My gaze wandered away from the painting and came to a stop at a computer on a glass slab desk: our friend sat at its color monitor! At first I thought he had fallen asleep. But then I saw how he moved his right forepaw to operate the keyboard with graceful speed. It was simply unbelievable. This guy could have caused the stock market crash to end all stock market crashes! I had already heard the weirdest tall tales about our folk, but this scene was simply absurd, contrary to nature, and, even worse, contrary to Brehm's Animal Life!
While I was still holding my breath in surprise, he turned away from the monitor and, smiling, winked at us.
"A most cordial welcome to you, my dear friends!" was his enthusiastic greeting. "I was just beginning to wonder where you were. Bluebeard told me …"
He noticed my astonished look, and shook his head, looking pleased.
"Oh, you just happened to catch me playing my little game here. Well, the achievements of microelectronics have brought upon the world the vilest of all vile curses: thou shalt play until it be thy ruination! So, in the future, don't let any proud computer owner tell you that he needs these miraculous machines as the result of purely rational considerations. Most of the time people play games on these machines. I'm no exception."
He was a Brown Havana, a member of a breed that ran circles around all other breeds in terms of intelligence: an American breed that has become specific to America, the head somewhat longer than wide, the nose with a marked "stop" between the eyes. Because of the characteristic form of his muzzle and oversized, pointed ears that extend forward, I could not compare him with any brother and sister I had ever seen. His silky smooth coat—a strong, warm, chocolate brown that in dim light could pass for black—absorbed the last rays of the fall sun streaming through the huge floor-to-ceiling window behind the desk. Yes, he was in truth a beautiful sight, but, like almost all the brothers and sisters in the neighborhood, something about him didn't seem quite right. I couldn't exactly figure out what it was, but somehow he gave me the impression that he was put together like a primitive puzzle in which all the pieces didn't quite fit together. I may well have had this impression because of his age, as he was already on the threshold of old age. But perhaps someone had done something terrible to him at an early age, just as they had done to Felicity.
"Okay, this guy's name's Francis, and the smart aleck over there's Pascal," Bluebeard said in introduction.
Pascal sprang down from the desk and came up to us, and I was able to catch a glimpse of what was on the monitor. But I couldn't make out anything except for the cryptography of a text in which colorful threads of graphics were interwoven.
"It is a pleasure and an honor to make your acquaintance," said Pascal with unnerving cordiality, halting in front of us. "May I offer you both a little something to eat? I have cooked kidney with crab here."
"Thank you, but we've already eaten," I replied. His inflated politeness was gradually setting me on edge.
"Well, as for me, I ain't got nothing against a little snack. Somehow I just didn't get the munchies this morning, plus the stuff I did eat really didn't go down that well, if you know what I mean." Bluebeard stared down at the floor with his one unharmed eye, embarrassed, though from the corner of his eye he silently asked me for my understanding.
"But of course, my dear Bluebeard. Lack of appetite is a serious matter. It would, perhaps, be advisable if you underwent a medical examination. You can never be cautious enough about such complaints, small as they may be."
"Oh no, no," Bluebeard played it down. "It was just what they call indisposition. I think I'll feel a whole lot better as soon as I get something between the gums."
"Well, help yourself. The kidney is in the kitchen."
As gracious as Pascal was, he wanted to take us to the kitchen. But when, after hearing the magic word, Bluebeard already began limping ahead in the direction of the kitchen, I quickly blocked the computer expert's way.
"Excuse me, Pascal, but I never would have dreamed that one of our kind could operate such a machine. Could you, perhaps, demonstrate it to me?"
An enthusiastic smile spread over his face. The old boy was charm and hospitality in person.
"Why certainly, Francis, I'd love to. If you'd like, I could even teach you how to use it. By the way, Bluebeard has told me a great deal about you. Only good things, of course. I find your efforts toward ending the murders in the district simply exemplary. In my modest way, I, too, have been trying to outwit this cruel butcher. If we join forces, we could put an end to his game in no time. Now, here's how the system works …"
We sprang on the desk and sat down in front of the monitor, which was on top of the central processing unit. The master of the house hadn't pinched pennies here either. It was no less than an IBM. Apparently the text on the screen was a research paper, because after reading the first line my concentration evaporated as quickly as perfume escaping a bottle.
"My esteemed master naturally does not suspect that I play with his equipment in his absence. But he's not home all day long, and believe me, it can get pretty damn boring here. At my age, you don't feel much like roaming around out there anymore."
Yet another who dreaded being "out there." Nothing but monks lived in this neighborhood. But that was understandable, when you considered that "out there" was Mr. Non Compos's territory.
"This is really unbelievable, Pascal. How on earth did you ever learn to do this?"
"Very simple.
