chair or faster than light through any part of the world or
out of it.
'Lieutenant Falstaff, are we ready?' Toby asked. Before the game
could begin, the retriever bounded off the bed and between the bunk
drapes, which fell shut again behind him. Toby grabbed the draw cord
and pulled the drapes open.
'What's the matter with you?' The dog was at the stairwell door,
sniffing. 'You know, dogbreath, this could be viewed as mutiny.'
Falstaff glanced back at him, then continued to investigate whatever
scent had fascinated him. 'We got crabulons trying to kill us, you
want to go play dog.' Toby got out of bed and joined the retriever at
the door. 'I know you don't have to pee. Dad took you out already,
and you got to make yellow snow before I ever did.' The dog whimpered
again, made a disgusted sound, then backed away from the door and
growled low in his throat.
'It's nothing, it's some steps, that's all.' Falstaff's black lips
skinned back from his teeth. He lowered his head as if he was ready
for a gang of crabulons to come through that door right now,
scrackscrick-scrack-scrick, with their eye stalks wiggling two feet
above their heads. 'Dumb dog. I'll show you.' He twisted open the
lock, turned the knob.
The dog whimpered and backed away. Toby opened the door. The stairs
were dark.
He flipped on the light and stepped onto the landing. Falstaff
hesitated, looked toward the half-open hall door as if maybe he would
bolt from the bedroom. ..
You're the one was so interested,' Toby reminded him. 'Now come on,
I'll show you--just stairs.' As if he had been shamed into it, the dog
joined Toby on the landing. His tail was held so low that the end of
it curled around one of his hind legs. Toby descended three steps,
wincing as the first one squeaked and then the third. If Mom or Dad
was in the kitchen below, he might get caught, and then they'd think he
was sneaking out to grab up some snow--in his bare feet!--to bring it
back to his room to watch it melt. Which wasn't a bad idea,
actually.
He wondered whether snow was interesting to eat. Three steps, two
squeaks, and he stopped, looked back at the dog. 'Well?' Reluctantly,
Falstaff moved to his side.
crural. Trying to make as little noise as possible. Well, one of them
was trying, anyway, staying close to the wall, where the treads weren't
as likely to creak, but the other ..
one had claws that ticked and scraped on the wood. Toby whispered,
'Stairs.
Steps. See? You can go down. You can go up. Big deal. What'd you
think was behind the door, huh? Doggie hell?' Each step they
descended brought one new step into view. The way the walls curved,
you couldn't see far ahead, couldn't see the bottom, just a few steps
