"And who might you be, to say which value is greatest? Space travel is moonshine, just moonshine!" "I do not understand your word, madame. If you mean impossible, I must point out that moondog has already crossed space."
Martha clasped her hands in her lap. "That's what I mean, grown men and such silliness, and the poor little dog has to pay."
Mr. Cherkassov spoke earnestly. "Forgive me if my ignorance of your language causes me to misunderstand, madame. We believe because man now has the ability to cross space he therefore has a duty to all life on Earth to help it reach other planets. Earth is overcrowded with men, not to speak of the wild life that soon must all die. We believe that around other suns we will find Earth-like planets where we can plough and harvest and build homes. I cannot agree that it is silly."
Martha flung her head back.
"Well, it is silly. Who'll go? All the men who do things will run away to them and then where will we be? Oh no, Mr. Cherkassov, that gets you nowhere!"
"Your pardon, madame," a TASS man interrupted. "What kind of men will run away?"
"The sour-faced men who fix pipes and TV and make A-bombs and electricity and things."
"Oh," said Mr. Cherkassov. He drummed on his briefcase. Then, "Perhaps only Russians will go, madame. You could pass a law. I must confess to you, we might have sent a man to the moon, but we feared the propaganda use your country might make of it."
Martha made her parrot mouth. "You should have sent a man!" She chomped the last word off short. Paula and Monica nodded vigorously.
Mr. Cherkassov stroked his briefcase. "Moondog's mistress wished greatly to go. One might say moondog saved her mistress' life. Is not that a value to you?"
Martha stared. "Did you dare think of sending a poor weak woman to the ... to the moon?"
"Russian women are coarse and strong," Mr. Cherkassov said soothingly. "A large number of them, among the scientists, did volunteer."
Martha sat bolt upright and made her parrot beak again. Her fat cheeks flushed under the powder.
"No!" she snapped. "I see where you're trying to lead me and I won't go! You should have sent the hussy! It is immoral to sacrifice a loving little dog just for a careless whim."
Her two aides gazed admiringly at their chieftainess. "Think of it, just for a whim!" Paula echoed.
Mr. Cherkassov's fingers traced an aimless, intricate pattern on the briefcase and he crossed his ankles.
"All dogs are not loving in the same way, madame. Tell me, how do you know when a dog loves you?"
"You just know," Martha said. "Take my little Fiffalo—and I just know he's so miserable now away from me in that dreadful concentration camp and it's all your fault, really, Mr. Cherkassov—when I pet Fiffalo he jumps in my lap and kisses me and just wiggles all over. That's real love!"
"Ah ... I perhaps understand. What does he do when you speak sharply to him?"
"He lies on his back with his paws waving and looks so sad and pitiful and defenseless that my heart melts and I feel good all over. You just know that's love, when it happens to you."
Monica dabbed at a tear. Both TASS men scribbled.
"I think I may see a way to resolve our differences," Mr. Cherkassov said. He put his feet side by side and leaned slightly forward, gripping the briefcase on his knees.
"What do you know of the history of the dog?" he asked.
"Well, he's always been man's best friend and the savage Indians used to eat him and ... and...."
"The true dog, madame, was domesticated about twenty thousand years ago. He was originally the golden jackal, Canis aureus, which still exists in a wild state. Selective breeding for submissiveness and obedience over that long time has resulted in the retention through maturity of many traits normal only to puppyhood. The modern pureline golden jackal dog no longer develops a secret life of his own, with emotional self-sufficiency. He must love and be loved, or he dies."
Monica sniffed. "What a beautiful name," Paula murmured. Martha nodded warily.
"But, madame, there i............