The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (23 page)

“Go to hell,” I answered politely.

Shortly the pounding was replaced by a scratching noise, so I placed myself close to the door and a bit to one side. This was not a dilating door but the more traditional hinged type.

It swung open; my noisy visitor plunged in. I reached out and threw him across the room. In one-sixth gee this takes some care—you must have a foot braced against something, or you’ll lose traction and it won’t work.

He sort of bounced off the far wall and wound up on the bed. I said, “Get your dirty feet off my bed!”

He got off the bed and stood up. I continued angrily, “Now explain why you broke into my bedroom…and make it quick before I tear off your arm and beat you over the head with it. Who do you think you are, waking up a citizen who has switched on his Do-Not-Disturb? Answer me!”

I could see what he was: some sort of town clown; he was wearing a uniform that spelled “cop.” His reply, mixing indignation with arrogance, matched his appearance. “Why didn’t you open up when I ordered you to?”

“Why should I? Do
you
pay the rent on this room?”

“No, but—”

“There’s your answer. Get out of here!”

“Now you listen to me! I am a safety officer of the sovereign city of Hong Kong Luna. You are directed to present yourself before the Moderator of the Municipal Council forthwith to supply information necessary to the peace and security of the city.”

“I am, eh? Show me your warrant.”

“No warrant needed. I am in uniform and on duty; you are required to cooperate with me. City Ordinance two seventeen dash eighty-two, page forty-one.”

“Do you have a warrant to break down the door of my private bedroom? Don’t try to tell me that doesn’t require a warrant. I’m going to sue you and take every crown you have and that monkey suit as well.”

His jaw muscles quivered but all he said was: “Are you coming peacefully or do I have to drag you?”

I grinned at him. “Best two falls out of three? I won the first one. Come ahead.” I became aware that we had an audience at the door. “Good morning, Xia. Do you know this clown?”

“Mr. Richard, I’m terribly sorry about this. My day manager tried to stop him; he wouldn’t stop. I got here as quickly as I could.” I saw that she was barefooted and wearing no makeup—so her sleep had been interrupted, too. I said gently,

“Not your fault, dear. He doesn’t have a warrant. Shall I throw him out?”

“Well…” She looked troubled.

“Oh. I see. I think I see. Throughout history, innkeepers have found it necessary to get along with cops. And throughout history, cops have had larcenous hearts and a bully’s manners. All right, as a favor to you, I’ll let him live.” I turned back to the cop. “Boy, you can chase back to your boss and tell him that I will be along presently. After I’ve had at least two cups of coffee. If he wants me any sooner than that, he had better send a squad. Xia, would you like coffee? Let’s go see if Sing has coffee and Danish, or such.”

At this point Joe Stormtrooper made it necessary for me to take his gun. I can be shot—I
have
been shot, more than once—but I can’t be shot by anyone who thinks that just pointing a gun at me has changed the odds.

His gun was nothing I wanted—door-prize junk. So I unloaded it, made sure that his ammo was not the caliber I use, dropped the loads down the oubliette, and handed his gun back to him.

At the loss of his cartridges he screamed bloody murder, but I patiently explained to him that his gun was as good as ever for the purpose for which he used it and that, if I had let him keep ammo, he could have hurt himself.

He continued to squawk, so I told him to go squawk to his boss. And turned my back. He was, I feel certain, annoyed. But so was I.

Forty minutes later, feeling better although still sleepy, and after a rewarding chat with Xia over coffee and jelly doughnuts, I presented myself at the office of the Honorable Jefferson Mao, Moderator of the Council of Selectmen of the Sovereign City of Hong Kong Luna—so it said on the door. I wondered what the Congress of Luna Free State thought about this use of the word “sovereign” but it was none of my business.

A brisk woman with slant eyes and red hair (interesting genes, I guess) said, “Name, please?”

“Richard Johnson. The Moderator wants to see me.”

She glanced at her monitor. “You’re late for your appointment; you’ll have to wait. You may sit down.”

“And I may not. I said that the Moderator wants to see me; I did not say that I want to see the Moderator. Punch up that box and let him know that I am here.”

“I can’t possibly fit you in for at least two hours.”

“Tell him I am here. If he won’t see me now, I’m leaving.”

“Very well, return in two hours.”

“You misunderstand me. I’m
leaving
. Leaving Kong. I won’t be back.” I was bluffing as I said it and as I said it, I learned that I was not bluffing. My plans, as yet inchoate, had included an indefinite stay in Kong. Now I suddenly realized that I would not remain in a city that had sunk so far in the qualities that constitute civilization that a cop would break into a citizen’s bedroom merely because some officious official decides to summon him. No indeed! A private soldier in a decent, well-run, disciplined military outfit has more freedom and more privacy than that. Hong Kong Luna, celebrated in song and story as the cradle of Luna’s freedom, was no longer a fit place to live.

I turned away and was almost to the door when she called out: “Mr. Johnson!”

I stopped, did not turn. “Yes?”

“Come back here!”

“Why?”

Her answer seemed to hurt her face. “The Moderator will see you now.”

“Very well.” As I approached the door to the inner office, it rolled out of the way…but I did not find myself in the Moderator’s private office; three more doors, each guarded by its own faithful hound, lay ahead—and this told me more than I wanted to know about the current government of Hong Kong Luna.

The guardian of the last door announced me and ushered me through. Mr. Mao barely glanced at me. “Sit down.” I sat down, rested my cane against my knee.

I waited five minutes while the city boss shuffled papers and continued to ignore me. Then I stood up, headed for the door, moving slowly, leaning on my cane. Mao looked up. “Mr. Johnson! Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Indeed. You don’t
want
to get along, do you?”

“I want to go about my business. Is there some reason I should not?”

He looked at me with no expression. “If you insist, I can cite a municipal ordinance under which you are required to cooperate with me when I request it.”

“Are you referring to City Ordinance two hundred seventeen dash eighty-two?”

“I see you are familiar with it…so you can hardly plead ignorance in extenuation of your behavior.”

“I am
not
familiar with that ordinance, just its number. It was cited to me by a clownish thug who crushed into my bedroom. Does that ordinance say anything about breaking into private bedrooms?”

“Ah, yes. Interfering with a safety officer in the performance of his duty. We’ll discuss that later. That ordinance you cited is the bedrock of our freedom. Citizens, residents, and even visitors can come and go as they please, subject only to their civic duty to cooperate with officials, elected, appointed, or deputized, in carrying out their official duties.”

“And who decides when cooperation is needed and what sort and how much?”

“Why, the official involved, of course.”

“I thought so. Is there anything else you want of me?” I started to stand up.

“Sit back down. There is indeed. And I
require
your cooperation. I am sorry to have to put it that way but you don’t seem to respond to polite requests.”

“Such as breaking down my door?”

“You weary me. Sit down and shut up. I am about to interrogate you…as soon as two witnesses arrive.”

I sat down and shut up. I felt that I now understood the new regime: absolute freedom…except that any official from dogcatcher to supreme potentate could give any orders whatever to any private citizen at any time.

So it was “freedom” as defined by Orwell and Kafka, “freedom” as granted by Stalin and Hitler, “freedom” to pace back and forth in your cage. I wondered if the coming interrogation would be assisted by mechanical or electrical devices or by drugs, and felt sick at my stomach. Back when I was on active duty and repeatedly faced with the possibility of capture while holding classified information, I always had a final friend, that “hollow tooth” or equivalent. I no longer wore such protection.

I was scared.

Before long two men came in together. Mao answered good-morning to their greeting and waved them to seats; a third man came in right after them. “Uncle Jeff, I—”

“Shut up and sit down!” This latecomer was the joker whose gun I had emptied; he shut up and sat down. I caught him looking at me; he looked away.

Mao put aside some papers. “Major Bozell, thanks for coming in. You, too. Captain Marcy. Major, you have questions to ask one Richard Johnson. There he sits. Ask away.”

Bozell was a short man who carried himself very erect. He had close-cropped sandy hair and an abrupt, jerky manner. “Hah! Let’s get right to it! Why did you send me on a wild goose chase?”

“What wild goose chase?”

“Hah! Are you going to sit there and deny that you told me a cock-and-bull story about an attack by bandits? In an area where there have never been any bandits! Do you deny that you urged me to send a rescue-and-salvage team out there? Knowing that I would find nothing! Answer me!”

I said, “That reminds me—Can anyone tell me how Aunt Lilybet is this morning? Because I was told to come here, I haven’t had time to get to the hospital.”

“Hah! Don’t change the subject. Answer me!”

I answered mildly, “But that
is
the subject. In that cock-and-bull attack you spoke of, an old lady was injured. Is she still alive? Does anyone know?”

Bozell started to answer; Mao cut in. “She’s alive. Or was an hour ago. Johnson, you had better pray that she stays alive. I have a deposition here”—he tapped his terminal—“from a citizen whose word is above reproach. One of our most important stockholders, Lady Diana Kerr-Shapley. She states that you shot Mistress Lilybet Washington—”

“
What?
”

“—while creating a reign of terror in which your actions caused the death by anoxia of her husband the Honorable Oswald Progant, broke the wrist of her husband the Honorable Brockman Hogg, and subjected Lady Diana herself to terror tactics and repeated insults.”

“Hmm. Did she say who killed the O’Toole child? And what about the turret gunner? Who killed
him?
”

“She states that there was such confusion that she did not see everything. But you went outside while the bus was standing still and climbed up to the turret—no doubt that was when you finished off the poor boy.”

“Are you saying that last, or did she say it?”

“I said it. A conclusive presumption. Lady Diana was meticulously careful not to testify to anything she did not see with her own eyes. Including this ghostly rolligon full of bandits. She saw nothing of
it
.”

Bozell added, “There you have it, Mr. Moderator. This hijacker shot up the bus and killed three people and wounded two more…and invented a cock-and-bull story about bandits to cover his crimes. There are no bandits in that area; everybody knows that.”

I tried to get a grip on reality. “Mr. Moderator, one moment, please! Captain Marcy is here. I understand he got a picture of the bandits’ rolligon.”

“I ask the questions, Mr. Johnson.”

“But—Did he, or didn’t he?”

“That’s enough, Johnson! You will be in order. Or you will be restrained.”

“What am I doing that is out of order?”

“You’re disrupting this investigation with irrelevancies. Wait until you are spoken to. Then answer the question.”

“Yes, sir. What is the question?”

“I told you to keep quiet!”

I kept quiet. So did everybody else.

Presently Mr. Mao drummed on his desk and said, “Major, did you have more questions?”

“Hah! He never answered my first question. He evaded it.”

The Moderator said, “Johnson, answer the question.”

I looked stupid—my best role. “What is the question?”

Mao and Bozell both started to speak; Bozell yielded to Mao who went on, “Let’s summarize it. Why did you do what you did?”

“What did I do?”

“I just told you what you did!”

“But I didn’t do any of the things you said I did. Mr. Moderator, I don’t understand how you got into this. You weren’t there. That bus is not from your city. I am not from your city. Whatever happened took place outside your city. What is your connection with the matter?”

Mao leaned back and looked smug. Bozell said, “Hah!” then added, “Shall I tell him, Mr. Moderator? Or will you?”

“I will tell him. In fact I shall enjoy telling him. Johnson, less than a year ago the Council of this sovereign city made a very wise move. It extended its jurisdiction to cover all surface and subsurface activity within one hundred kilometers of the municipal pressure.”

“And made the Vigilante Volunteers an official arm of the government,” Bozell added happily, “charged with keeping the peace to the hundred-kilometer line! And that fixes you, you murderer!”

Mao ignored the interruption. “So you see, Johnson, while you probably thought that you were out in anarchist wilds, where the writ of law does not run, in fact you were
not
. Your crimes will be punished.”

(I wonder how soon someone will attempt a power grab like this out in the Belt?) “These crimes of mine—Did they take place less than one hundred kilometers from Hong Kong Luna? Or more?”

“Eh? Less. Considerably less. Of course.”

“Who measured it?”

Mao looked at Bozell. “How far was it?”

“About eighty kilometers. A little less.”

I said, “
What
was a little less? Major, are you talking about the bandits’ attack on the bus? Or about something that went on
inside
the bus?”