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Show 13 And Maia knows too, knows that the dogs she runs through the experiments will eventually be put to sleep, have fluids perfused through their brains, have their heads severed, soaked in preservative, and their brains removed. But Maia also knows that however protracted the surgeries, the dogs will feel none of it; their conscious end will be swift, sleepy, painless. She finds nothing wrong with the plan. And the dogs? Do they know? No, they are just dogs; they do not know anything more complex than immediate attention or actual pain. They are just dogs, common mongrel dogs, their coats dull and their markings irregular. Their breath is sour from the standard kennel diet, and the electrode pedestals protrude like plastic cancers from their heads. But their tails beat against the sides of the wooden desks when Maia brings them in from the kennels, and one jumps up to lick her hand. Ah yes, the one that licks her hand is Mustard. He is just a little smaller than most of the dogs, but smarter, sharper, and his coat is an almost yellowish brown -- which is why, of course, Maia named him Mustard. She has just brought him into the lab; they have run breathless together across the wide green lawn, and after his hour in the box, they will run back again, loping free across the green grass to the kennel. But now Maia has looped the rope lead through the handle of the file drawer. Mustard paces nervously, keeping as far from the experimental box as possible; the rope pulls the file drawer out, then back, then out again. Boaz drums annoyed on the surface of his desk. |