The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (2 page)

Gwen knows that my leg won’t take much dancing; at the first break in the music she led us back to our table. I signaled Morris for the check. He produced it out of midair; I dialed my credit code into it, set it for standard gratuity plus half, added my thumbprint.

Morris thanked me. “A nightcap, sir? Or a brandy? Perhaps the lady would enjoy a liqueur? Compliments of Rainbow’s End.” The owner of the restaurant, an ancient Egyptian, believed in good measure—at least to his regulars; I’m not sure how tourists from dirtside were treated.

“Gwen?” I queried; expecting her to refuse—Gwen’s drinking is limited to one glass of wine at meals. One.

“A Cointreau would be pleasant. I would like to stay and listen to the music a while.”

“Cointreau for the lady,” Morris noted. “Doctor?”

“Mary’s Tears and a glass of water, please. Morris.”

When Morris left, Gwen said quietly, “I needed time to speak with you, Richard. Do you want to sleep at my place tonight? Don’t be skittish; you can sleep alone.”

“I am not all that fond of sleeping alone.” I clicked over the possibilities in my mind. She had ordered a drink she did not want in order to make me an offer that did not fit. Gwen is a forthright person; I felt that had she wished to sleep with me she would have said so—she would not have played getaway-closer about it.

Therefore she had invited me to sleep in her compartment because she thought it to be unwise or unsafe for me to sleep in my own bed. Therefore—

“You saw it.”

“From a distance. So I waited until things quieted down before returning to the table. Richard, I’m not sure what happened. But if you need a place to lie doggo—be my guest!”

“Why, thank you, my dear!” A friend who offers help without asking for explanations is a treasure beyond price. “Whether I accept or not, I am in your debt. Mmm, Gwen, I too am unsure what happened. The total stranger who gets himself killed while he’s trying to tell you something—A cliché, a tired cliché. If I plotted a story that way today, my guild would disown me.” I smiled at her. “In its classic form you would turn out to be the killer…a fact that would develop slowly while you pretended to help me search. The sophisticated reader would know from chapter one that you did it, but I, as the detective, would never guess what was as plain as the nose on your face. Correction: on my face.”

“Oh, my nose is plain enough; it’s my mouth that men remember. Richard, I am not going to help you hang this on me; I simply offered you a hideout. Was he really killed? I couldn’t be sure.”

“Eh?” I was saved from answering too quickly by Morris’s arrival with our liqueurs. When he left, I answered, “I had not thought about any other possibility. Gwen, he was not wounded. Either he was killed almost instantly…or it was faked. Could it be faked? Certainly. If shown on holo, it could be done in real time with only minor props.” I mulled it over. Why had the restaurant staff been so quick, so precise, in covering it up? Why had I not felt that tap on the shoulder? “Gwen, I’ll take you up on that offer. If the proctors want me, they’ll find me. But I would like to discuss this with you in greater detail than we can manage here, no matter how carefully we keep our voices down.”

“Good.” She stood up. “I won’t be long, dear.” She headed for the lounges.

As I stood up Morris handed me my stick and I leaned on it as I followed her toward the lounges. I don’t actually have to use a cane—I can even dance, as you know—but using a cane keeps my bad leg from getting too tired.

When I came out of the gentlemen’s lounge, I placed myself in the foyer, and waited.

And waited.

Having waited long past what is reasonable I sought out the maître d’hôtel. “Tony, could you please have some female member of your staff check the ladies’ lounge for Mistress Novak? I think that it is possible that she may have become ill, or be in some difficulty.”

“Your guest. Dr. Ames?”

“Yes.”

“But she left twenty minutes ago. I ushered her out myself.”

“So? I must have misunderstood her. Thank you, and good night.”

“Good night. Doctor. We look forward to serving you again.”

I left Rainbow’s End, stood for a moment in the public corridor outside it—ring thirty, half-gravity level, just clockwise from radius two-seventy at Petticoat Lane, a busy neighborhood even at one in the morning. I checked for proctors waiting for me, halfway expecting to find Gwen already in custody.

Nothing of the son. A steady flow of people, mostly groundhogs on holiday by their dress and behavior, plus pullers for grimp shops, guides and ganders, pickpockets and priests. Golden Rule habitat is known systemwide as the place where anything is for sale and Petticoat Lane helps to support that reputation insofar as fleshpots are concerned. For more sober enterprises you need only go clockwise ninety degrees to Threadneedle Street.

No sign of proctors, no sign of Gwen.

She had promised to meet me at the exit. Or had she? No, not quite. Her exact words were, “I won’t be long, dear.” I had inferred that she expected to find me at the restaurant’s exit to the street.

I’ve heard all the old chestnuts about women and weather,
La donna è mobile
, and so forth—I believe none of them. Gwen had not suddenly changed her mind. For some reason—some
good
reason—she had gone on without me and now would expect me to join her at her home.

Or so I told myself.

If she had taken a scooter, she was there already; if she had walked, she would be there soon—Tony had said, “Twenty minutes ago.” There is a scooter booth at the intersection of ring thirty and Petticoat Lane. I found an empty, punched in ring one-oh-five, radius one-thirty-five, six-tenths gravity, which would take me as close as one can get by public scooter to Gwen’s compartment.

Gwen lives in Gretna Green, just off Appian Way where it crosses the Yellow Brick Road—which means nothing to anyone who has never visited Golden Rule habitat. Some public relations “expert” had decided that habitants would feel more at home if surrounded by place names familiar from dirtside. There is even (don’t retch) a “House at Pooh Corner.” What I punched in were coordinates of the main cylinder: 105, 135, 0.6.

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…because 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.”