The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Contrariwise, I might disagree so bitterly that I would enlist for the duration, volunteer my life and my services to the sacred cause of keeping this assassination from happening. Unlikely if the intended target is Ron Tolliver. But it’s too early to choose sides; I need to understand what is going on. Gwen my love, in the killing business one should never kill first and ask questions afterwards. That tends to annoy people.”

  I turned back to the terminal, stared at it without touching a key. “Gwen, before we make any local calls I think I should place six time-delay calls, one to each of the Friends of Walker Evans. That’s my basic clue anyhow, that Schultz could mention that name. Some one of that six gave him that name…and that one should know why Schultz was in such a sweat.”

  “‘Time delay’? Are they all out-far?”

  “I don’t know. One is probably on Mars, two others may be in the Belt. Could even be one or two dirtside but, if so, under phony names just as I am. Gwen, the debacle that caused me to give up the merry profession of arms and caused six of my comrades to wind up as my blood brothers…well, it smelled nasty to the public. I could say that media reporters who didn’t see it happen could not possibly understand why it happened. I could assert truthfully that what we did was moral in context—that time, that place, those circumstances. I could—Never mind, dear; let it stand that my band of brothers are all in hiding. Tracing them all down could be a tediously long chore.”

  “But you want to talk to just one, don’t you? The one who was in touch with this Schultz.”

  “Yes but I don’t know which one that is.”

  “Richard, would it be easier to backtrack Schultz to find that one than it would be to locate six people all in hiding, some under assumed names, and scattered all over the Solar System? Or even outside it.”

  I stopped to consider it. “Maybe. But how do I backtrack Schultz? Do you have an inspiration, my love?”

  “No inspiration. But I do remember that, when I arrived here in Golden Rule, they asked me at the hub not only where I lived, and checked it against my passport, but also where I had come from that trip—and checked that against my visa stamps. Not just that I had come from Luna—almost everyone arrives here from Luna—but how I got to Luna. Weren’t you asked that?”

  “No. But I was carrying a Luna Free State passport showing that I was born in the Moon.”

  “I thought you were born on Earth?”

  “Gwen, Colin Campbell was born dirtside. ‘Richard Ames’ was born in Hong Kong Luna—it says here.”

  “Oh.”

  “But attempting to backtrack Schultz is indeed something I should try before I try to locate all six. If I knew that Schultz had never been out-far, I would look first close to home—Luna, and dirtside, and all habitats ballistically coupled to Terra or Luna. Not the Asteroid Belt. Or even on Mars.”

  “Richard? Suppose that the purpose is to—No, that’s silly.”

  “What’s silly, dear? Try it on me anyhow.”

  “Uh, suppose this—whatever it is—conspiracy, I suppose—isn’t aimed at Ron Tolliver or any other Tolliver, but is aimed at you and your six friends, the ‘Walker Evans’ people. Could the purpose be to get you to take strong measures to get in touch with all the others? And thereby get you to lead them, whoever they are, to all seven of you? Could it be a vendetta? Could whatever happened cause a vendetta against all seven of you?”

  I had a cold feeling at the pit of my stomach. “Yes, that could be. Although not, I think, in this case. As it would not explain why Schultz was killed.”

  “I said it was silly.”

  “Wait a moment. Was Schultz killed?”

  “Why, we both saw it, Richard.”

  “Did we? I thought I saw it. But I admitted that it could have been faked. What I saw appeared to be death by explosive dart. But—Two simple props, Gwen. One makes a small dark spot appear on Schultz’s shirt. The other is a small rubber bladder he holds in his cheek; it contains fake blood. At the right instant he bites the bladder; ‘blood’ comes out of his mouth. The rest is acting…including the strange behavior of Morris and other staff members. That ‘dead’ body has to be removed quickly…through that ‘Employees Only’ door…where he is given a clean shirt, then hustled out the service door.”

  “You think that is the way it happened?”

  “Uh—No, damn it; I don’t! Gwen, I’ve seen many deaths. This one happened as close to me as you are this minute. I don’t think it was acting; I think I saw a man die.” I fumed to myself. Could I be mistaken on such a basic point?

  Of course I could be! I’m no supergenius gifted with psi powers; I could be wrong as an eyewitness quite as easily as Gwen could be.

  I sighed. “Gwen, I just don’t know. It looked to me like death by explosive dart…but if the intention was to fake it and if it was well prepared, then of course it would look like that. A planned fakery does account for the swift cover-up. Otherwise the behavior of the staff of Rainbow’s End is almost unbelievable.” I brooded. “Best girl, I’m not sure of anything. Is somebody trying to drive me out of my skull?”

  She treated my question as rhetorical, which it was—I hope. “Then what do we do?”

  “Uh…we try to check on Schultz. And not worry about the next step until we have done that.”

  “How?”

  “Bribery, my love. Lies and money. Lavish lies and a parsimonious use of money. Unless you are wealthy. I never thought to ask before I married you.”

  “Me?” Gwen’s eyes went wide. “But, Richard, I married you for your money.”

  “You did? Lady, you’ve been swindled. Do you want to see a lawyer?”

  “I suppose so. Is that what they call ‘statutory rape’?”

  “No, ‘statutory rape’ is carnal knowledge of a statue…although why anyone should care I have never understood. I don’t think it’s against regulations here.” I turned back to the terminal. “Do you want that lawyer? Or shall we look for Schultz?”

  “Uh… Richard, we’re having a very odd honeymoon. Let’s go back to bed.”

  “Bed can wait. But you can have another waffle while I try to look up Schultz.” I keyed the terminal again for directory, scrolled for “Schultz.”

  I found nineteen listings for “Schultz” but no “Enrico Schultz.” Small wonder. I did find “Hendrik Schultz,” so I keyed for amplification:

  “The Reverend Doctor Hendrik Hudson Schultz, B.S., M.A., D.D., D.H.L., K.G.B., Past Grand Master Royal Astrological Society. Scientific Horoscopy at moderate prices. Weddings solemnized. Family counseling. Eclectic and holistic therapy. Investments advice. Bets accepted at all hours at track odds. Petticoat Lane at ring ninety-five, next to Madame Pompadour.” Over this was his picture in holo, smiling and repeating his slogan: “I’m Father Schultz, your friend in need. No problem too large, no problem too small. All work guaranteed.”

  Guaranteed to be what? Hendrik Schultz looked just like Santa Claus minus the beard and not at all like my friend Enrico, so I keyed him out—reluctantly, as I felt kinship with the Reverend Doctor. “Gwen, he’s not in the directory, or not in it by the name on his Golden Rule ID. Does that mean he was never in it? Or that his name was removed last night before his body was cold?”

  “Do you expect an answer? Or are you thinking aloud?”

  “Neither one, I guess. Our next move is to query the hub—right?” I checked the directory, then called the office of immigration at the hub. “This is Dr. Richard Ames speaking. I’m trying to locate a habitant named Enrico Schultz. Can you give me his address?”

  “Why don’t you look him up in the directory?” (She sounded just like my third-grade teacher—not a recommendation.)

  “He’s not in the directory. He’s a tourist, not a subscriber. I just want his address in Golden Rule. Hotel, pension, whatever.”

  “Tut, tut! You know quite well that we don’t give out personal information, even on marks. If he’s not listed, then he paid fair and square not to be listed.
Do unto others. Doctor, lest ye be done unto.” She switched off.

  “Where do we ask now?” inquired Gwen.

  “Same place, same seatwarmer—but with cash and in person. Terminals are convenient, Gwen…but not for bribery in amounts of less than a hundred thousand. For a small squeeze, cash and in person is more practical. Coming with me?”

  “Do you think you can leave me behind? On our wedding day? Just try it, buster!”

  “Put some clothes on, maybe?”

  “Are you ashamed of the way I look?”

  “Not at all. Let’s go.”

  “I give in. Half a sec, while I find my slippers. Richard, can we go via my compartment? At the ballet last night I felt very chic but my gown is too dressy for public corridors at this time of day. I want to change.”

  “Your slightest wish, ma’am. But that brings up another point. Do you want to move in here?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Gwen, it has been my experience that marriage can sometimes stand up against twin beds but almost never against twin addresses.”

  “You didn’t quite answer me.”

  “So you noticed. Gwen, I have this one nasty habit. Makes me hard to live with. I write.”

  The dear girl looked puzzled. “So you’ve told me. But why do you call it a nasty habit?”

  “Uh… Gwen my love, I am not going to apologize for writing…anymore than I would apologize for this missing foot…and in truth the one led to the other. When I could no longer follow the profession of arms, I had to do something to eat. I wasn’t trained for anything else and back home some other kid had my paper route. But writing is a legal way of avoiding work without actually stealing and one that doesn’t take any talent or training.

  “But writing is antisocial. It’s as solitary as masturbation. Disturb a writer when he is in the throes of creation and he is likely to turn and bite right to the bone…and not even know that he’s doing it. As writers’ wives and husbands often learn to their horror.

  “And—attend me carefully, Gwen!—there is no way that writers can be tamed and rendered civilized. Or even cured. In a household with more than one person, of which one is a writer, the only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private, and where food can be poked in to him with a stick. Because, if you disturb the patient at such times, he may break into tears or become violent. Or he may not hear you at all…and, if you shake him at this stage, he bites.”

  I smiled my best smile. “Don’t worry, darling. At present I am not working on a story and I will avoid starting one until we arrange such an isolation chamber for me to work in. This place isn’t big enough and neither is yours. Mmm, even before we go to the hub, I want to call the Manager’s office and see what larger compartments are available. We’ll need two terminals also.”

  “Why two, dear? I don’t use a terminal much.”

  “But when you do, you need it. When I’m using this one in word-processing mode, it can’t be used for anything else—no newspaper, no mail, no shopping, no programs, no personal calls, nothing. Believe me, darling; I’ve had this disease for years, I know how to manage it. Let me have a small room and a terminal, let me go into it and seal the door behind me, and it will be just like having a normal, healthy husband who goes to the office every morning and does whatever it is men do in offices—I’ve never known and have never been much interested in finding out.”

  “Yes, dear. Richard, do you enjoy writing?”

  “No one enjoys writing.”

  “I wondered. Then I must tell you that I didn’t quite tell you the truth when I said that I had married you for your money.”

  “And I didn’t quite believe you. We’re even.”

  “Yes, dear. I really can afford to keep you as a pet. Oh, I can’t buy you yachts. But we can live in reasonable comfort here in Golden Rule—not the cheapest place in the Solar System. You won’t have to write.”

  I stopped to kiss her, thoroughly and carefully. “I’m glad I married you. But I will indeed have to write.”

  “But you don’t enjoy it and we don’t need the money. Truly we don’t!”

  “Thank you, my love. But I did not explain to you the other insidious aspect of writing. There is no way to stop. Writers go on writing long after it becomes financially unnecessary…because it hurts less to write than it does not to write.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t either, when I took that first fatal step—a short story, it was, and I honestly thought I could quit anytime. Never mind, dear. In another ten years you will understand. Just pay no attention to me when I whimper. Doesn’t mean anything—just the monkey on my back.”

  “Richard? Would psychoanalysis help?”

  “Can’t risk it. I once knew a writer who tried that route. Cured him of writing all right. But did not cure him of the need to write. The last I saw of him he was crouching in a corner, trembling. That was his good phase. But the mere sight of a word processor would throw him into a fit.”

  “Uh…that bent for mild exaggeration?”

  “Why, Gwen! I could take you to him. Show you his gravestone. Never mind, dear; I’m going to call the Manager’s housing desk.” I turned back to the terminal—

  —just as the damn thing lit up like a Christmas tree and the emergency bell chimed steadily. I flipped the answer switch. “Ames here! Are we broached?”

  Words sounded while letters streamed across the face of the CRT, and the printer started a printout without my telling it to—I hate it when it does that.

  “Official to Dr. Richard Ames: The Management finds that the compartment you now occupy designated 715301 at 65-15-0.4 is urgently needed. You are notified to vacate at once. Unused rent has been applied to your account, plus a free bonus of fifty crowns for any inconvenience this may cause you. Order signed by Arthur Middlegaff, Manager’s Proxy for Housing. Have a Nice Day!”

  IV

  “I go on working for the same reason a hen goes on laying eggs.”

  H. L. MENCKEN 1880-1956

  My eyes grew wide. “Oh, goody-goody cheesecakes! Fifty whole crowns—golly! Gwen! Now you can marry me for my money!”

  “Do you feel well, dear? You paid more than that for a bottle of wine just last night. I think it’s perfectly stinking. Insulting.”

  “Of course it is, darling. It is intended to make me angry, in addition to the inconvenience of forcing me to move. So I won’t.”

  “Won’t move?”

  “No, no. I’ll move at once. There are ways to fight city hall but refusing to move is not one of them. Not while the Manager’s Proxy can cut off power and ventilation and water and sanitary service. No, dear, the intention is to get me angry, ruin my judgment, and get me to make threats that can’t be carried out.”

  I smiled at my darling. “So I won’t get angry and I’ll move right out of here, meek as a lamb…and the intense anger that I feel down inside will be kept there, out of sight, until it’s useful to me. Besides, it changes nothing, as I was about to apply for a larger compartment—one more room, at least—for us. So I’ll call him back—dear Mr. Middlegaff, I mean.”

  I keyed for directory again, not knowing offhand the call code of the housing office. I punched the “execute” key.

  And got a display on the screen of “TERMINAL OUT OF SERVICE.”

  I stared at it while I counted ten, backwards, in Sanskrit. Dear Mr. Middlegaff, or the Manager himself, or someone, was trying hard to get my goat. So above all I must not let it happen. Think calm, soothing thoughts, suitable for a fakir on a bed of nails. Although there did not seem to be any harm in thinking about frying his gonads for lunch once I knew who he was. With soy sauce? Or just garlic butter and a dash of salt?

  Thinking about this culinary choice did calm me a bit. I found myself unsurprised and not materially more annoyed when the display changed from “TERMINAL OUT OF SERVICE” to “POWER AND POWER-DEPENDENT
SERVICES WILL TERMINATE AT 1300.” This was replaced by a time display in large figures: 1231—and this changed to 1232 as I looked at it.

  “Richard, what in the world are they doing?”

  “Still trying to drive me out of my skull, I surmise. But we won’t let them. Instead we’ll spend twenty-eight minutes—no, twenty-seven—clearing out five years of junk.”

  “Yessir. How can I help?”

  “That’s my girl! Small wardrobe out here, big one in the bedroom—throw everything on the bed. On the shelf in the big wardrobe is a duffel bag, a big jumpbag. Stuff everything into it as tightly as possible. Don’t sort. Hold out that robe you wore at breakfast and use it to make a bundle out of anything that you can’t jam into the duffel bag; tie it with its sash.”

  “Your toilet articles?”

  “Ah, yes. Plastic bag dispenser in buttery—just dump ’em into a bag and shove them in with the bundle. Honey, you’re going to make a wonderful wife!”

  “You are so right. Long practice, dear—widows always make the best wives. Want to hear about my husbands?”

  “Yes but not now. Save it for some long evening when you have a headache and I’m too tired.” Having dumped ninety percent of my packing onto Gwen I tackled the hardest ten percent: my business records and files.

  Writers are pack rats, mostly, whereas professional military learn to travel light, again mostly. This dichotomy could have made me schizoid were it not for the most wonderful invention for writers since the eraser on the end of a pencil: electronic files.

  I use Sony Megawafers, each good for half a million words, each two centimeters wide, three millimeters thick, with information packed so densely that it doesn’t bear thinking about. I sat down at the terminal, took off my prosthesis (peg leg, if you prefer), opened its top. Then I removed all my memory wafers from the terminal’s selector, fed them into the cylinder that is the “shinbone” of my prosthesis, closed it and put it back on.