In the country these days – in the winter of 2021 – there are protests and marches and demonstrations every day.

People protest about the price of electricity, people protest because their illegal connections have been cut. People march because they are crowded in the cities, people march because they are being removed to rural areas. People demonstrate in the streets because they have no jobs, people demonstrate because they have jobs that pay too little.

The list is as endless as the protests. Wame sees them every night on the TV news once Miranda is tucked up in bed.

Most of the protests turn into riots. They get very violent, very fast. Property is damaged and destroyed. Innocent bystanders are attacked. The police and security forces are given more and more powers, allowed to be more and more heavy-handed. Their guidelines from 2019 and 2020 are: ‘Crush the violence, stop the mayhem – whatever it takes. With maximum force where necessary.’

On the TV, Wame sees how men in uniform act with little mercy. Protesters get injured. Protesters die. But next day, there will be another protest in another city. And more uniformed men will arrive to crush the violence. Using even more violence.

“Don’t they understand, Vame?” the Professor says often, as he leans across her desk. “My HypeStar gas vill put an end to it all. It vill bring peace back to this land. If they vill just gif me money to start the third protocol, if they vill just give me funds to start human trials. If I can just haf money to pay human subjects.”

Often he has tears in his beautiful, sexy, blue eyes. Those are the moments when Wame longs to reach up and wipe his tears away. And tell him how much she loves him; that she has loved him since her very first day working at the Institute.

The protesters are at the front door now, trying to smash it open. How long will the locks hold? But police sirens are screaming close by now.

“Thank all the stars,” says Isaac. He has moved to the office door to protect Wame from that side.

Wame says in a trembling voice. “But will the police help us?” And that is a good question.

All the street protesters are poor and without power. They are the unemployed, the shack-dwellers, the single mothers with many children and grants that have been cut. No-one seems to care that the police move in on them with batons and sjamboks and pistols and tear gas and an iron fist.

But here, with these dog protesters in their designer clothes? Will the rules be different? Is there one set of guidelines for the poor and another for the rich? That seems to be the way these days of 2021.

The front door of the Institute has finally been smashed open. Wame can hear the protesters storming through the foyer. At the same moment, the police cars screech to a halt outside. A few protesters rush right into her office, women with their faces twisted in righteous indignation. They push Isaac out of the way as if he is of no account.

“Where are the dogs?!” they scream. “Where are the dogs, you wicked woman? How can you be part of such cruelty?”

But the police are close behind. Wame can smell the tear gas, can feel it burning the back of her throat. Police appear in her office, wearing their gas masks. They look like alien beings. They grab hold of a protester. She screams, “You’re breaking my arm, you stupid thug!” Another protester trips and goes flying across the floor. She lands with a jarring thud. When she lifts her head, her nose bleeds onto the polished floor. But no batons are being used. No sjamboks either. And definitely no guns.

Wame struggles to see through burning eyes. But Isaac is still beside her. “It’s OK, Miss Ditsala. Look. They’re all running away.”

And yes, the office is empty now. The protesters are running back to their cars, coughing, driving away with their wheels spinning in the mud. One or two are being led, politely, into waiting police cars. The woman with the bleeding nose is being helped into an ambulance.

“Perhaps that’s the difference between the rich and the poor,” says Wame. “The rich give up easily. The poor go on fighting till their last breath. I suppose that’s because the poor have nothing left to lose.”

Isaac goes to call Mrs Watkins so she can mop up the blood.

Wame’s eyes are feeling better. Her throat isn’t burning so much. And she is suddenly feeling light-hearted. Why? Because the protesters are gone. That means Professor von Lood won’t be in danger of tomatoes or bricks when he arrives in his green Jaguar. And maybe today he will stay till knock-off time? Maybe today he won’t go off to visit Theodora. That will make it a really good day.

Wame gets busy on the next email while Mrs Watkins mops up the blood. Some NGO wants to know exactly how this HPST gas works. Then they might consider sending some funding. So Wame carefully explains as much as she can.

Dear Sir/Madam

HPST stands for Hypothalamic Pituitary System Trigger. When a subject breathes in the gas, this is the area of the brain affected by the chemicals: the hypothalamic pituitary system.

What these chemicals do is to elicit an instant fear response in the subject. The subject becomes terrified. He loses any aggression, any desire for violence. His only desire is to run away. He turns from a tiger into a frightened rabbit, instantly, with just one sniff of HPST gas.

Professor von Lood allowed Wame to watch one of his experiments. She stood in the laboratory while Isaac put the dog on the table and tied the restraints around all four legs. It was a medium-sized, fluffy dog and it licked Isaac’s face while he worked.

“I’m sorry, Usher,” said Isaac. “Sorry you have to go through this. But you are helping people everywhere, you understand, my boy? You are a hero, Usher!”

Then the Professor came from the storeroom, carrying a small gas canister. The dog saw him. Instantly the dog turned into a snarling, vicious creature. It growled and bared its teeth, the hair on its back stood up. It faced the Professor with murder in its eyes, as if it would happily rip the Professor’s throat out.

And then – poof! One spray of the gas and the dog had changed: this time into a cowering, whimpering bundle of fur, trying desperately to get away. It pulled against its restraints, desperately trying to escape. Until its legs were bleeding.

“That is amazing!” said Wame. “I can hardly believe it!” Her eyes glowed with pride: her Hans was a genius. A true genius!

“Yes, it is amazing,” said the Professor. “Imagine a mob of fiolent protesters turning into a bunch of terrified rabbits. Vithout the police using tear gas or sjamboks or guns. Imagine how many lives vould be safed!”

Isaac didn’t say anything. He was crying quietly as he undid Usher’s restraints and carried him back to his cage. Wame felt embarrassed for him.

Professor von Lood took no notice of Isaac’s tears. “Write it down in the log, Isaac. Subject RI-23 took two cubic millimetres.”

Wame finishes off the email now. She sends it, hoping that this NGO will understand how important the human trials are and send poor Hans the money he needs. Then she picks up the phone, ready to call Mrs Jackson. Yes, once she knows Miranda is happy, all will be well. She begins to dial.

But that’s when the howling begins. It comes from the cages in the laboratory next door. The most chilling, haunting sound. Louder and louder. As if all the lost souls from hell are giving voice to their agony and their torment.

The howling fills her office.

***

Tell us: What do you think of the Professor’s gas? Could it work? Could humanity benefit from it?