None are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.
—Elizabeth Barrett
Now the doctor is going to try a completely new direction. He brings into the laboratory a solid Morris chair and arranges leather straps as though to confine the individual in it, but he cuts them all partway through. The thick one for the waist he will not even buckle, but will let it hang out the back of its own weight. Of course he must be careful not to let 107 realize that she's not strapped in except lightly at wrist and elbow.
He opens one of the high little basement windows. Takes out the thick screening that serves as bars. Only someone quite at the end of her rope could make such a leap up from the floor to what she would take as freedom. Even then, probably impossible. Still, can't be guessed at, what they can or can't do. Not to take any chances, the doctor places a small stool and then a waist-high bookcase next to it to form steps. Then he adjusts the testing cage so that it gives only the slightest of shocks even when turned on full. Partly this is in case he gets carried away. It's possible that he might get very angry. Often does these days. He's found out so little so far. Suspects most of them are as ignorant as they say they are. But not 108 and 107. They know things. And something wise about them that the others respect. They're listened to. 107 may lead him somewhere useful. Perhaps to their leader. Except she doesn't talk now. Could tell that from the tapes. There's a waste of time. All those tapes. Grunts, chuckles, quacks. Even worse than it used to be. Bad enough then. Bla, bla, bla. “How do I look with feathers in my ears?” “Tell me, is my topknot mostly blue or green?” “Have my feet grown ugly already?” “Am I too fat? Too thin?” Pleasant singing voice, though, 107's was. Powerful. A bit strange. Music. Used to like it. Beethoven. What they say about menstrual and estrous might be useful. Somewhat. Try to find their most vulnerable times of the month or year as the case may be. Some of them in love with me. Should use that, too. 108. What was her name? What about Rosemary? Eyes sometimes little slits. Watching. Did she do that before? Not when first married. Eyes wide then. Blue. Or were they gray? And she's not done some things lately. Noticed dust. Everything done for them, though. Last night thought to try love-making again, but it's been a long time. How to begin after.... Is it years? Tired. Thought better of it. 108 didn't fool me with that tiger bit. No stripes on Rosemary. Though hunched up and gained a little weight. 108 a bit thin. Long. Quite attractive. She and 107 team? Go where there is an answer. Not sit around here any more. Put running shoes on. Lunchbox, sweater, raincoat by the door. Get started. First the baby.
There is, of course, quite a row when the doctor takes the baby. More so even than for Basenji (especially now that Basenji has not returned). Phillip had the baby in her cage as usual, and she let it go to the doctor's arms willingly enough, thinking that it was she he had come for, but then she was pushed back roughly into her cage and the baby was taken. What a commotion as the doctor leaves with it! Such caterwaulings, from throaty croak to skirr. The doctor distinctly heard one dreadful raucous yawp from 107. Quite distasteful and quite unlike her usual voice. He is thinking that she sounds exactly like what her reputation (Isabel's) made him think she would sound like in the first place.
He decides to wait until they have all tired themselves out a bit before coming back for number 107. Let them get it off their chests. It's quite unpleasant to be exposed to it even for a few seconds. And what are they thinking, letting the baby hear such a racket! Meanwhile examine it. Cute little thing. Too bad never had one of his own. He puts it on the floor and lets it crawl around and play with the paraphernalia in the room. It looks healthy. Seems to be doing all right on kibbles and cat food. “Bop,” it says, “Bop, bop.” The doctor is pleased, thinking it might be trying to say “Pop.” He makes up little experiments for the baby, measuring how fast it can crawl and how long its attention span is. Also what kind of things motivate it the most to pay attention or to crawl. Twice he gives it a little pinch. Not enough to make it cry, only to protest. In such a manner he passes a pleasant three-quarters of an hour, finally putting the baby in the testing cage (making sure it's only loosely latched) and going back for 107. They are all, by that time, and thank goodness, so hoarse they can hardly do more than whisper their protests. He doesn't say a word. All the better if they think that dreadful things are happening to the baby.
Of course Pooch comes willingly enough. It is obvious that she can hardly wait to get to the laboratory to see what's going on with the baby, and it's also obvious that she is horrified to find it in the testing cage.
The doctor straps Pooch into the chair. “Let's see how fast the baby learns which side of the cage is which,” he says, and, “Of course you can stop this anytime you want to."
Pooch opens her mouth, but only strange croaking sounds come out.
"In that case.... “the doctor says, and gives the first shock.
"Ouch,” the baby says, perfectly clearly and rather gravely, “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” Under other circumstances Pooch would have been delighted with the new word. Now she is all the more distressed by it and by the nature of the new word itself and by the serious way it has been spoken. After a few moments of skittering around and saying “Ouch,” the baby finds the safe side of the cage.
"Not bad,” the doctor says. “Actually better than some. Now let's try it the other way round."
This goes on, the doctor increasing the shocks by infinitesimal intervals, hoping soon to find the precise level at which the baby will begin to cry. He hopes, then, to be able to turn the crying on and off by the push of a button. Meanwhile Pooch continuously makes that funny, throaty sound. It is only when the baby is quite suddenly crying vigorously with hurt and frustration, tired of the game, not stopping even with the shocks completely turned off, and when Pooch is almost through the already cut straps, that the doctor suddenly realizes: My God, 107! She's barking!
At that moment Pooch is full of such mixed feelings she doesn't know what she will do. Her teeth have never once been used, even when she was a baby, for anything more savage than pulling on a rag or chewing an old shoe, but now she must ... yes, it is the only answer. Besides, when she thinks of what has happened to her voice, that she would have died for, and that she would also willingly die for the baby.... And what's to lose, when she already has Isabel's reputation? Loyalty is a trap, she thinks, and the doctor has saved us only for torture and death as with poor Basenji. Attack, then. The throat, the shoulder. She had not known she had such strength, the bonds broken already, and so easily! The doctor on the floor, Pooch doesn't stop to see if he's dead or alive. She pushes the latch of the testing cage, grasps the baby in her teeth, and, ignoring the system of steps put out for her, she makes that extraordinary leap up to and through the open basement window, the baby shouting, “No, no, no, no,” at the top of its voice.