The Cat Who Walks Through Walls Read online

  The scooter’s brain, off somewhere near ring ten, accepted those coordinates and waited; I punched in my credit code and took position, crouched against acceleration pads.

  That idiot brain took an insultingly long time to decide that my credit was good—then placed a web around me, tightened it, closed the capsule and whuff! bing! bam! We were on our way…then a fast float for three kilometers from ring thirty to ring one-oh-five, then bam! bing! whuff! I was in Gretna Green. The scooter opened.

  For me such service is well worth the fare. But the Manager had been warning us the past two years that the system does not pay its way; either use it more or pay more per trip, or the hardware will be salvaged and the space rented out. I hope they work out a solution; some people need this service. (Yes, I know; Laffer theory will always give two solutions to such a problem, a high and a low—except where the theory states that both solutions are the same…and imaginary. Which might apply here. It may be that a scooter system is too expensive for a space habitat at the present state of engineering art.)

  It was an easy walk to Gwen’s compartment: downstairs to seven-tenths gravity, fifty meters “forward” to her number—I rang.

  Her door answered, “This is the recorded voice of Gwen Novak. I’ve gone to bed and am, I hope, happily asleep. If your visit is truly an emergency, deposit one hundred crowns via your credit code. If I agree that waking me is justified, I will return your money. If I disagree—laugh, chortle, chuckle!—I’ll spend it on gin and keep you out anyhow. If your call is not an emergency, please record a message at the sound of my scream.”

  This was followed by a high scream which ended abruptly as if a hapless wench had been choked to death.

  Was this an emergency? Was it a hundred-crown emergency? I decided that it was not any sort of emergency, so I recorded:

  “Dear Gwen, this is your fairly-faithful swain Richard speaking. Somehow we got our wires crossed. But we can straighten it out in the morning. Will you call me at my digs when you wake up? Love and kisses, Richard the Lion-Hearted.”

  I tried to keep my not-inconsiderable irk out of my voice. I felt badly used but underlying it was a conviction that Gwen would not intentionally mistreat me; it had to be an honest mix-up even though I did not now understand it.

  Then I went home whuff! bing! bam!…bam! bing! whuff!

  I have a deluxe compartment with bedroom separate from the living room. I let myself in, checked for messages in the terminal—none—set it for sleep conditions both for door and terminal, hung up my cane, and went into the bedroom.

  Gwen was asleep in my bed.

  She looked sweetly peaceful. I backed out quietly, moved noiselessly in undressing, went into the ’fresher, closed the door—soundproof; I said it was a deluxe setup. Nevertheless I made as little noise as possible in refreshing myself for bed, as “soundproof” is a hope rather than a certainty. When I was as sanitary and odorless as a male hairless ape can manage short of surgery, I went quietly back into my bedroom and got most cautiously into bed. Gwen stirred, did not wake.

  At some hour when I was awake in the night, I switched off the alarm. But I woke up about my usual time, as my bladder can’t be switched off. So I got up, took care of it, refreshed for the day, decided that I wanted to live, slid into a coverall, went silently into the living room, and opened the buttery, considered my larder. A special guest called for a special breakfast.

  I left the connecting door open so that I could keep an eye on Gwen. I think it was the aroma of coffee that woke her.

  When I saw that her eyes were open, I called out, “Good morning, beautiful. Get up and brush your teeth; breakfast is ready.”

  “I did brush my teeth, an hour ago. Come back to bed.”

  “Nymphomaniac. Orange juice or black cherries or both?”

  “Uh…both. Don’t change the subject. Come here and meet your fate like a man.”

  “Eat first.”

  “Coward. Richard is a sissy, Richard is a sissy!”

  “An utter coward. How many waffles can you eat?”

  “Uh…decisions! Can’t you unfreeze them one at a time?”

  “These are not frozen. Only minutes ago they were alive and singing; I killed ’em and skun ’em myself. Speak up, or I’ll eat all of them.”

  “Oh, the pity and the shame of it all!—turned down for waffles. Nothing left but to enter a monastery. Two.”

  “Three. You mean ‘nunnery.’”

  “I know what I mean.” She got up, went into the refresher, was out quickly, wearing one of my robes. Pleasant bits of Gwen stuck out here and there. I handed her a glass of juice; she paused to gulp twice before she spoke. “Gurgle, gurgle. My, that’s good. Richard, when we’re married, are you going to get breakfast for me every morning?”

  “That inquiry contains implied assumptions I am not willing to stipulate—”

  “After I trusted you and gave all!”

  “—but, without stipulation, I will concede that I would just as lief get breakfast for two as for one. Why do you assume that I’m going to marry you? What inducements do you offer? Are you ready for a waffle?”

  “See here, mister, not all men are fussy about marrying grandmothers! I’ve had offers. Yes, I’m ready for a waffle.”

  “Pass your plate.” I grinned at her. “‘Grandmother’ my missing foot. Not even if you had started your first child at menarche, then your offspring had whelped just as promptly.”

  “Neither one and I am so. Richard, I am trying to make two things clear. No, three. First, I’m serious about wanting to marry you if you’ll hold still for it…or, if you won’t, I’ll keep you as a pet and cook breakfast for you. Second, I am indeed a grandmother. Third, if, despite my advanced years, you wish to have children by me, the wonders of modern microbiology have kept me fertile as well as relatively unwrinkled. If you want to knock me up, it should not be too much of a chore.”

  “I could force myself. Maple syrup in that one, blueberry syrup in this. Or maybe I did so last night?”

  “Wrong date by at least a week…but what would you say if I had said, ‘Jackpot!’”

  “Quit joking and finish your waffle. There’s another one ready.”

  “You’re a sadistic monster. And deformed.”

  “Not deformed,” I protested. “This foot was amputated; I wasn’t born without it. My immune system flatly refuses to accept a transplant, so that’s that. One reason I live in low gravity.”

  Gwen suddenly sobered. “My very dear! I wasn’t speaking of your foot. Oh, heavens! Your foot doesn’t matter…except that I’ll be more careful than ever not to place a strain on you, now that I know why.”

  “Sorry. Let’s back up. Then what is this about me being ‘deformed’?”

  At once she was again her merry self. “You should know! When you’ve got me stretched all out of shape and no use to a normal man. And now you won’t marry me. Let’s go back to bed.”

  “Let’s finish breakfast and let it settle first—have you no mercy? I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry you…and I did not stretch you.”

  “Oh, what a sinful lie! Will you pass the butter, please? You’re deformed all right! How big is that tumor with the bone in it? Twenty-five centimeters? More? And how big around? If I had seen it first, I would have never risked it.”

  “Oh, piffle! It’s not even twenty centimeters. I didn’t stretch you; I’m just middlin’ size. You should see my Uncle Jock. More coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you. You surely did stretch me! Uh…is your Uncle Jock actually bigger than you are? Locally?”

  “Much.”

  “Uh…where does he live?”

  “Finish your waffle. Do you still want to take me back to bed? Or do you want a note to my Uncle Jock?”

  “Why can’t I have both? Yes, a little more bacon, thank you. Richard, you’re a good cook. I don’t want to marry Uncle Jock; I’m just curious.”

  “Don’t ask him to show it to you unless you mean business…bec
ause he always means business. He seduced his Scoutmaster’s wife when he was twelve. Ran away with her. Caused considerable talk in southern Iowa because she didn’t want to give him up. That was over a hundred years ago when such things were taken seriously, at least in Iowa.”

  “Richard, are you implying that Uncle Jock is over a hundred and still active and virile?”

  “A hundred and sixteen and still jumping his friends’ wives, daughters, mothers, and livestock. And has three wives of his own under the Iowa senior-citizen cohabitation code, one of them—my Aunt Cissy—being still in high school.”

  “Richard, I sometimes suspect that you are not always entirely truthful. A mild bent toward exaggeration.”

  “Woman, that is no way to talk to your future husband. Behind you is a terminal. Punch it for Grinnell, Iowa; Uncle Jock lives just outside. Shall we call him? You talk to him real pretty and he might show you his pride and joy. Well, dear?”

  “You are just trying to get out of taking me back to bed.”

  “Another waffle?”

  “Quit trying to bribe me. Uh, a half, maybe. Split one with me?”

  “No. A whole one for each of us.”

  “‘Hail, Caesar!’ You’re the bad example I’ve always needed. Once we’re married I’m going to get fat.”

  “I’m glad you said that. I had hesitated to mention it but you are a bit on the skinny side. Sharp corners. Bruises. Some padding would help.”

  I’ll omit what Gwen said next. It was colorful, even lyrical, but (in my opinion) unladylike. Not her true self, so we won’t record it.

  I answered, “Truly, it’s irrelevant. I admire you for your intelligence. And your angelic spirit. Your beautiful soul. Let’s not get physical.”

  Again I feel that I must censor.

  “All right,” I agreed. “If that’s what you want. Get back into bed and start thinking physical thoughts. I’ll switch off the waffle iron.”

  Somewhat later I said, “Do you want a church wedding?”

  “Coo! Should I wear white? Richard, are you a church member?”

  “No.”

  “Neither am I. I don’t think you and I really belong in churches.”

  “I agree. But just how do you want to get married? So far as I know there isn’t any other way to get married in the Golden Rule. Nothing in the Manager’s regulations. Legally the institution of marriage does not exist here.”

  “But, Richard, lots of people do get married.”

  “But how, dear? I realize they do but, if they don’t do it through a church, I don’t know how they go about it. I’ve never had occasion to find out. Do they go to Luna City? Or down dirtside? How?”

  “Whatever way they wish. Hire a hall and get some VIP to tie the knot in the presence of a crowd of guests, with music and a big reception afterwards…or do it at home with just a few friends present. Or anything in between. It’s your choice, Richard.”

  “Huh uh, not mine. Yours. I simply agreed to go along. As for me, I find that a woman is at her best if she is a bit tense through being unsure of her status. Keeps her on her toes. Don’t you agree? Hey! Stop that!”

  “Then stop trying to get my goat. If you don’t want to sing soprano at your own wedding.”

  “You do that once more and there ainta gonna be no wedding. Dear one, what sort of a wedding do you want?”

  “Richard, I don’t need a wedding ceremony, I don’t need witnesses. I just want to promise you everything a wife should promise.”

  “You’re sure, Gwen? Aren’t you being hasty?” Confound it, promises a woman makes in bed should not be binding.

  “I am not being hasty. I decided to marry you more than a year ago.”

  “You did? Well, I’ll be—Hey! We met less than a year ago. At the Day One Ball. July twentieth. I remember.”

  “True.”

  “Well?”

  “‘Well’ what, dear? I decided to many you before we met. Do you have a problem with that? I don’t. I didn’t.”

  “Mmm. I had better tell you some things. My past contains episodes I don’t boast about. Not exactly dishonest but somewhat shady. And Ames is not the name I was born with.”

  “Richard, I will be proud to be addressed as ‘Mrs. Ames?’ Or as…‘Mrs. Campbell’… Colin.”

  I said nothing, loudly—then added, “What more do you know?”

  She looked me firmly in the eye, did not smile. “All I need to know. Colonel Colin Campbell, known as ‘Killer’ Campbell to his troops…and in the dispatches. A rescuing angel to the students of Percival Lowell Academy. Richard, or Colin, my oldest daughter was one of those students.”

  “I’ll be eternally damned.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “And because of this you intend to marry me?”

  “No, dear man. That reason sufficed a year ago. But now I’ve had many months to discover the human being behind the storybook hero. And… I did hurry you into bed last night but neither of us would marry for that reason alone. Do you want to know about my own tarnished past? I’ll tell.”

  “No.” I faced her, took both her hands. “Gwendolyn, I want you to be my wife. Will you have me as your husband?”

  “I will.”

  “I, Colin Richard, take thee, Gwendolyn, to be my wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, as long as you will have me.”

  “I, Sadie Gwendolyn, take thee, Colin Richard, to be my husband, to care for and love and cherish for the rest of my life.”

  “Whew! I guess that does it.”

  “Yes. But kiss me.”

  I did. “When did ‘Sadie’ show up?”

  “Sadie Lipschitz, my family name. I didn’t like it so I changed it. Richard, the only thing left to make it official is to publish it. That ties it down. And I do want to tie it down while you’re still groggy.”

  “All right. Publish it how?”

  “May I use your terminal?”

  “Our terminal. You don’t have to ask to use it.”

  “‘Our terminal.’ Thank you, dear.” She got up, went to the terminal, keyed for directory, then called the Golden Rule Herald, asked for the society editor. “Please record. Dr. Richard Ames and Mistress Gwendolyn Novak are pleased to announce their marriage this date. No presents, no flowers. Please confirm.” She switched off. They called back at once; I answered and confirmed.

  She sighed. “Richard, I hurried you. But I had to. Now I can no longer be required to testify against you in any jurisdiction anywhere. I want to help in any way that I can. Why did you kill him, dear? And how?”

  II

  “In waking a tiger, use a long stick.”

  MAO TSE-TUNG 1893-1976

  I stared thoughtfully at my bride. “You are a gallant lady, my love, and I am grateful that you do not want to testify against me. But I am not sure that the legal principle you cited can be applied in this jurisdiction.”

  “But that’s a general rule of justice, Richard. A wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. Everyone knows that.”

  “The question is: Does the Manager know it? The Company asserts that the habitat has only one law, the Golden Rule, and claims that the Manager’s regulations are merely practical interpretations of that law, just guidelines subject to change—change right in the middle of a hearing and retroactive, if the Manager so decides. Gwen, I don’t know. The Manager’s Proxy might decide that you are the Company’s star witness.”

  “I won’t do it! I won’t!”

  “Thank you, my love. But let’s find out what your testimony would be were you to be a witness in—what shall we call it? Eh, suppose that I am charged with having wrongfully caused the death of, uh, Mr. X… Mr. X being the stranger who came to our table last night when you excused yourself to visit the ladies’ lounge. What did you see?”

  “Richard, I saw you kill him. I saw it!”

  “A prosecutor would require more details. Did you see him come to our table?”

  “No. I didn’t see him until
I left the lounge and was headed for our table…and was startled to see someone sitting in my chair.”

  “All right, back up a little and tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “Uh, I came out of the ladies’ room and turned left, toward our table. Your back was toward me, you’ll remember—”

  “Never mind what I remember; you tell what you remember. How far away were you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Ten meters, maybe. I could go there and measure it. Does it matter?”

  “If it ever does, you can measure it. You saw me from about ten meters. What was I doing? Standing? Sitting? Moving?”

  “You were seated with your back to me.”

  “My back was toward you. The light wasn’t very good. How did you know it was I?”

  “Why—Richard, you’re being intentionally difficult.”

  “Yes, because prosecutors are intentionally difficult. How did you recognize me?”

  “Uh—It was you. Richard, I know the back of your neck just as I know your face. Anyhow, when you stood up and moved, I did see your face.”

  “Was that what I did next? Stand up?”

  “No, no. I spotted you, at our table—then I stopped short when I saw someone seated across from you, in my chair. I just stood there and stared.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No. I don’t think I ever saw him before.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Uh, I can’t, very well.”

  “Short? Tall? Age? Bearded? Race? How dressed?”

  “I never saw him standing up. He wasn’t a youngster but he wasn’t an old man, either. I don’t think he wore a beard.”

  “Moustache?”

  “I don’t know.” (I did know. No moustache. Age about thirty.)

  “Race?”

  “White. Light skin, anyhow, but not blond like a Swede. Richard, there wasn’t time to catch all the details. He threatened you with some sort of weapon and you shot him and you jumped up as the waiter came over—and I backed up and waited until they took him away.”

  “Where did they take him?”