"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 is also a kind of false dog. certain siberian tribes slow to reach civilized status also domesticated the northern wolf, canis lupus. this was many thousands of years later, of course, and in the false dog the effect of long breeding is not so evident. he is loving as a puppy, but when he matures he is aloof and reserves his loyalty to one master. he is intensely loyal and will die for his master, but even to him he will display little outward affection. perhaps a wag of the tail or a head laid on the knee, not too often. no others except quite young children may pet him at all. to all but his master he displays a kind of tolerant indifference unless he is molested, and then he defends himself."

"what a horrible creature, not a dog at all!" martha exclaimed.

"not culturally, you are quite correct, madame," mr. cherkassov agreed, shifting his hold on the briefcase and leaning further forward, "but unfortunately he is a dog biologically. some wolf blood has crept into most of the jackal-derived breeds, you know. it betrays itself in high cheekbones and slanting eyes and in the personality of the breed. the chow, for instance, has considerable wolf blood."

"chows!" martha beaked her lips again. "i despise them! no better than cats!" paula nodded emphatic agreement.

"but your little fiffalo, as you describe him, is probably of pure canis aureus descent and very highly bred."

"i'm sure he is. blood will tell. monica, haven't i always said blood will tell?"

monica nodded, her eyes shining. mr. cherkassov shifted his position slightly, nearer to the chair edge.

"now moondog, madame stonery, is of the lajka breed and has even more wolf blood than the chow. if you brought her back to earth she would just walk away from you with cold indifference."

"not really?"

"madame, you know the wolf traits only as you find them tempered with the loving jackal traits in such dogs as the chow. but a russian dog! if you were to hand moondog a piece of meat, do you know what she would do?"

"no. tell me."

mr. cherkassov leaned forward, his slanting gray eyes opening wide, and dropped his voice almost to a whisper. "madame, she would bite your hand!"

"then she doesn't deserve to be rescued!" martha said sharply.

mr. cherkassov straightened up and began stroking his briefcase. "in one sense she is not even a dog," he suggested.

"no, she's an old wolf-thing. like a cat. dogs are loving!"

"perhaps not morally worthy of your campaign?"

"no, of course not. mr. cherkassov, you have given me a new thought.... i hadn't realized...."

mr. cherkassov waited attentively, his fingers tracing another pattern. paula and monica looked at martha and held their breaths.

"... hadn't realized how that subversive wolf blood has been creeping into our loving dogs all this long time. why ... why it's miscegenation! it's bestiality! confess it, mr. cherkassov—that's one way you russians have been infiltrating us, now isn't it?"

mr. cherkassov raised his sandy eyebrows, and a frosty twinkle shone in his tilted eyes.

"you must realize that i could hardly admit to such a thing, even if it were true, madame stonery," he said judiciously.

"it is true! go back to your kremlin, mr. cherkassov, and shoot every wolf in russia to the moon. i'm sure the u.d.d. won't mind!"

mr. cherkassov and the tass men stood up and bowed. martha rose and sailed ahead of them to the door. hand on knob, she turned to face them.

"our meeting will be historic, mr. cherkassov," she said. "i have forced you to betray your country's plot to undermine our loving dogs. you may expect from the u.d.d. instant and massive retaliation! an aroused america will move at once, to set up miscegenation and segregation barriers against your despicable wolf blood!"

paula and monica stood up, each with her hands clasped under her flushed and excited face. mr. cherkassov bowed again. martha opened the door.

"goodbye, mr. cherkassov," she said. "you will, no doubt, be liquidated in a few days."

mr. cherkassov stepped carefully across the doormat.