The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (11 page)

“Ah, yes!” He did not ask my name. “Shall we look for a restful spot? I find that I enjoy the quiet of the apple orchard. Shall I ask our host to have a small table and a couple of chairs placed back in the trees?”

“Yes. But three chairs, not two.”

Gwen had joined us. “Not four?”

“No. I want Bill to watch our chattels, as he did before. I see an empty table over there; he can pile stuff on it and around it.”

Soon we three were settled at a table that had been moved for us back into the orchard. After consulting, I ordered beer for the Reverend and for me. Coke for Gwen, and had told the waitress to find the young man with the bundle and give him what he wanted—beer. Coke, sandwiches, whatever. (I suddenly realized that Bill might not have eaten today.)

When she left, I dug into a pocket, pulled out that thousand-crown note, gave it to Dr. Schultz.

He caused it to disappear. “Sir, do you wish a receipt?”

“No.”

“Between gentlemen, eh? Excellent. Now how can I help you?”

Forty minutes later Dr. Schultz knew almost as much about our troubles as I did, as I held nothing back. He could help us, it seemed to me, only if he knew the full background—so far as I knew it—on what had happened.

“You say Ron Tolliver has been shot?” he said at last.

“I didn’t see it. I heard the Chief Proctor say so. Correction: I heard a man who sounded like Franco, and the Manager treated him as such.”

“Good enough. Hear hoofbeats; expect horses, not zebras. But I heard nothing about it on my way here, and I noticed no signs of excitement in this restaurant—and the assassination or attempted assassination of the second largest holder of partnership shares in this sovereignty
should
cause excitement. I was at the bar for a few minutes before you arrived. No word of it. Yet a bar is notoriously the place news hits first; there is always a screen turned on to the news channel. Hmm…could the Manager be covering it up?”

“That lying snake is capable of anything.”

“I was not speaking of his moral character, concerning which my judgment matches yours, but solely of physical possibility. One does not cover up a shooting too easily. Blood. Noise. A victim dead or wounded. And you spoke of witnesses—or Franco did. Still, Judge Sethos controls the only newspaper, and the terminals, and the proctors. Yes, if he wished to make the effort, he could surely keep it hush-hush for a considerable period. We shall see—and that is one more item on which I will report to you after you reach Luna City.”

“We may not be in Luna City. I’ll have to phone you.”

“Colonel, is that advisable? Unless our presence together during that few seconds at the bar here was noted by some interested party who knows both of us, it is possible that we have succeeded in keeping our alliance secret. It is indeed fortunate that you and I have never been associated in any fashion in the past; there is no probable way to trace me to you, or you to me. You can phone me, certainly…but one must assume that my terminal is tapped, or my studio is bugged, or both—and both have happened in the past. I suggest, rather, the mails…for other than direst emergency.”

“But mail can be opened. By the way, I’m Dr. Ames, not Colonel Campbell, please. And oh yes!—this young man with us. He knows me as ‘Senator’ and Mrs. Ames as ‘Mistress Hardesty’ from that dustup I told you about.”

“I’ll remember. In the course of a long life one plays many roles. Would you believe that I was once known as ‘Lance Corporal Finnegan, Imperial Marines’?”

“I can easily believe it.”

“Which just goes to show you, as I never was. But I’ve worked much stranger jobs. Mail can be opened, true—but if I deliver a letter to a Luna City shuttle just before it leaves our spaceport, it is most unlikely that it will ever reach the hands of anyone interested in opening it. In the reverse direction a letter sent to Henrietta van Loon, care of Madame Pompadour, 20012 Petticoat Lane, will reach me with only minimal delay. An old, established madam has years of dealing gently with other people’s secrets. One must trust, I find. The art lies in knowing whom to trust.”

“Doc, I find that I trust you.”

He chuckled. “My dear sir, I would most happily sell you your own hat were you to leave it on my counter. But you are correct in essence. As I have accepted you as my client you can trust me totally. Being a double agent would invite ulcers…and I am a gourmand who will do nothing that could interfere with my pleasures as a trencherman.”

He looked thoughtful and added, “May I see that wallet again? Enrico Schultz.”

I handed it to him. He took out the ID. “You say this is a good likeness?”

“Excellent, I think.”

“Dr. Ames, you will realize that the name ‘Schultz’ at once catches my attention. What you may not guess is that the varied nature of my enterprises makes it desirable for me to note each new arrival in this habitat. I read the
Herald
each day, skimming everything but noting most carefully anything of a personal nature. I can state unequivocally that this man did not enter Golden Rule habitat under the name ‘Schultz.’ Any other name might have slipped my mind. But my own surname? Impossible.”

“He appears to have given that name on arriving here.”

“‘—appears to have—’ You speak precisely.” Schultz looked at the ID. “In twenty minutes in my studio—no, allow me a half hour—I could produce an ID with this face on it—and of as good quality—that would assert that his name was ‘Albert Einstein.’”

“You’re saying we can’t trace him by that ID.”

“Hold on; I didn’t say that. You tell me this is a good likeness. A good likeness is a better clue than is a printed name. Many people must have seen this man. Several must know who he is. A smaller number know why he was killed. If he was. You left that carefully open.”

“Well…primarily because of that incredible Mexican Hat Dance that took place immediately after he was shot. If he was. Instead of confusion, those four behaved as if they had rehearsed it.”

“Well. I shall pursue the matter, both with carrot and with stick. If a man has a guilty conscience, or a greedy nature—and most men have both—ways can be found to extract what he knows. Well, sir, we seem to have covered it. But let’s be sure, since it is unlikely that we shall be able to consult again. You will press ahead with the Walker Evans aspect, while I investigate the other queries on your list. Each will advise the other of developments, especially those leading into or out of the Golden Rule. Anything more? Ah, yes, that coded message—Did you intend to pursue it?”

“Do you have any ideas on it?”

“I suggest that you keep it and take it to the Mackay main office in Luna City. If they can identify the code, it is then just a matter of paying a fee, licit or illicit, to translate it. Its meaning will tell you whether or not I need it here. If Mackay cannot help, then you might take it to Dr. Jakob Raskob at Galileo University. He is a cryptographer in the department of computer science…and if he can’t figure out what to do about it, I can suggest nothing better than prayer. May I keep this picture of my cousin Enrico?”

“Yes, surely. But mail me a copy, please; I may need it in pursuing the Walker Evans angle—on second thought, certain to. Doctor, we have one more need I have not mentioned.”

“So?”

“The young man with us. He’s a ghost. Reverend; he walks by night. And he’s naked. We want to cover him. Can you think of anyone who can handle it—and right away? We would like to catch the next shuttle.”

“One moment, sir! Am I to infer that your porter, the young man with your baggage, is the ruffian who pretended to be a proctor?”

“Didn’t I make that clear?”

“Perhaps I was obtuse. Very well, I accept the fact…while admitting astonishment. You want me to supply him with papers? So that he can move around in Golden Rule without fear of proctors?”

“Not exactly. I want a bit more than that. A passport. To get him out of Golden Rule and into Luna Free State.”

Dr. Schultz pulled his lower lip. “What will he do there? No, I withdraw that question—your business, not mine. Or his business.”

Gwen said, “I’m going to spank him into shape. Father Schultz. He needs to learn to keep his nails clean and not to dangle his participles. And he needs some backbone. I’m going to equip him with one.”

Schultz looked thoughtfully at Gwen. “Yes, I think you have enough for two. Madam, may I say that, while I do not yearn to emulate you, I do strongly admire you?”

“I hate to see anything go to waste. Bill is about twenty-five, I think, but he acts and talks as if he were ten or twelve. Yet he is not stupid.” She grinned. “Ah’ll larn him if’n I have to bust his pesky haid!”

“More power to you.” Schultz added gently, “But suppose he does turn out to be simply stupid? Lacking the capacity to grow up?”

Gwen sighed. “Then I guess I would cry a bit and find him some protected place, where he could work at what he can do and be whatever he is, in dignity and in comfort. Reverend, I could not send him back down to the dirt and the hunger and the fear—and the rats. Living like that is worse than dying.”

“Yes, it is. For dying is not to be feared—it is the final comfort. As we all learn, eventually. Very well, a sincere passport for Bill. I’ll have to find a certain lady—see whether or not she can accept a rush assignment.” He frowned. “It will be difficult to do this before the next shuttle. And I must have a photograph of him. Plague take it!—that means a trip to my studio. More lost time, more risk for you two.”

Gwen reached into her purse, pulled out a Mini Helvetia—illegal without a license most places but probably not covered by Manager’s regulations here. “Dr. Schultz, this doesn’t make a picture big enough for a passport, I know—but could it be blown up for the purpose?”

“It certainly could be. Mmm, that’s an impressive camera.”

“I like it. I once worked for the—an agency that used such cameras. When I resigned, I found I had mislaid it…and had to pay for it.” She grinned mischievously. “Later I found it—it had been in my purse all along…but ’way down in the bottom lost in the junk.” She added, “I’ll run get a picture of Bill.”

I said hastily, “Use a neutral background.”

“Think I was a-hint the door? ’Scuse, please. Back in a second.”

She was back in a few minutes; the picture was coming up. A minute later it was sharp; she passed it to Dr. Schultz. “Will that do?”

“Excellent! But what is that background? May I ask?”

“A bar towel. Frankie and Juanita stretched it tight behind Bill’s head.”

“‘Frankie and Juanita,’” I repeated. “Who are they?”

“The head bartender and the manager. Nice people.”

“Gwen, I didn’t know you were acquainted here. That could cause problems.”

“I’m not acquainted here; I’ve never been here before, dear. I’ve been in the habit of patronizing The Chuck Wagon in Lazy Eight Spread at radius ninety—they have square dancing.” Gwen looked up, squinting against the sunlight directly overhead—the habitat, in its stately spin, was just swinging through the arc that placed the Sun at zenith for Old MacDonald’s Farm. She pointed high—well, sixty degrees up, it had to be. “There, you can see The Chuck Wagon; the dance floor is just above it, toward the Sun. Are they dancing? Can you see? There’s a strut partly in the way.”

“They’re too far away for me to tell,” I admitted.

“They’re dancing.” Dr. Schultz said. “Texas Star, I think. Yes, that’s the pattern. Ah, youth, youth! I no longer dance but I have been a guest caller at The Chuck Wagon on occasion. Have I seen you there, Mrs. Ames? I think not.”

“And I think ‘Yes,’” Gwen answered. “But I was masked that day. I enjoyed your calling. Doctor. You have the real Pappy Shaw touch.”

“Higher praise a caller cannot hope for. ‘Masked—’ Perchance you wore a candy-striped gown in green and white? A full circle skirt?”

“More than a full circle; it made waves whenever my partner twirled me—people complained that the sight made them seasick. You have an excellent memory, sir.”

“And you are an excellent dancer, ma’am.”

Somewhat irked, I interrupted. “Can we knock off this Old Home Week? There are still urgent things to do and I still have hopes that we can catch the twenty o’clock shuttle.”

Schultz shook his head. “Twenty o’clock? Impossible, sir.”

“Why is it impossible? That’s over three hours from now. I’m edgy about the idea of waiting for a later shuttle; Franco might decide to send his goons after us.”

“You’ve asked for a passport for Bill. Dr. Ames, even the sorriest imitation of a passport takes more time than that.” He paused and looked less like Santa Claus and more like a tired and worried old man. “But your prime purpose is to get Bill out of this habitat and onto the Moon?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose you took him there as your bond servant?”

“
Huh?
You can’t take a slave into Luna Free State.”

“Yes and no. You can take a slave
to
the Moon…but he is automatically free, then and forever, once he sets foot on Luna; that is one thing those convicts nailed down when they set themselves free. Dr. Ames, I can supply a bill of sale covering Bill’s indentures in time for the evening shuttle, I feel confident. I have his picture, I have a supply of official stationery—authentic, by midnight requisition—and there is time to crease and age the document. Truly, this is much safer than trying to rush a passport.”

“I defer to your professional judgment. How and when and where do I pick up the paper?”

“Mmm, not at my studio. Do you know a tiny bistro adjacent to the spaceport, one-tenth gee at radius three hundred? The Spaceman’s Widow?”

I was about to say no, but that I would find it, when Gwen spoke up. “I know where it is. You have to go behind Macy’s warehouse to reach it. No sign on it.”

“That’s right. Actually it’s a private club, but I’ll give you a card. You can relax there and get a bite to eat. No one will bother you. Its patrons tend to mind each his own business.”

(Because that business is smuggling, or something equally shady—but I didn’t say it.) “That suits me.”

The Reverend Doctor got out a card, started to write on it—paused. “Names?”