Keepers of the House by Lester del Rey _So bewildering in scope is the entertainment field that even a well-known writer may find himself deflated by the disconcerting query: “Just what magazines do you write for?” But there is little danger of such a calamity overtaking Lester del Rey, for his contributions to science fantasy have been so numerous and outstanding that the field of his choice would look crater-pitted without them. And this, his newest story, is one of his very best._ =King could remember how golden and glorious the house had seemed to men-and what the science he hated had done to his friends.= Outwardly, there was nothing about that particular morning to set it apart from the thousands of other such mornings which the dog had smelled. Yet his great, gaunt body shifted nervously on the rocky shelf over the river, and his short hackles lifted slightly as the skin on his neck tautened. He raised his head, sniffing the wind that blew from the land, and his ears searched for wrongness in the sounds that reached him. Once he whined. The feeling left from the dream was still troubling him. He had bedded down in a dry shelter back from the water. After he had scraped away the ancient, dried bones of rabbits, it had seemed like a good place. But sleep had been too busy, full of running and of tantalizing smells. And finally, just when he was tearing at something with an almost forgotten flavor, the warm scent in his nostrils had changed to another, and a voice had snapped into his ears. He had jerked awake, shivering, with the name still ringing in his head. “King!” The dream memory of Doc had bothered him before, but this time even the warmth of the sun had failed to quiet it, though his nose reported no trace of a human odor now. There was something about this territory.... Abruptly, a motion in the water caught his attention. He edged forward, rising to his feet, while his eyes tracked the big fish. Overhead, a bird must have seen the same prey, since it began dropping. King growled faintly and plunged down into the unpleasant chill of the water. Necessity and decades of near-starvation had taught him perfect form in this unnatural act. A moment later, he was heading for shore with the fish clamped between his jaws. He found a hollowed spot of dry sand, shook the water out of his short fur, and began tearing at the fish. It was a flavorless breakfast, far inferior to the big salmon that were so easy to catch along the northwestern rivers, but it filled him well enough.