Selah dismissed the other two men, presumably to free them up to pursue other gun-toting-thug-related duties. We entered a room similar to the one we had just been in, but there was no bed. Straw was scattered on the floor, and in the corner was a trough full of water. In the middle of the room, watching us, was Mary the sheep. Except it wasn’t Mary. It was Priya Mistry. Or Bryn Jhaveri, I suppose. Even if I hadn’t known about the memory transfer, I think I’d have noticed something strange about this sheep. An intelligent glint in the eye. Maybe I was imagining it. “Hello,” said the sheep, eyeing us uncertainly. The sheep’s mouth didn’t move, and for a moment I thought I was hallucinating again. Then I realized that the voice was coming from a small speaker hanging from a collar around its neck. The speaker was connected to a harness on the sheep’s head. “It’s a thought-to-voice translator,” said Selah. “A sheep’s mouth isn’t suited for articulating human speech, so we use this device to allow her to communicate with us.
