The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “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?”

  “Don’t put words into my mouth! Marcy—you tell them!”

  Having said that, Bozell looked blank. He started to add something, stopped.

  I most carefully kept quiet. Presently Mao said, “Well, Captain Marcy?”

  “What do you want from me, sir? The director of the port, when he sent me here, told me to cooperate fully…but not to volunteer anything you did not ask for.”

  “I want everything relevant to this case. Did you give Major Bozell a figure of eighty kilometers?”

  “Yes, sir. Seventy-eight kilometers.”

  “How did you get that figure?”

  “I measured it on a monitor at my console. Ordinarily we don’t print a satellite photograph, just display it. This man—you say his name is Johnson; I knew him as ‘Midnight’—if he’s the same man. He called me last night at oh one twenty-seven, stated that he was in the Lucky Dragon bus, reported that bandits had attacked the bus—”

  “Hah!”

  “—and that the attack had been driven off but the driver, Aunt Lilybet—Mistress Washington—was hurt and that the turret gunner was—”

  “We know all that. Captain. Tell us about the photograph.”

  “Yes, Mr. Moderator. From what Midnight told me, I was able to direct the satellite camera onto target. I photographed the rolligon.”

  “And you place the bus at that time seventy-eight kilometers from the city?”

  “No, sir, not the bus. The other rolligon.”

  There was the sort of silence sometimes called “pregnant.” Then Bozell said, “But that’s crazy! There wasn’t any—”

  “Just a moment, Bozell. Marcy, you were misled by Johnson’s lies. What you saw was the bus.”

  “No, sir. I did see the bus; I had it on monitor. But I saw at once that it was moving. So I coached the camera back down the trace about ten klicks…and there was the second rolligon, just as Midnight had said.”

  Bozell was almost in tears. “But—There was nothing there, I tell you! My boys and I searched that whole area. Nothing! Marcy, you’re out of your mind!”

  I don’t know how long Bozell would have gone on wishing away a rolligon he could not find, as he was interrupted; Gwen came in. And I reswallowed my heart; everything was going to be all right!

  (I had been worried sick ever since I had seen Mao’s triple defenses against anyone walking in on him. A guard against assassination? I don’t know; I simply fretted that Gwen might be balked. But I should have had more confidence in my little giant.)

  She smiled and waved me a kiss, then turned and held the door. “Right through here, gentlemen!”

  Two of Mao’s own police brought in a wheelchair, laid back so that Auntie could recline. She looked around, smiled at me, then said to the Moderator, “Howdy, Jefferson. How’s your momma?”

  “She’s well, thank you. Mistress Washington. But you—”

  “What’s this ‘Mistress Washington’ fancy talk? Boy, I’ve changed your nappies; you call me ‘Auntie’ same as you always did. Now I heard about how you were planning to pin a medal on Senator Richard for how he saved me from those bandits…and when I heard that I said to myself, ‘Jefferson hasn’t heard about the other two that deserve medals quite as much as Senator Richard does—begging your pardon. Senator.”

  I said, “Oh, you’re quite right. Auntie.”

  “So I brought them. Gwen honey, say hello to Jefferson. He’s the mayor of this pressure. Gwen is Senator Richard’s wife, Jefferson. And Bill—Where’s Bill? Bill! You come in here, son! Don’t be shy. Jefferson, while it’s true that Senator Richard killed two of those bad men with his bare hands—”

  “Not his bare hands. Auntie,” Gwen objected. “He did have his cane.”

  “You hush up, honey. With his bare hands and his walking cane, but if Bill hadn’t been right there—and fast and smart—I wouldn’t be here; Jesus would have taken me. But the dear Lord said it wasn’t my time yet and Bill put patches on my suit and saved me to serve Jesus another day.” Auntie reached out, took Bill’s hand. “This is Bill, Jefferson. Make sure
he gets a medal, too. And Gwen—Come here, Gwen. This baby girl saved all our lives.”

  I’m not sure how old my bride is, but she is not a “baby girl.” However, that was the least distortion of fact that was heard in the next few minutes. To put it in its mildest terms, Auntie told a pack of lies. With Gwen nodding and backing her up and looking angelic.

  It was not so much that the facts were wrong as that Auntie testified to things she could not possibly have seen. Gwen must have coached her most carefully.

  Two loads of bandits had tackled us but they had fought each other; that saved us, as all but two of them died in that fratricide. Those two I killed with my bare hands and a walking stick—against laser guns. I am so heroic that I amaze myself.

  While these brave deeds were going on, I know Auntie was unconscious part of the time, and flat on her back all of the time, able to see only the ceiling of the bus. Yet she seemed to believe—I think she did believe—what she was saying. So much for eyewitnesses.

  (Not that I’m complaining!)

  Then Auntie told how Gwen had driven us. I found myself pulling up a trouser leg to show my prosthetic—something I never do—but did this time to show why I had been unable to wear it while wearing a standard p-suit, and thereby unable to drive.

  But it was Gwen who brought down the house when Auntie finished her highly-colored account. Gwen did it with pictures.

  Listen carefully. Gwen had used all her ammo, six rounds, then—neat as always—she had put her Miyako back into her purse. And pulled out her Mini Helvetia, snapped two frames.

  She had tilted her camera down a bit, for it showed not only both bandit vehicles but also three casualties on the ground and one bandit up and moving. The second shot showed four on the ground and the superdoughnut turned away.

  I can’t figure an exact time line on this but there must have been at least four seconds from the time she ran out of ammo to the time the giant wheel turned away. With a fast camera it takes about as long to shoot one frame as it does to fire one shot with a semi-automatic slug gun.

  So the question is: What did she do with the other two seconds? Just waste them?

  XV

  “Premenstrual Syndrome: Just before their periods women behave the way men do all the time”

  LOWELL STONE, M.D. 2144-

  We didn’t break into a run but we got out of there as fast as possible. True, Auntie had clobbered Mr. Mao into accepting me as a “hero” rather than a criminal—but that did not make him love me and I knew it.

  Major Bozell did not even pretend to like me. Captain Marcy’s “defection” infuriated Bozell; Gwen’s pictures actually showing bandits (where they could not be!) broke his heart. Then his boss gave him the crudest blow by ordering him to get his troops together and get out there and find them! Do it now! “If you can’t do it. Major, I’ll have to find someone who can. You thought up this idea of the hundred-kilometer border. Now justify your boasts.”

  Mao should not have done it to Bozell in the presence of others—especially not in my presence. This I know from professional experience—in each role.

  I think Gwen gave Auntie some signal. As may be. Aunt Lilybet told Mao she had to leave. “My little nurse is going to scold me for staying too long. I don’t want her to have to scold me too hard. Mei-Ling Ouspenskaya—do you know her, Jefferson? She knows your momma.”

  The same two police officers wheeled Auntie all the way back through that series of offices and out to the public corridor—square, rather, as the city offices face on Revolutionary Square. She said good-bye to us there and the police officers wheeled her away to Wyoming Knott Memorial Hospital, two levels down and north of there. I don’t think they expected to do it—I do know Gwen conscripted these two right there in the Moderator’s offices—but Auntie assumed that they would take her back to hospital, and they did. “No, Gwen honey, no need for you to come along—these kind gentlemen know where it is.”

  (A lady has doors held for her because she expects doors to be held for her. Both Gwen and Aunt Lilybet had this principle down pat.)

  Facing the municipal offices was a large bunting-bedecked sign:

  FREE LUNA!

  July 4th, 2076-2188

  Was it really Independence Day already? I counted up in my mind. Yes, Gwen and I had married on the first—so today had to be the Fourth of July. A good omen!

  Seated at a bench around a fountain in the center of Revolutionary Square was Xia, waiting for us.

  I had expected Gwen; I did not expect Xia. In the chat I had had with Xia, I had asked her to try to locate Gwen and to tell her where I was going and why. “Xia, I don’t like being called in by cops for questioning, especially in a strange town where I don’t know the political setup. If I am ‘detained’—to put it politely—I want my wife to know where to look.”

  I did not suggest what Gwen should do about it. In only three days of marriage to Gwen I had already learned that nothing I could suggest could equal what she would think of, left to her own devious devices—being married to Gwen was not dull!

  I was warmly pleased to find Xia waiting but I was startled at what she had with her. I stared and said, “Somebody book the bridal suite?” On the bench by Xia I saw Gwen’s small case, a package containing a wig, a rock maple in bonsai, and a package not familiar to me but self-explained by its Sears Montgomery wrapping. “I’ll bet my toothbrush is still hanging in the ’fresher.”

  “How much and what odds?” said Xia. “You would lose. Richard, I’ll miss both of you. Maybe I’ll run over to L-City and visit you.”

  “Do that!” said Gwen.

  “Concur,” I concurred, “if we’re moving to L-City. Are we?”

  “Right away,” said Gwen.

  “Bill, did you know about this?”

  “No, Senator. But she had me rush over to Sears and turn in my p-suit. So I’m ready.”

  “Richard,” Gwen said seriously, “it’s not safe for you to stay here.”

  “No, it’s not,” said a voice behind me (proving again that classified matters should not be discussed in public places). “The sooner you chums leave the better. Hi, Xia. Are you with these dangerous characters?”

  “Hi yourself, Choy-Mu. Thanks for last time.”

  I blinked at him. “Captain Marcy! I’m glad you came out; I want to thank you!”

  “Nothing to thank me for. Captain Midnight—or is it ‘Senator’?”

  “Well…actually it’s ‘Doctor.’ Or ‘Mister.’ But to you it’s ‘Richard,’ if you will. You saved my neck.”

  “And I’m Choy-Mu, Richard. But I did not save your neck. I followed you out to tell you so. You may think you won back in there. You did not. You lost. You made the Moderator lose face—you made both of them lose face. So you’re a walking time bomb, an accident looking for the spot.” He frowned. “Not too healthy for me, either, being present when they lost face…after making the initial mistake of ‘bearing bad news to the king.’ Understand me?”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  Xia asked, “Choy-Mu, truly did Number-One lose face?”

  “Truly he did, luv. It was Aunt Lilybet Washington who did it to him. But of course he can’t touch her. So it lands on Captain—On Richard. So I see it.”

  Xia stood up. “Gwen, let’s go straight to the station. Not waste a second! Oh, damn! I did so much want you to stay a few days.”

  Twenty minutes later we were at South Tube Station, and about to enter the ballistic tube for Luna City. The fact that we were able to book space in the L-City capsule leaving almost at once controlled our destination, as Choy-Mu and Xia went along to see us off and, by the time we had reached the station via the local city subway, they had convinced me—or had convinced Gwen (more to the point)—that we should take the first thing leaving town, no matter where it went. From that same station there are ordinary (non-ballistic) tubes to Plato, Tycho Under, and Novy Leningrad—had we been six minutes earlier we would have wound up in Plato warren, which would
have changed many things.

  Or would it have changed anything? Is there a Destiny that shapes our ends? (Gwen’s end was delightfully shaped. Xia’s also, come to think of it.)

  There was barely time to say good-bye before we had to rack up and strap in. Xia kissed us all good-bye and I was pleased that Gwen did not let Choy-Mu go unkissed. A true Loonie, he hesitated a long beat to make sure that the lady meant it, then returned it enthusiastically. I watched Xia kissing Bill good-bye—Bill returned it without that hesitation. I decided that Gwen’s attempt to play Pygmalion to this unlikely Galatea was succeeding but that Bill would have to learn Loonie manners, or he might lose some teeth.

  We strapped down, the capsule was sealed, and again Bill cradled the little maple’s pot against his belly. The racks swung to meet acceleration—one full gee, a high acceleration for Loonies who filled the rest of the car. Two minutes and fifty-one seconds of boost, then we were at orbital speed.

  Odd to be in free fall in a subway. But it certainly is fun!

  It was the first time I had ridden the ballistic tube. It dates back before the Revolution, although then (so I’ve read) it extended only to Endsville. It was completed later, but the principle was never extended to other subway systems—not economic, I am told, other than for heavily-traveled, long runs that can be dug “straight” the whole way—“straight” in this case meaning “exactly conforming to a ballistic curve at orbiting velocity.”

  This subway is the only underground “spaceship” in history. It works like the induction catapults that throw cargo to Ell-Four and Ell-Five and to Terra…except that the launching station, the receiving station, and the entire trajectory are underground…a few meters underground in most places, about three klicks underground where the tube passes under mountains.

  Two minutes and fifty-one seconds of one-gee boost, twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds in free fall, two minutes and fifty-one seconds of one-gee braking—it adds up to an average speed of more than five thousand kilometers per hour. No other “surface” transportation anywhere even approaches this speed. Yet it is an utterly comfortable ride—three minutes that feel like lying in a hammock on Terra, then twelve and a half minutes of weightlessness, and again three minutes in that garden hammock. How can you beat that?