by Simon Hawke
I could've told him what had happened, but I didn't, because as he spoke about it, I realized that I knew who Solo's sister must have been. Paulie had never mentioned her by name, but back when he was in college, he had fallen hard for some girl and done the one thing he had promised himself he'd never do. Paulie had a gift, a very unusual gift he had inherited from his Indian mother. He was a sensitive, a powerful empath who could look into other people's minds and see them as they really were. He had become aware of this ability during his adolescence and, over the years, it had developed and grown stronger. It had caused him a few problems, and he had sworn to himself he'd never use it, not only out of respect for other people's privacy, but out of concern for his own emotional well-being. However, in college, he had met this girl, and he had fallen for her hard, and his resolve had weakened.
He had wanted to look into her mind and discover her fondest desire, so that he could give it to her if it was at all within his power. So he broke his promise to himself and probed her secret soul, and what he found there was a twisted, ugly, bitter thing, the heart of an emotional vampire whose fondest desires were centered on cruelty and decadence and using people up, then hanging them out to dry. That brief contact with her mind had so shaken and repelled him that he never got over it.
For all his powers as an adept, Paulie was a very gentle man and, in some peculiar ways, very naive. He genuinely liked people, and his heart was good. Intellectually, perhaps, he knew that there were sharks out there in life's often murky waters, but to know something on an intellectual level isn't quite the same as having it hit you in the gut. People are a lot like animals, and some of them are just plain bad to the bone. Some of them kill in order to survive, and some kill just because they like it. I've seen both sides of that coin, myself. There were times I killed because I had to, because the alternative would have been to starve, and there were times I killed because it made me feel good, because the thing that I was killing was the type of creature Paulie had encountered, one of those sharks who glide silently through life and feed on pain. A thing that needed killing.
No, I didn't tell Solo what I was thinking about his sister, for I was certain she was one who'd leveled Paulie. Solo seemed to have reached his own conclusions about her, and, besides, he was clearly nothing like her. If he had been, he wouldn't have gotten a lady like Lisa to write "Forever" on her photograph.
I realized, as the night stretched on, that Paulie had been right. Solo was one of the good guys. I wasn't surprised that the flouncy skirt down the hall, with her pink hairball, had wanted to get next to him. He was the kind of guy who'd attract females the way a bright light attracts moths, a guy with a quiet, inner strength who had nothing to prove to himself, and so he didn't bother trying to prove anything to anybody else, either. The kind of guy who knew how to listen in a way that made you know he cared, how to create a space around him that made you feel you were safe, a man's man who didn't come across with any macho bullshit, but with a firm and gentle, paternal sort of strength. Men respect a guy like that, because competition and one-upmanship aren't his priorities, and he's the kind of man you want standing at your shoulder if it hits the fan. And women can't resist such men, because they recognize them instantly for what they are, and they also know, having often learned the hard way, that there aren't many of them around. Somewhere, there was a lady who could give this guy her love and really mean it, and consider herself extremely lucky in the process, but she'd have a hard time getting to him, because he'd already said "forever" to a girl named Lisa, and he meant it.
It happens sometimes in your life that you meet someone and you know in fairly short order that this is friend material, and I don't mean close personal acquaintance, I mean the real thing. I knew it when I met Paulie, and now I realized it with Solo, too. But I wasn't really surprised. The two of them were both cut from the same cloth, and Paulie would never have given me, or Solo, a bum steer. I guess maybe I knew it back there at the cemetery, when I said good-bye to Paulie.
"Well, it's getting late," said Solo, finally, "I need to get some sleep. Feel free to make yourself comfortable any way you like. Is there anything you need?"
"No, I'm easy," I said. "Any couch or chair will do just fine, or 1 can take the floor, if you don't want me on the furniture."
"Forget it," he said. "Make yourself at home. There's a nice, comfortable sofa bed in the study. If you like, I could pull it out for you."
"Hey, I'm a cat, remember? I don't take up much room. I can just curl up on the cushions. I've had lots worse, you know."
He grinned. "Okay." And then he frowned. "Oh. Something just occurred to me. I... uh... don't have a litter box."
"No problem," I said. "I know how to use the toilet. Just make sure you leave the lid up and the seat down. I can flush and everything. Thanks for the thought."
Solo smiled. "Sure. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"A bowl of water somewhere out of the way would be nice."
"No problem. I'll leave it on the floor, by the sink."
"Thanks."
"Well... good night, Gomez."
"Night, Solo."
He got up, and I heard him running water in the sink to Mil up my bowl. I thought about what he'd said back at the cemetery, about how he and Paulie had always called each other by their last names. Now we were doing it. The skirt with the pink poodle had it wrong. He wasn't a Jay. He was definitely a Solo. And, in a lot of ways, so was I. Two solo loners, thrown together by a dead man. Strange way to start a friendship.
Three
SOLO was gone when I woke up in the morning, which took me by surprise. It takes someone pretty light on their feet not to wake up a cat. I made another note about the commissioner. He was obviously more than just some administrative Joe. He knew how to move quietly.
He also moved pretty damned early. I've gotten lazy in my old age, and I don't quite get up at the crack of dawn, but I'm not what you'd call a late sleeper, either. It was 6:00 a.m. and Solo was already out and about. He had left me a dish of milk and a can of tuna by my water bowl in the kitchen. He had also left me a note.
Gomez-
I went for a walk and then I'm going to hit the gym. I'll pick up some stuff on the way back. Should be back around nine.
Solo
Working out first thing in the morning? Well, the guy evidently liked to keep in shape. That was another point in his favor. I liked to keep in fighting trim, myself. It helps you stay spry, and you never know when you might need to call upon the old reserves. I lapped up some milk, then scarfed down the tuna, which killed a couple of minutes, and then I had to figure out what to do for the next three hours or so. Trouble was, there's not much to do all by yourself in a strange apartment. I suppose I could have turned on the boob tube by using the remote unit lying on the coffee table, but there was never much on television I found particularly interesting. I like watching old classic movies from the pre-Collapse days, which they ran every now and then, but only late at night. In the morning, all they seemed to have on were talk shows, and watching the idiots who hosted them always struck me as a hell of a lousy way to start the day.
I thought about doing some reading, but Solo's bookshelves were well above floor level, and while I could've gotten up there and gently pawed a book out, there was no way that I could hold it. It would've fallen to the floor, and 1 don't treat books that way. Besides, I hadn't asked Solo if it was okay for me to read his books. Some people take things like that for granted, but not me. I try to be polite.
That didn't leave a whole lot for me to do. A lot of cats would've been perfectly content to just curl up somewhere in a nice, sunny, warm spot and lie there listening to their fur grow, but not me. I'm the restless type and never got into the habit. There was a new city out there, waiting for me to discover it. The only problem was, how the hell would I get out of the apartment?
I couldn't exactly reach up and use the doorknob. Aside from which, the door was locked. I couldn'
t use a window, either, not when I was ten floors up. The sliding glass doors leading out to the balcony were closed, not that it would've done me much good if I could've gotten out there. I began to see certain serious disadvantages to this arrangement. I like to come and go as I please, and what I felt like doing at that moment, more than anything else, was going somewhere. Anywhere. I don't like being cooped up, and I was starting to feel closed in. I wanted out so bad, I could taste it.
I sat down for a moment to give the matter some careful consideration. Obviously, I wasn't about to get out on my own, and so I needed help. I thought about it for a few minutes, then went over to Solo's desk, where he had his phone and his computer.
Now I was never what you'd call computer literate, but, fortunately, I didn't really have to be. Most computers nowadays are made with thaumaturgically etched and animated chips, which vary greatly in their degree of sophistication. As usual, you get what you pay for. Just what they're capable of doing depends on how sophisticated the hardware and software is, but then I wasn't looking for anything terribly sophisticated. I didn't expect it to be able to open the front door. However, I did think there was a good chance it knew some phone numbers,
I jumped up on the desk and looked the unit over. It was a Hal 9000, whatever that meant. But the on-off switch was right there in plain sight, so I reached out with my paw and flicked it on. There was a soft pinging sound, and the monitor screen lit up with a nice, cool, blue color. Just a plain, blank, blue screen. That was refreshing. A lot of people go in for cute touches, like faces staring out at them, or nude pinups or what have you.
"Good morning, Solo," it said, which told me that it had a built-in clock, but no video capability that would allow it to see anything. It had a deep, cultured, mellow-sounding voice. Pleasant.
"Good morning," I said.
"You are not Solo. Who are you?"
"I'm a houseguest. Name's Gomez."
"I am not programmed with any information concerning houseguests. Access to this unit is restricted without the proper access code."
"Shit," I said.
"Incorrect code," said the computer.
Damn, I thought. Some computers had personalities that were all their own and you could reason with them, even have a pleasant conversation, but the ones on the lower end of the scale could be frustratingly simplistic. The damned things were so bloody literal-minded. And then I had a sudden flash of inspiration. I said, "Lisa."
"Access confirmed," said the computer. "How may I assist you, Gomez?"
"Are you programmed with a telephone directory?" I asked.
"Affirmative. Do you wish it displayed?"
"Can you do a search and let me know if a certain number's listed?"
"Affirmative. Which number do you wish me to initiate a search for?"
"How about the building manager?"
"Working.
A moment later, it had the number, and I asked for the display. Bingo. There was a building manager on the premises, in apartment 1-A, on the ground floor.
"Are you equipped with modem capability?" I asked.
"Affirmative. Do you wish me to dial the number?"
"Yeah, affirmative," I said. "Connect me."
"Working. ..."
A moment later, I could hear a phone ringing. It was picked up on the fifth ring. A sleepy-sounding voice said, "Logan Towers, can I help you?"
"Sorry to wake you up," I said. "My name is Gomez, and I'm a guest of Mr. Solo's up in 10-C. Mr. Solo's out, and I seem to be having a problem with the door. I can't get it open. I'd sure appreciate it if you could come up and see if you can open it for me."
"The door won't open?"
"No, I can't open it."
"What'd you say your name was again?"
"Gomez. In 10-C."
He gave out a weary groan. "Okay, give me a minute, I'll be right up."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
I had the computer disconnect, and then I shut it down, feeling very pleased with myself. The building manager would now come up and let me out of the apartment. There was no question but that I would appreciate it-the question was, would he? Somehow, I didn't think so. Don't ask me why, but it occurred to me that he might take exception to being dragged out of bed at about 6:00 a.m. to go upstairs and let a cat out of an apartment. I figured I'd better prepare myself for one rather irate customer.
He didn't take very long. He was up in only a few minutes, knocking at the door.
"Mr. Gomez?" The voice sounded fairly young.
"Yeah, that's right," I called out.
"Building manager, Mr. Gomez. The door seems to be locked."
"Yeah, I know. I can't get it open from in here. Try using your passkey."
I heard the key inserted into the lock, and then I heard it turn. The door opened and the guy stuck his head in. He was younger than I'd thought, about college age, with a thick shock of blond hair that hung over his forehead and down to his collar in the back, and wire-rimmed glasses. He had thrown on a black and gold University of Colorado sweat shirt and a pair of faded jeans. His bare feet were tucked into an old, worn pair of running shoes.
"There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with-" and then he noticed me sitting back on my haunches on the floor and his eyes glanced past me for a moment. "Mr. Gomez?"
"Down here, kid."
He looked at me and his eyes opened wide. "You're Mr. Gomez?"
"We can dispense with the mister part," I said. "I don't stand on formality. Look, I can see how you'd be ticked off and I don't blame you, but I couldn't reach the doorknob, much less turn it, and I was starting to get a little stir-crazy in here. I'm not used to living in apartments. There was no other way I could get out. Believe me, if there was, I wouldn't have bothered you."
He snorted with amusement and made a little dismissive motion with his hand. "Ah, it's all right. I've got an early class today, anyway. My alarm would've gone off in another hour. One less hour of sleep won't kill me."
"Well, that's awful damned decent of you," I replied, somewhat taken aback. I'd frankly expected the guy to get angry. And like I said, I wouldn't have blamed him one bit. "To be honest, I didn't expect you to be so understanding."
"What the hell, animals have rights, too," he said. "Oh, my name's Rick, by the way. Rick Daniels."
"It's a pleasure, Rick," I said, as we walked out of the apartment and he closed and locked the door behind us. "I'm Catseye Gomez. Just Gomez, to my friends."
"Catseye?"
"Yeah. It's on account of the turquoise eyeball."
"I noticed that. It's certainly different."
"Yeah, well, so am I."
He grinned. "I noticed that, too." We'd come up to the elevator and he pushed the call button. He pointed to a heavy ashtray and waste receptacle standing beneath the call buttons, one of those things that look a bit like heavy stone planters and have a sand tray on top. "I got building management to spring for some of these things, so now there's one on every floor. You can jump up on it and then you can reach the buttons."
"Very thoughtful," I said. "Thank you."
He shrugged. "I actually did it for the other thaumagenes in the building, only I didn't tell management that. If I had, they probably wouldn't have gone for it. Not that many of the tenants here smoke, but a few of them do have small thaumagenes. See, there's a limited pets policy here. Certain thaumagenes are allowed, but no large ones, you know, like dobras, and no ordinary animals, except for tropical fish and parakeets and like that."
The elevator arrived and we stepped in. The electronic-sounding voice said, "Floor, please."
"Three," said Rick.
The voice said, "Thank you," and the door closed.
I gave Rick a questioning glance. "Three?"
He smiled. "There's someone I think you should meet," he said.
"At this hour?"
"She'll be up," said Rick. "Oh, and while we're at it, let's get your voice print done."
"My voice print?"<
br />
He held up a finger, telling me to wait. "Elevator, voice print registration, guest category, indefinite."
"One moment... standing by."
He looked at me and said, "Just say your name and the apartment number when I say record, okay?"
"Okay."
"Record," said Rick.
I said, "Catseye Gomez, apartment 10-C."
"Catseye Gomez, apartment 10-C, guest status, indefinite," the elevator said. "Awaiting confirmation."
"Confirm," said Rick.
"Voice print recorded and confirmed," the elevator said. The doors slid open and it added, "Third floor."
We stepped out. "Now your voice print is registered with the security system," Rick explained. "Ordinarily, your host would do that, but I guess Mr. Solo didn't think of it. You can tell him I took care of it."
"Thanks," I said. "What happens if someone gets on who isn't registered?"
"Well, ordinarily, if a tenant is bringing a guest in, they'll do the registration. It can be for anywhere from twenty-four hours, after which it's canceled automatically, to indefinite status, the way we just recorded you. That way, it stays active until either Mr. Solo or I cancel it. If someone gets on who isn't registered, then the elevator automatically checks with the security desk, where somebody's always on duty. If the desk okays it, there's no problem. Otherwise, the elevator takes the occupant down to the basement and holds them there until either the police or security arrives."
