The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “She can’t talk to you now; she’s driving this bus.”

  “Hold it. You tell me you are a passenger in the rolligon Hear Me, Jesus. That’s Lilybet Washington’s bus; why is your wife driving it?”

  “I tried to tell you. She’s been shot. Auntie Lilybet, I mean, not my wife. We were jumped by bandits.”

  “There are no bandits in that area.”

  “That’s right; we killed ’em. Captain, listen, and quit jumping to conclusions. We were attacked. We have three dead and two wounded…and my wife is driving because she’s the only able-bodied person left who can.”

  “You’re wounded?”

  “No.”

  “But you said your wife is the only able-bodied person left who can drive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get this straight. Day before yesterday you were piloting a spacecraft—Or was your wife the pilot?”

  “I was the pilot. What’s itching you. Captain?”

  “You can pilot a spacecraft…but you can’t drive a little old roily. That’s hard to swallow.”

  “Simple. I can’t use my right foot.”

  “But you said you weren’t wounded.”

  “I’m not. I’ve just lost a foot, that’s all. Well, not ‘lost’—I have it here in my lap. But I can’t use it.”

  “Why can’t you use it?”

  I took a deep breath and attempted to recall Siacci empiricals for ballistics on atmosphere planets. “Captain Marcy, is there anyone in your organization—or anywhere in Hong Kong Luna—who might be interested in the fact that bandits attacked a public bus serving your city, only a few klicks outside your city pressure? And is there anyone who can receive the dead and wounded when we arrive with them? And who won’t care who drives this bus? And doesn’t find it incredible dial a man could have had a foot amputated years back?”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “God damn it. Captain, it was none of your bloody business!”

  There was silence for several seconds. Then Captain Marcy said quietly, “Perhaps you’re right. Midnight, I’m going to patch you through to Major Bozell. He’s a wholesaler by trade but he also commands our Vigilante Volunteers and that’s why you should talk to him. Just hang on.”

  I waited and watched Gwen’s driving. When we started, her handling had been a bit rough, just as anyone’s will be in getting acquainted with a strange machine. Now her driving was smooth, if not as dashing as Auntie’s driving.

  “Bozell here. Do you read?”

  I replied…and almost at once ran into a nightmare feeling of déjà vu, as he interrupted with: “There are no bandits in that area.”

  I sighed. “If you say so. Major. But there are nine corpses and an abandoned rolligon in that area. Perhaps someone would be interested in searching those bodies, salvaging their p-suits and weapons, and in claiming that abandoned rolligon…before some peaceful settlers who would never think of turning bandit show up and take everything.”

  “Hmmm. Choy-Mu tells me that he is getting a satellite photo of the spot where this alleged attack took place. If there really is an abandoned rolligon—”

  “Major!”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t care what you believe. I don’t give a hoot about salvage. We’ll be at the north airlock about three-thirty. Can you have a medic meet us, with a stretcher and bearers? That’s for Mistress Lilybet Washington. She’s—”

  “I know who she is; she’s been driving that route since I was a kid. Let me talk to her.”

  “She’s wounded, I told you. She’s lying down and I hope she’s asleep. If she’s not, I still won’t disturb her; it might start more bleeding. Just have somebody at the airlock to take care of her. And for three dead ones, too, one of them a small child. Its mother is with us and in shock, name of Ekaterina O’Toole, and her husband lives in your city. Nigel O’Toole and maybe you can have somebody call him so that he can meet his family and take care of them. That’s all. Major. When I called you, I was a bit nervous about bandits. But since there aren’t any bandits in this area, we have no reason to ask for vigilante protection out here on the Sea of Serenity this fine sunny day, and I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep.”

  “That’s all right; we’re here to help—no need to be sarcastic. This is being recorded. State your full name and legal address, then repeat: As representative of Lilybet Washington of Lucky Dragon Pressure, doing business as the Apocalypse and Kingdom Come Bus Company, I authorize Major Kirk Bozell, commanding officer and business manager of the Hong Kong Luna Vigilante Volunteers, to supply—”

  “Hold it. What is this?”

  “Just the standard contract covering services for personal protection and property conservation, and guaranteeing payment. You can’t expect to roust a platoon of guards out of bed in the middle of the night and not pay for it. TANSTAAFL. No free lunch.”

  “Hmm. Major, do you happen to have any hemorrhoid salve on hand? Preparation H? Pazo? That sort of thing?”

  “Eh? I use Tiger Balm. Why?”

  “You’re going to need it. Take that standard contract, fold it until it is all sharp corners—”

  I stayed tuned to thirteen, made no further effort to find the emergencies channel. So far as I could see there was no point to shouting “M’aidez!” on channel eleven when I had already talked to the only likely source of help. I leaned my helmet against Gwen’s and summarized, then added, “Both the idiots insisted that there are no bandits out here.”

  “Maybe they weren’t bandits. Maybe they were just agrarian reformers making a political statement. I surely hope we don’t run into any right-wing extremists! Richard, I had better not talk while I’m driving. Strange car, strange road—only it’s not a road.”

  “Sorry, hon! You’re doing beautifully. How can I help?”

  “It would help a lot if you would spot the markers for me.”

  “Sure thing!”

  “Then I could keep my eyes down and watch the road close ahead. Some of those potholes are worse than Manhattan.”

  “Impossible.”

  We worked out a system that helped her while bothering her least. As soon as I spotted a marker I pointed at it. When she saw it, too—not before—she slapped my knee. We didn’t talk because touching helmets did tend to interfere with her driving.

  About an hour later a rolligon showed up ahead and came straight toward us at high speed. Gwen tapped her helmet over her ear; I pressed my helmet to hers. She said, “More agrarian reformers?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m out of ammo.”

  “So am I.” I sighed. “We’ll just have to get them to the conference table somehow. After all, violence never solves anything.”

  Gwen made an unladylike comment and added, “What about that gun you took away from Sir Galahad?”

  “Oh. Hon, I haven’t even looked at it. Hand me the stupid hat.”

  “You’re not stupid, Richard, just spiritual. Take a look.”

  I drew that confiscated side arm from my suit belt, examined it. Then I touched helmets again. “Honey, you’re not going to believe this. It’s not loaded.”

  “Huh!”

  “Indeed ‘Huh.’ Aside from that I have no comment. And you can quote me.”

  I chucked that useless weapon into a corner of the bus and looked out at the other rolligon, now rapidly closing. Why would anyone wear an unloaded weapon? Sheer folly!

  Gwen tapped her ear again. I touched helmets. “Yes?”

  “The ammo for that gun is on the body, you can bet on it.”

  “I won’t bet; I figured that out. Gwen, if I were to try to search that corpse, I would have to cool the other two first. It’s not a good idea.”

  “I agree. And no time for it anyhow. There they come.”

  Only they didn’t, not quite. The other rolligon, while still some two hundred meters away, swung to its left, made it clear that it was avoiding a collision course. As it passed us I read on its side: Vigilante V
olunteers—Hong Kong Luna.

  Shortly Marcy called me. “Bozell says he found you but can’t reach you by radio.”

  “I don’t know why not. You reached me.”

  “Because I figured out that you would be on the wrong channel. Midnight, whatever you should be doing, it is a dead certainty that you will always be doing something else.”

  “You flatter me. What should I have done this time?”

  “You should have been guarding channel two, that’s what. The one reserved for surface vehicles.”

  “Every day I learn something. Thanks.”

  “Anyone who doesn’t know that should not be operating a vehicle on the surface of this planet.”

  “Captain, you are so right.” I shut up.

  We could see Hong Kong Luna over the horizon many minutes before we got there—the emergency landing pylon, the big dishes used to talk to Earth and the bigger ones for Mars and the Belt, the solar power grids—and it got even more impressive as we got closer. Of course everyone lives underground…but I tend to forget how much of Luna’s heavy industry is on the surface—and illogical that I should forget, since most of Luna’s great wealth is tied in with raw sunshine, bitter nights, and endless vacuum. But, as my wife pointed out, I’m the spiritual type.

  We passed Nissan-Shell’s new complex, hectare after hectare of pipes and cracking columns and inverse stills and valves and pumps and Bussard pyramids. The long shadows carved by the rising Sun made it a picture out of Gustave Doré, by Pieter Brueghel (zoon), orchestrated by Salvador Dali. Just beyond it we found the north lock.

  Because of Aunt Lilybet they let us use the small Kwiklok. Bill went through with Auntie—he had earned that—then Lady Dee and her surviving husband crowded in ahead of Ekaterina and the kids. Dear Diana had distinguished herself again by demanding that she be taken to the spaceport rather than to a city lock. Bill and I had not let her bother Gwen with her royal commands, but it had decreased (if this be possible) her popularity with us. I was glad to see them disappear into the lock. And it worked out all right as Ekaterina’s husband cycled outward through the main lock just as we were losing our VIPs. Nigel O’Toole took his family (including that pathetic little body) back the same way, after Gwen hugged Ekaterina and promised to call her.

  Then it was our turn…only to find that Tree-San could not be fitted into a Kwiklok. So we backed out and went around to the larger (and slower) lock. Someone, I saw, was lifting down the body from the turret of Hear Me, Jesus and others were unloading its cargo, under the eyes of four armed guards. I wondered what was in that cargo. But it was none of my business. (Or maybe it was—it seemed possible that this cargo had been the cause of carnage and death.) We went into the larger lock—ourselves, bonsai maple, small suitcase, purse, packaged wig, cane, prosthetic foot.

  The lock cycled and we entered a long, sloping tunnel, then passed through two pressure doors. At the second door was a slot machine for vending short-time air licenses but it had a sign on it: OUT OF ORDER—Visitors please leave a half crown for 24 hrs. A saucer with some coins in it rested on top of the machine; I added a crown for Gwen and me.

  At the bottom of the tunnel one more pressure door let us into the city.

  There were benches just inside for the convenience of persons suiting up or suiting out. With a sigh of relief I started unzipping and shortly was fastening in place my artificial foot.

  Dry Bones is a village. Lucky Dragon is a small town. Hong Kong Luna is a metropolis second only to Luna City. At the moment it did not look crowded but this was the dead of the night; only night workers were up and around. Even early risers had two more hours of sleep coming, no matter that it was broad daylight outside.

  But that almost deserted corridor still showed its big-city quality; a sign over the suit racks read: USE THESE RACKS AT YOUR OWN RISK. SEE JAN THE CHECKROOM MAN—BONDED AND INSURED—One Crown/One P-Suit.

  Under it was a hand-written notice: Be smart—See Sol for only half a crown—not bonded, not insured, just honest. Each sign had arrows, one pointing left, one pointing right.

  Gwen said, “Which one, dear? Sol, or Jan?”

  “Neither. This place is enough like Luna City that I know how to cope with it. I think.” I looked around, up and down, spotted a red light. “There’s a hotel. With my foot back in place, I can take a p-suit under each arm. Can you manage the rest?”

  “Certainly. How about your cane?”

  “I’ll stick it through the belt of my suit. No itch.” We started toward that hotel.

  Facing the corridor at the hotel’s reception window a young woman sat studying—transgenics, Sylvester’s classic text. She looked up. “Better check those first. See Sol, next door.”

  “No, I want a big room, with an empress-size bed. We’ll stack these in a corner.”

  She looked at her rooming diagram. “Single rooms I have. Twin beds I have. Happy suites I have. But what you want—no. All occupied.”

  “How much is a happy suite?”

  “Depends. Here’s one with two king beds, and ’fresher. Here’s one with no beds at all but a padded parlor floor and lots of pillows. And here’s—”

  “How much for the two king beds?”

  “Eighty crowns.”

  I said patiently, “Look, citizen, I’m a Loonie myself. My grandfather was wounded on the steps at the Bon Marché. His father was shipped for criminal syndicalism. I know prices in Loonie City; they can’t be that much higher in Kong. What are you charging for what I requested? If you had one vacant?”

  “I’m not impressed, chum; anyone can claim ancestors in the Revolution and most do. My ancestors welcomed Neil Armstrong as he stepped down. Top that.”

  I grinned at her. “I can’t and I should have kept quiet. What’s your real price on a double room with one big bed, and a ’fresher? Not your tourist price.”

  “A standard double room with a big bed and its own ’fresher goes for twenty crowns. Tell you what, chum—not much chance of renting my empty suites this late—or this early. I’ll sell you an orgy suite for twenty crowns…and you’re out by noon.”

  “Ten crowns.”

  “Thief. Eighteen. Any lower and I’m losing money.”

  “No, you’re not. As you pointed out, this time in the morning you can’t expect to sell it at any price. Fifteen crowns.”

  “Let’s see your money. But you have to be out by noon.”

  “Make that thirteen o’clock. We’ve been up all night and have had a rough time.” I counted out the cash.

  “I know.” She nodded at her terminal. “The Hong Kong Gong has had several bulletins about you. Thirteen o’clock, okay—but if you stay longer, you either pay full tariff or move to an ordinary room. Did you really encounter bandits? On the trace to Lucky Dragon?”

  “They tell me there are no bandits in that area. We ran into some rather unfriendly strangers. Our losses were three dead, two wounded. We fetched ’em back.”

  “Yes, I saw. Do you want a receipt for your expense account? For a crown I’ll make out a real sincere one, itemized for whatever amount you say. And I have three messages for you.”

  I blinked stupidly. “How? Nobody knew we were coming to your hotel. We didn’t know it ourselves.”

  “No mystery, chum. A stranger comes in the north lock late at night, it’s a probable seven to two he’ll wind up in my bed—one of my beds and no smart remarks, please.” She glanced at her terminal. “If you hadn’t picked up your messages in another ten minutes, backups would have gone to all inns in the pressure. If that failed to find you, the selectman for public safety might start a search. We don’t get handsome strangers with romantic adventures too often.”

  Gwen said, “Quit waggling your tail at him, dearie; he’s tired. And taken. Hand me the printouts, please.”

  The hotel manager looked coldly at Gwen, spoke to me: “Chum, if you have not yet paid her, I can guarantee you something better and younger and prettier at a bargain price.”

&nb
sp; “Your daughter?” Gwen inquired sweetly. “Please, the messages.”

  The woman shrugged and handed them to me. I thanked her and said, “About this other something. Younger, possibly. Prettier, I doubt. Can’t be cheaper; I married this one for her money. What are the facts?”

  She looked from me to Gwen. “Is that true? Did he marry you for your money? Make him earn it!”

  “Well, he says he did,” Gwen said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. We’ve been married only three days. This is our honeymoon.”

  “Less than three days, dear,” I objected. “It just seems longer.”

  “Chum, don’t talk that way to your bride! You’re a cad and a brute and probably on the lam.”

  “Yes. All of that,” I agreed.

  She ignored me, spoke to Gwen: “Dearie, I didn’t know it was your honeymoon or I wouldn’t have offered that ‘something’ to your husband. I bow in the dust. But later on, when you get bored with this chum with the overactive mouth, I can arrange the same for you but male. Fair price. Young. Handsome. Virile. Durable. Affectionate. Call or phone and ask for Xia—that’s me. Guaranteed—you must be satisfied or you don’t pay.”

  “Thanks. Right now all I want is breakfast. Then bed.”

  “Breakfast right behind you across the corridor. Sing’s New York Café. I recommend his Hangover Special at a crown fifty.” She looked back at her rack and picked out two cards. “Here’re your keys. Dearie, would you ask Sing to send me over a grilled Cheddar on white with coffee? And don’t let him charge you more than a slug and a half for a Hangover Special. He cheats just for fun.”

  We parked our baggage with Xia and crossed the corridor for breakfast. Sing’s Hangover Special was as good as Xia claimed. Then at last we were in our suite—the bridal suite; Xia had again done right by us. In several ways. She led us to our suite, watched while we oohed and ahed—bubbly in an ice bucket, coverlet turned back, perfumed sheets, flowers (artificial but convincing) picked out by the only light.

  So the bride kissed her and Xia kissed the bride, and they both sniffled—and a good thing, too, as a lot had happened too fast and Gwen had had no time to cry. Women need to cry.