I put the sandwich together for him again, and this time wiped my hand surreptitiously on my shorts. I'd have to sneak down to the kitchen later and feed my own bear.

B-Jay was standing and counting quietly. "Seventeen," she muttered. "Three down in the infirmary, fourteen beds . . . damn. All right, Betty-John, let's figure this one out by eight tonight. Baths. Right--down to the creek. We'll take 'em swimming and sneak some soap up behind them; probably leave a ring around the whole reservoir. We'll need underpants, sandals, shirts, shorts, definitely Band-Aids. . . .

A RAGE FOR REVENGE249

Someone screamed, one of the little girls. She was standing on her chair and pointing at the door.

"Oh, that's only old Wag," said Betty-John. "She won't hurt you."

Wag was a mangy-skinny, scrawny, count-the-ribs-fromtwenty-meters, old yellow dog with a tongue that lolled halfway to the ground. She was a collection of haphazard pieces of dog: a cockeyed grin; knobby legs; splayed feet; large brown eyes that rolled this way and that, looking for a handout or even a friendly pat; and a gangling, ungainly way of walking that made you wonder why she didn't keep stepping on her ears-her head dipped and bobbed. Dr. Frankenstein must have started out by experimenting with boneless animals.

The little girl was almost hysterical now. Most of the other children were upset and disturbed too, probably thinking, Is this the proper response? Should I be screaming too?

Wag lolled her tongue, rolled her eyes, did her clown act, left out the juggling though, and gangled into the room. The child screamed.

B-Jay was already swooping her into her arms. "Wag's okay, she's just a dog."

"A dog!" cried the girl. "A dog!"

Uh-huh. Right. The kid didn't think of dogs as friendly animals. Dogs were large, vicious things that bit you and stole your food. I'd bet money on what this kid had been through. "She won't hurt you."

"Let me shoo her out, B-Jay." Little Ivy.

"No! Wag is a member of this family too. We're all friends here. Patty and I will go eat in the back room, so Wag can meet her new friends." Still talking, she started walking. "Come on, Patty. "

"No-! I don't want to go!" "Then we'll stay here!" "No!"

"Well, then what do you want?"

"Make it go away!" She pointed at Wag.

"Uh-uh. " Betty-John was firm. "No, honey. Wag is part of our family. She won't hurt you, not any more than I would or ugly old Jim would or anyone would. You can't ask us to push anyone out of the family. We wouldn't do it any more than we would let someone push you out."

The girl looked at her, a funny expression on her face. "Do you want to finish lunch?" B-Jay was firm.

"Uh-huh." The girl nodded.

"In here?"

"Uh-huh."

"if I promise you Wag won't hurt you, will you sit and eat quietly?"

"Oh . . kay. . . "

Wag lolled around the room, sniffing and licking and gladly accepting handouts from tentatively lowered hands. She inspected the floor as she went, licking stray scraps into her mouth. Rule number K-9: Anything that falls on the floor is legally mine. She almost managed to chew with her mouth closed, too; for a dog, she had exceptional table manners. She even came up and sniffed Bear a friendly hello.

Alec stiffened, and when Wag slurped Bear-actually a tiny gobbet of tuna salad-he looked very suspicious.

"Did he bite Bear?" To Alec, all dogs were he, and all pussycats were undoubtedly she.

"Nope," I said. "She only tasted him. I think she likes Bear."

"Is he going to bite him now?"

"No. Wag doesn't bite. He-she only slurps. Like this." I leaned over and slurped his cheek. "Mmm, good. Soup." Alec giggled and wiped with the back of his hand.

Holly looked surprised. "Hey, he laughed!"

I turned to her. "What's so surprising about that?"

"He doesn't talk much. And he never laughs."

"Not even if he's tickled?" I said it seriously.

She tilted her head back and eyed me. "You can't tickle us."

"Betcha I can."

"You're not allowed to."

"Who says?"

"Uh . . I says."

"Well, we'll just have to see about that . . . "

She could too be tickled. And so could Alec. And even Tommy, a little. Not only that, they could even laugh-a little. Even Bear looked a little happier-at least for someone without any head, he looked happier. It was hard to tell.

The bargaining part of the process seemed to stretch forever. But it wasn't I who did the bargaining; it was the rest of the trainees in the room. I'd already made up my mind that I wasn't going to bargain.

I was too proud.

It was like all those scenes in all those movies where the killer is going to shoot someone and the victim begs for mercy-and then gets shot anyway. All that the victim ever accomplishes is the loss of his or her dignity.

I didn't want to be like that.

I had decided that I would not beg or plead or try to negotiate. Maybe that was the point of the process: to have me reach a state in which survival was so unimportant to me that I would cease to care. Well, if so, then I was well on my way.

But I wasn't going to beg. Not after everything I'd already been through. Uh-uh. Sorry. Not me.

Instead, I sat and listened.

The rest of the trainees bargained.

Theme one: This is a waste of a human life.

Foreman's reaction:

"Agreed. This is a waste of a human life. I agree with you. But this is the way we do this process."

"But every human life is precious."

"Is it? Before the plagues there were ten and a half billion people on the planet. The best estimate now is that we're down to three, and still dropping. But even with only three billion people on the planet, what difference does one more or one less make? We're all going to die. Why does it make a difference whether it's today or next week?"

Et cetera.

Theme two: This is cruel and unusual.

Foreman's reply:

"Unusual? No. The statistics don't validate that position. Death by gunfire is unfortunately very usual. Cruel? I doubt it. It's instantaneous. It's painless." Foreman added, "I admit it'll be messy to splatter McCarthy's brains across that wall, but cruel and unusual? No."

Theme three: This is unnecessary to the success of the training.

Foreman: "Are you a certified Mode Trainer?"

"No."

"I am. There's a copy of my certification on the screen. I will decide what is necessary to the success of the training. You don't get a vote on it."

Theme four: Isn't there another way to accomplish the same result?

"No."

Theme five: What is it that you want us to say or do to prevent this outrage?

"Nothing. Nothing at all. There's nothing that I want you to get. There's nothing that I want you to do. There's nothing that has to happen. But you might want to notice the philosophical equation underneath that statement. It's obvious that you think communication is about getting someone to do something.

"If that's all that you think that communication is, then that reduces irrevocably to 'Get a gun and threaten to use it on someone to get them to do what you want.' And in fact, when someone does point a gun at someone, that's what you think is happening-that I'm trying to get someone to do something. Wrong. I don't care what McCarthy or anyone else in this room says or does. The process will continue until McCarthy is dead. But you want to notice that you are stuck in a state called 'Bargaining' and you will say anything or do anything in order to achieve the goal that you have decided is right. Life is right. Death is wrong. Therefore, you are stuck in the paradigm that you must bargain, negotiate, plead, wheedle, beg, implore, demand, protest-you will do anything you have to do to keep alive."