seen or sensed. He seemed an atavistic thing, and again I thought of the museum's dinosaur.
But it was still only another dog, I assured myself stubbornly as I went into the house, and if I couldn't handle him I'd have no business calling myself a dog trainer. Of course I couldn't guarantee to make a hunter out of him, some dogs are no more capable of discharging the duties for which they've been created than are some men. But if I failed I could always send him back to Ibellius Grut. I mixed the daily feed, and the first thing I noticed when I pushed the feed cart outside was Buck. He hadn't moved from the edge of his run, was still sitting with his eyes glued on Tsan-Lo. I made a mental note never to let them get together, one or the other would be killed if I did. But when I gave Tsan-Lo his allotted feed, again I turned away from his fathomless eyes. There was something about his stare that I just couldn't stand.
That night Sally's roadster stopped in front of the house. She'd changed her slacks and denim shirt for a white blouse and a blue skirt, and my heart came into my throat. She looked—. Imagine how an angel looks and you'll have it.
"How's it going?" she asked.
"Good. It always goes good."
"That—. That Tsan-Lo too?"
"Oh him," I laughed, and lied. "I went in his run this afternoon and pulled his ears. The only thing the matter with him is laziness."
She looked sharply at me, "Well, I could be wrong. Just the same here's a book I want you to read."
I tucked the book under my arm, it would be a desecration to look at anything else when Sally's around.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Oh, Harris is coming in and I must pick him up at the station."
"Well—that's fine."
"I'll be seeing you."
She drove off, and I stood for a moment wishing I'd inherited a million or so from my father instead of having been brought up in an orphanage. Then maybe Sally Evers would have been wearing my ring instead of Harris H. Harris's. But some things you just can't change, and this was one of them. I looked idly at the book she'd given me.
It was The Perfect World, by Dr. Ibellius Grut, and because I hadn't anything else to do I sat down to read it.
It was a strange-looking book—old, tattered, and musty. It was dedicated to "The Quest for Perfection," was privately printed by Dr. Grut, and began:
"Since time began the world in which we live has never been either perfectly balanced or perfectly adjusted. The history of that world is the history of seeking such balance and adjustment. It has not been achieved in man and man's possessions. They are but a passing phase of infinitely greater plan, the ultimate aim of which is absolute perfection.
There followed a discussion of the earth's creation, and the little, mouse-like creature which was the first mammal to come out of the steaming seas to run about on the land. There were a whole lot of formulas and equations that I had never seen before, and which I judged to be original with Dr. Grut. Then:
"There can be no doubt that a fumbling and far from perfect intelligence has thus far dictated everything which has occurred. It is a striving, restless brain that does not know how to proceed
