The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (38 page)

“But, Gretchen, you are not trapping me; I like babies. I
want
to marry you.”

“You do? Why?” She sounded sad.

Things were too solemn; we needed some skid. “Why do I want to marry you, dear? To paddle your bottom and watch it turn pink.”

Gretchen’s mouth dropped open, then she grinned and dimpled. “That’s ridiculous!”

“It is, eh? Possibly having a baby doesn’t call for marriage in these parts, but spanking is another matter. If I spank some other man’s wife, he might get annoyed or she might or both. Chancy. Likely to get me talked about. Or worse. If I spank a single girl, she might use it to trap me when I don’t love her and don’t want to marry her but was simply spanking her
pour le sport
. Better to marry you; you’re used to it, you like it. And you have a solid bottom that can take it. A good thing, too—because I spank
hard
. Brutal.”

“Oh, pooh! Where did you get this silly notion that I like it?” (Why are your areolae so crinkled, dear?) “Hazel, does he really spank hard?”

“I don’t know, dear. I would break his arm and he knows it.”

“See what I’m up against, Gretchen? No innocent little pleasures; I’m underprivileged. Unless you marry me.”

“But I—” Gretchen suddenly stood up, almost swamping the float table, turned away and swarmed out of the pool, started running south, out of the garden court.

I stood and watched her until I lost sight of her. I don’t think I could have caught her even if I had not been breaking in a new foot; she ran like a frightened ghost.

I sat back down and sighed. “Well, Maw, I tried—they were too big for me.”

“Another time, dear. She wants to. She’ll come around.”

Xia said, “Richard, you left out just one word. Love.”

“What is ‘love.’ Xia?”

“It’s what a woman wants to hear about when she gets married.”

“That still doesn’t tell me what it is.”

“Well, I do know a technical definition. Uh… Hazel, you know Jubal Harshaw. A member of the Senior’s family.”

“For years. Any way you mean the word.”

“He has a definition—”

“Yes, I know.”

“A definition of love that I think would let Richard use the word honestly in speaking to Gretchen. Dr. Harshaw says that ‘the word “love” designates a subjective condition in which me welfare and happiness of another person are essential to one’s own happiness.’ Richard, it seems to me that you exhibited that relationship toward Gretchen.”

“
Me?
Woman, you’re out of your mind. I just want to get her into a helpless situation so that I can paddle her bottom whenever I like and make it turn pink. Hard. Brutal.” I threw out my chest, tried to look
macho
—not too convincingly; I was going to have to do something about that paunch. Well, hell, I’d been sick.

“Yes, Richard. Hazel, I mink the tea party is over. Will you two come to my rooms? I haven’t seen either of you for too long. And I’ll call Choy-Mu; I don’t mink he knows that Richard is now free of me Lethe field.”

“Good deal,” I agreed. “And is Father Schultz around? Would one of you ladies fetch my cane, please? I mink I could walk around there and get it…but I’m not sure I should risk it yet.”

Hazel said firmly, “I’m sure that you should not, and you’ve walked enough. Teena—”

“Where’s the riot?”

“May I have a lazy seat? For Richard.”

“Why not three?”

“One is enough.”

“Chop chop. Richard, stay with it; she’s weakening. Our knocked-up warrior.”

Hazel’s chin dropped. “Oh. I forgot we weren’t under privacy. Teena!”

“Don’t fret about it; I’m your chum. You know that.”

“Thanks, Teena.”

We all stood up to leave the pool. Xia stopped me, put her arms around me, looked at me and said, quietly but loudly enough to include Hazel: “Richard, I’ve seen nobility before, but not often. I’m not pregnant; it’s not necessary to marry me, I don’t need or want a husband. But you’re invited to honeymoon with me any time Hazel can spare you. Or, better yet, both of you. I think you’re a shining knight. And Gretchen knows it.” She kissed me emphatically.

When my mouth was free I answered, “It’s not nobility, Xia; I just have an unusual method of seduction. See how easily
you
fell for it? Tell her. Hazel.”

“He’s noble.”

“See?” Xia said triumphantly.

“And he’s scared silly someone will find out.”

“Oh, nonsense! Let me tell about my fourth-grade teacher.”

“Later, Richard. After you’ve had time to polish it. Richard tells excellent bedtime stories.”

“When I’m not paddling, that is. Xia, does your bottom turn pink?”

It appears that I had had breakfast at some hour past noon. That evening was most pleasant but my memory of it is spotty. I can’t blame it on alcohol; I did not drink all that much. But I learned that the Lethe field has a mild side effect that alcohol can potentiate; Lethe may affect the memory erratically for a while after the patient is no longer under it. Ah, well—tanstaafl! A few gaps in memory are not the hazard that addiction to a hard drug is.

I do recall that we had a good time: Hazel, me, Choy-Mu, Xia, Ezra, Father Hendrik, and (after Teena found her for us and Hazel talked to her) Gretchen. All of us who had escaped from the Raffles—even the two pairs of redheads who rescued us were with us part of the evening, Cas and Pol, Laz and Lor. Nice kids. Older than I am, I learned later, but it doesn’t show. On Tertius, age is a slippery concept.

Xia’s quarters were too small for such a number but a crowded party is the best kind.

The redheads left us and I got tired and went in and lay down on Xia’s bed. There was some murderous card game going on for forfeits in the other room; Hazel seemed to be the big winner. Xia went “broke” by whatever rules they were playing and joined me. Gretchen bet unwisely on the next pot and took the other side of the bed. She used my left shoulder as a pillow, Xia having already claimed the right one. From me other room I heard Hazel say, “See you and raise you one galaxy.”

Father Hendrik chuckled. “Sucker! Big bang, my dear girl, far triple forfeits. Pay up.”

That is the last I remember.

Something was tickling my chin. Slowly I woke and slowly I managed to open my eyes, and found myself staring into the bluest eyes I have ever seen. They belonged to a kitten, bright orange in color but with perhaps some Siamese ancestry. He was standing on my chest just south of my Adam’s apple. He buzzed pleasantly, said “Blert?” and resumed licking my chin; his scratchy little scrap of tongue accounted for the tickle that had wakened me.

I answered, “Blert,” and attempted to lift a hand to pet him, found I could not because I still had a head on each shoulder, a warm body against each side of me.

I turned my head to the right to speak to Xia—I needed to get up and find her refresher—and teamed that it was not Xia but Minerva who was now using my starboard shoulder.

I made a hasty situation assessment and found that I lacked sufficient data. So, instead of using an honorific to Minerva that may or may not have been appropriate, I simply kissed her. Or let myself be kissed, after showing willingness. Being pinned down from both sides and with a small cat creature standing on my chest I was almost as helpless as Gulliver, hardly able to be active as initiator of a kiss.

However, Minerva does not need help. She can manage. Talent.

After she turned me loose, kissed for keeps, I heard a voice from my left: “Don’t I get a kiss, too?”

Gretchen is a soprano; this voice was tenor. I turned my head.

Galahad.

I was in bed with my doctor. Well…with both my doctors.

When I was a lad in Iowa, I was taught that, if I ever found myself in this or an analogous situation, the proper gambit was to run screaming for the hills to save my “honor” or its homologue for males. A girl could sacrifice her “honor” and most of them did. But, if she was reasonably discreet about it and eventually wound up married with nothing worse than a seven-months child, her “honor” soon grew back and she was officially credited with having been a virgin bride, entitled to look with scorn on sinful women.

But a boy’s “honor” was more delicate. If he lost it to another male (i.e., if they got caught at it), he might, if lucky, wind up in the State Department—or, if unlucky, he would move to California. But Iowa had no place for him.

This flashed through my mind in an instant—and was followed by a suppressed memory: a Boy Scout hike when I was a high school freshman, a pup tent shared with our assistant Scoutmaster. Just that once, in the dark of night and in silence broken only by a hoot owl—A few weeks later that Scout leader went away to Harvard…so of course it never happened.

O tempora, o mores
—that was long ago and far away. Three years later I enlisted and eventually bucked for officer and made it…and was always extremely circumspect, as an officer who can’t resist playing with his privates cannot maintain discipline. Not until the Walker Evans affair did I ever have any reason to worry about blackmail.

I tightened my left arm a little. “Certainly. But be careful; I seem to be inhabited.”

Galahad was careful; the kitten was not disturbed. It is possible that Galahad kisses as well as Minerva does. Not better. But just as well. Once I decided to enjoy the inevitable I did enjoy it. Tertius is not Iowa, Boondock is not Grinnell; there was no longer any reason to be manacled by the customs of a long-dead tribe.

“Thank you,” I said, “and good morning. Can you de-cat me? If he stays where he is, I am likely to drown him.”

Galahad surrounded the kitten with his left hand. “This is Pixel. Pixel, may I present Richard? Richard, we are honored to have been joined by Lord Pixel, cadet feline in residence.”

“How do you do. Pixel?”

“Blert.”

“Thank you. And what’s become of the refresher? I need it!”

Minerva helped me up from the bed and put my right arm around her shoulders, steadied me while Galahad fetched my cane, then both of them took me to the refresher. We were not in Xia’s rooms; the refresher had moved to the other side of the bedroom and was larger, as was the bedroom.

And I learned something else about Tertius: The equipment of a refresher was of a complexity and variety that made the sort of plumbing I was used to, in Golden Rule and Luna City and so forth, look as primitive as the occasional back country backhouse one can still find in remote parts of Iowa.

Neither Minerva nor Galahad let me feel embarrassed over never having been checked out on Tertian plumbing. When I was about to pick the wrong fixture for my most pressing need, she simply said, “Galahad, you had better demonstrate for Richard; I’m not equipped to.” So he did. Well, I’m forced to admit that I’m not equipped the way Galahad is, either. Visualize Michelangelo’s David (Galahad is fully that pretty) but equip this image with coupling gear three times as large as Michelangelo gave David; that describes Galahad.

I have never understood why Michelangelo—in view of his known bias—invariably shortchanged his male creations.

When we three had completed after-sleep refreshment, we came out into the bedroom together and I was again surprised—without yet having worked up my nerve to inquire where we were, how we got there, and what had become of others—especially my necessary one…who, when last heard, was tossing around galaxies in reckless gambling. Or gamboling. Or both.

One wall had vanished from that bedroom, the bed had become a couch, the missing wall framed a gorgeous garden—and, seated on the couch, playing with the kitten, was a man I had met briefly in Iowa two thousand years ago. Or so everyone said; I still was unsure about that two-thousand-year figure; I was having trouble enough with Gretchen’s having aged five years. Or six. Or something.

I stared. “Dr. Hubert.”

“Howdy.” Dr. Hubert put the kitten aside. “Over here. Show me that foot.”

“Um—” Damn his arrogance. “You must speak to my doctor first.”

He looked at me abruptly. “Goodness. Aren’t we regulation? Very well.”

From behind me Galahad said quietly, “Please let him examine your transplant, Richard. If you will.”

“If you say so.” I lifted my new foot and shoved it right into Hubert’s face, missing his big nose by a centimeter.

He failed to flinch, so my gesture was wasted. Unhurriedly he leaned his head a little to the left. “Rest it on my knee, if you will. That will be more convenient for both of us.”

“Right. Go ahead.” Braced with my cane, I was steady enough.

Galahad and Minerva kept quiet and out of the way while Dr. Hubert looked over that foot, by sight and touch, but doing nothing that struck me as really professional—I mean, he had no instruments; he used bare eyes and bare lingers, pinching the skin, rubbing it, looking closely at the healed scar, and at last scratching the sole of that foot hard and suddenly with a thumbnail. What is that reflex? Are your toes supposed to curl or the reverse? I have always suspected that doctors do that one out of spite.

Dr. Hubert lifted my foot, indicated that I could put it back on the floor, which I did. “Good job,” he said to Galahad.

“Thank you. Doctor.”

“Siddown, Colonel. Have you folks had breakfast? I did but I’m ready for some more. Minerva, would you shout for us; that’s a good girl. Colonel, I want to get you signed up at once. What rank do you expect? Let me point out that it doesn’t matter as the pay is the same and, no matter what rank you select, Hazel is going to be one rank higher; I want her in charge, not the other way around.”

“Hold it. Sign me up for what? And what makes you think I want to sign up for anything?”

“The Time Corps, of course. Just as your wife is. For the purpose of rescuing the computer person known as ‘Adam Selene,’ also of course. Look, Colonel, don’t be so durned obtuse; I know Hazel has discussed it with you; I know that you are committed to helping her.” He pointed at my foot. “Why do you think that transplant was done? Now that you have both feet you need some other things. Refresher training. Orientation with weapons you haven’t used. Rejuvenation. And all of these things cost money and the simple way to pay for them is to sign you up in the Corps. That foot alone would be too expensive for a stranger from a primitive era…but not for a member of the Corps. You can see that. How long do you need to think over anything so obvious? Ten minutes? Fifteen?” (This fast-talker ought to sell used campaign promises.)