Chapter 2: CHAPTER TWO

“I want you to go easy with her.” He hoped his voice sounded firm, but not too demanding. Tony Maitland, hired hand and Dawny Lee’s exercise rider had tended to disobey his instructions on numerous occasions. The young man tried to do what he thought was best for the filly. Maybe he was right. Sitting on her back Tony had a better sense of the horse than Gilbert standing on the ground.

“Sure thing, Mr. Gilbert,” Tony said. He sat astride Dawny Lee, guiding her to the starting gate set up on the training track Gilbert had installed ten years ago.

“Don’t let her get away from you,” he said. “You know how she is.” He held up a well-used stopwatch, face slightly chipped, back scratched, clicked the silvery knob at the top so it showed zero. “Five furlongs. The time should be about a minute, maybe one-oh-two. Not less than a minute, not right now.”

“Yes, sir.” Tony slapped the filly’s neck.

He found it amazing that the young man would still call him ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr. Gilbert’ when four months ago he had been engaged to his daughter Dawn. That was before the accident which took the lives of Dawn and her mother. Dawn had told him they’d be back later after a shopping trip. “Don’t worry, Dad,” she said. “Dawny Lee will run. They can’t stop her, they won’t stop her.” At nine that evening two police officers delivered the horrifying news in a somber tone that a drunk driver had plowed into their car, killing them instantly.

He turned away from Tony as tears threatened to spill. Cleared his throat, concentrated on the task at hand.

Tony eased the filly into the gate, calmed her down when she acted a little skittish. She’d been in there before, three times, but each time, that slight hesitation as if she were walking into that small confined space for the first time.

She finally settled down. The gate sprung open, and Dawny Lee rushed out on to the track. He had pressed the button on the stopwatch as soon as she surged out of the gate. Looking at the numbers he cursed under his breath.

“Damn it, she’s still moving too fast,” he yelled. Maybe she should be a sprinter instead of trying for the long distance. Could be suited to seven furlongs, maybe less.

Her pedigree, however, indicated longer distances. Mile and an eighth, mile and a quarter. Both her sire and her dam, as well as her grandsire on the sire’s side, won at distances of a mile or more.

She’s only two years old, he reminded himself. Still learning.

Should wait till next year, a voice in the back of his head suggested. Next year. When she’s more mature.

Of all the horses he owned once upon a time, pre-virus, about sixty percent didn’t race until three, and only seven percent raced at two, but those were the precocious ones. They knew what was expected of them, knew what it took to win, took their losses in stride.

As for the other thirty-three percent, two females didn’t race until their gender designation changed from filly to mare, and three males turned four before they set hoof on the track.

The rest? The less said about them, the better. Training day after day, without success, until finally he had to give up on them, sell them, hope they’d do better for their new owners.

You can lead a horse to the track but you can’t make her win.

Tony reined her in after the filly had galloped five furlongs. He swung her around, headed back to where Gilbert was waiting.

“Fifty four,” Gilbert said, trying not to shout so close to the filly. “She’s not running in the International, she’s training.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I tried to slow her down but she accelerated.”

He shook his head, took a deep breath. “Maybe you can’t rate her, Tony.”

“Sir, I...” Tony fidgeted with the filly’s mane.

“She’s controlling you,” he said. “It should be the other way around. At this rate, she won’t last beyond five.”

“Is it worth it?”

“You’re damn right.” Angry with the young man who questioned his decision to train Dawny Lee for the track. “If every race was five furlongs, and not farther, she’d do just fine. But five isn’t going to do it. If she does on the track what she did just now she’ll be left at the back of the pack after six or seven. I don’t want to see her in last place.” He let out a sigh that almost translated to hopelessness. “All right, that’s enough for today. Rinse her off, walk her...” His voice trailed off. Is this worth it? What if this lead to a dead end? He had no idea what he’d do if he couldn’t convince the Jockey Club to let Dawny Lee run against artificial horses.

The rules weren’t carved in stone, were they? He chuckled. Maybe the Jockey Club had carved them in stone, just to make sure.

In his office he scanned the bookshelf spanning the entire north wall. Although his reading tastes varied from non-fiction to mysteries to historical novels, the majority of books dealt with horses. He reached up, took down a copy of ‘The New and Revised Rules of the Jockey Club,’ a book which had been sent to him about two years ago even though he didn’t want it. The decision to send it back had been delayed, and it ended up on the shelf, testimony that racing involving biological thoroughbreds was now obsolete.

He leafed through the book, not really interested in reading. The rules applied not only to artificial horses, but also to owners, trainers, and jockeys. Basically the same rules as they had been, but considerations had been made for thoroughbreds created in laboratories by human beings.

He snapped the book shut, replaced it on the shelf. Walked over to the window and looked outside. Dawny Lee was grazing in the paddock, her tail swishing away flies. Was she lonely? Of course she was lonely. Horses were social animals, craving the company of others.

The knock behind him brought his mind back to the office. “Come in,” he called, still glancing at Dawny Lee. She was a beautiful chestnut thoroughbred filly with a distinctive narrow blaze which came to a point between her nostrils. Two white socks, one of her left fore, the other on her right hind.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Tony said as he walked into the room.

“Forget it.” He turned, faced the young man. “She’s two years old. Maybe we should wait till next year.”

“We’ve been training her since she was a foal. She should have learned something by now.”

“There’s time.”

“Can I ask you something... sir?” The ‘sir’ came out as an afterthought.

He strode behind the desk, eased into his chair. “Sit down, Tony. Say what’s on your mind.”

Tony sat in the chair on the other side of Gilbert’s cluttered desk. “I know it’s none of my business but I think you’re walking down a long road to nowhere.”

“You’re right,” he snapped. “It is none of business.”

“Mr. Brenner talked to me.”

“Oh? When?”

“Couple of days ago. I think you were in Westover. He told me he’d come to see you another day.”

“He was here this morning.”

“Did he tell you about Equine Electronics?”

He didn’t like the enthusiasm in Tony’s voice. “As far as I’m concerned Paul Brenner and I are finished. If he had something to say about Equine Electronics I didn’t give him a chance.”

Tony folded his hands, tapped thumbs together, remained silent.

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“That other man, Peterson,” Gilbert said, “wants me to come to Equine Electronics. I got his card somewhere.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested.”

He didn’t want to know how they created artificial horses. He found that concept obscene, sacrilegious. Man should not be doing God’s work. God was in a class by Himself. Man, an imperfection, created imperfect things, and horses built by Equine Electronics, were no exception.

“I don’t want to get involved with them,” he said.

“I was wondering...”

“What is it?”

“Maybe we should...”

He knew what Tony was trying to say, but he had no intention of going anywhere near that place. “The answer is no.”

“I thought you’d want to know what makes those thoroughbreds tick.”

He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk, folded his hands. “Now why would I want to do that?”

Tony shrugged, flicked out his tongue, ran it across his lips.

“I don’t like the word ‘thoroughbred.’ Not the way you’re using it.”

“That’s the word Equine Electronics uses, and the Jockey Club is ok with that. What else should they call them?”

“What else have you been doing besides exercising Dawny Lee?”

Tony looked down as if deep in thought. A moment later he raised his head, looked directly at him. “The way I figure it, Mr. Gilbert, in order to know your enemies you should make a few friends in their camp.”

Been watching too many movies? The thought stuck in his mind. He leaned back, clasped his hands behind his neck. The young man across the desk seemed to have something in mind, something Gilbert didn’t like one bit. Tony Maitland’s job was to exercise Dawny Lee, keep her stall fairly clean, groom her, get her ready for the races later this year.

“You mean you want me to talk to Peterson,” he said.

“Why not?” Tony shrugged. “Let him tell you about Equine Electronics, about their... horses. Then you can use what you know against them.”

“I want Dawny Lee to run.” He said it more to himself than Tony.

“She won’t win if you don’t know what you’re up against.”

“I’ll think about it, Tony.”

After the young man had left he stood up, shoved a pen which had been lying on his desk in the pen holder Dawn had given him as a birthday present when he turned forty nine. I can’t wait for your fiftieth, she had said. I wanted to, but it’s just sitting there in my drawer, waiting.

He looked at a framed photograph of himself and Lisa, Dawn between them. Taken three years ago when Dawn was seventeen. What would his wife and daughter want him to do? Lisa, an accomplished horse woman from a long line of owners and breeders, wouldn’t approve of him going to Equine Electronics. And Dawn? She felt the only real horses were those made of flesh and blood and bone, not the ones manufactured by Equine Electronics, no matter how real they appeared.

Maybe Tony was right. Maybe a talk with Peterson might shed some light on this company, show him something about their... products.

He took the card out of his pocket, looked at it. It felt strange in his hand as if it were possessed by some unseen force begging him to contact Richard Peterson. He rubbed his thumb across the front, wanted to toss it into the wastepaper basket beside his desk.

He held the phone, hesitated. He imagined his wife and daughter shaking their heads, telling him not to call, not to get involved with artificial horses.

He tapped the numbers, wished Peterson wouldn’t answer.

Seven buzzes later he was ready to click off when a voice, male, said, “Equine Electronics. Peterson.”

“Dr. Peterson?”

“Yes?”

“This is David Gilbert. You came to the farm earlier today.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Gilbert. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to take you up on that offer.” The words didn’t want to come out at first, but he managed to say them, his thoughts on Lisa and Dawn.

“You caught me at a rather inopportune time, Mr. Gilbert.” His voice seemed a combination of triumph and disappointment. “I’m leaving for a conference in Westover in half an hour, and I’ll be there for the next three days.”

“Maybe I should call back.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Peterson said quickly. Was he afraid of losing potential prey? “If you’d like to make it for Tuesday.”

He tried to think of an excuse, any excuse to get out of this, but all he said was, “Tuesday will be fine.”

“Two sound about right?”

He felt like a dog on a leash, trotting behind his master. “Sure.” No enthusiasm in that word.

He wondered why he had called.

Curiosity, perhaps.

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