“She threw her hands in front of her face and dropped to her knees,” Ray said, visibly fond of the memory. “Meanwhile, the guy had gone to open the back and I swooped in behind him, yelling all kinds of wacko stuff. He figured we were junkies or something. He kept saying there wasn’t anything I could use back there, that they were on our side. Romeo told them to stand against the side of the truck, legs spread, and kept his gun on them while I swiped the bags.”

Now I recognized the significance of the date in the corner of the screen, 05/02/02. The day before, I’d stood on Wigwam Deck, and Dr. Kriss had alluded to some kind of incident in Retreat.

You wouldn’t believe the lengths our competitors are willing to go to.

Sunshine Ray removed the camera from the stand and the shot swept across the basement floor. I saw the dogs. There were three in a pen—two charcoal, one apricot—the sort of stray mutts that prowled the streets of Retreat. Romeo was leaning into the pen, pouring food into their bowls.

“We’re going to find out what really happens when you transfuse living creatures,” Ray narrated. “Romeo and I rounded up some subjects from the local wildlife here. I explained the solution to them in detail. It’s hard to tell how much they understand, you know, but they wag their tails and that’s good enough for me. Better than informed consent by Rubicon standards, right? Here, Romeo, put this on the tripod.”

He passed the camera to Romeo, who zoomed way in on Ray’s mouth before pulling back. Then the camera was screwed onto the tripod, framing the pen.

Ray had pulled on blue plastic gloves. He squatted down with the dogs, whose tails swished around him as they munched the food. He said he’d named them Rumsfeld, Cheney and Bush—“All the gang, right here.”

“This is Rumsfeld,” he said as Romeo passed him a syringe.

Face buried in the bowl, the charcoal mutt didn’t even notice as Ray injected the sedative.

He passed the syringe back to Romeo, who handed him another.

“This is Cheney.” He injected the second dog. “And Bush is for control,” he said, petting the apricot mutt. “So this lucky guy won’t be given the solution. Rumsfeld and Cheney will get a transfusion and then we’ll compare the results. It won’t be perfect, but even just me and Romeo in our goddamn basement will be more professional than Rubicon.”

Ray was raking through the control dog’s fur.

“Alright,” he said, “I think that’s it. Cut, Romeo.”