MAGICATS!

by Gardner Dozoi

  "I was en route to the Sudan in the wake of the Khartoum disaster and was bracing myself, so to speak, in the bar of Shepheard's. I struck up a conversation with an archaeologist fellow just off a dig around Memphis, and the talk turned, naturally, to Egyptian mysteries. The thing that continually astonished him, he said, was the absolute thoroughness of the ancient Egyptian mind. Once having decided a thing was ritualistically necessary, they admitted of no deviation in carrying it out.

  "He instanced cats. We know in what high esteem the Egyptians held cats. If held in high esteem, they must be mummified after death; and so they were. All of them, or nearly all. Carried to their tombs with the bereaved family weeping behind, put away with favorite toys and food for the afterlife journey. Not long ago, he said, some three hundred thousand mummified cats were uncovered at Beni Hassan. An entire cat necropolis, unviolated for centuries.

  "And then he told me something which gave me pause. More than pause. He said that, once uncovered, all those cats were disinterred and shipped to England. Every last one."

  "Good Lord. Why?"

  "I have no idea. They were not, after all, the Elgin Marbles. This seemed to have been the response when they arrived at Liverpool, because not a single museum or collector of antiquities displayed the slightest interest. The whole lot had to be sold off to pay a rather large shipping bill."

  "Sold off? To whom, in God's name?"

  "To a Cheshire agricultural firm. Who proceeded to chop up the lot and resell it. To the local farmers, my dear boy. To use as fertilizer."

  Sir Jeffrey stared deeply into his nearly untouched brandy, watching the legs it made on the side of the glass, as though he lead secrets there. "Now the scientific mind may be able to believe," he said at last, "that three hundred thousand cats, aeons old, wrapped lovingly in winding cloths and put to rest with spices and with spells, may be exhumed from a distant land—and from a distant past as well—and minced into the loam of Cheshire, and it will all have no result but grain. I am not certain. Not certain at all."

  The smoking room of the Travellers' Club was deserted now, except for the weary, unlaid ghost of Barnett. Above us on the wall the mounted heads of exotic animals were shadowed and nearly unnamable; one felt that they had just then thrust their coal-smoked and glass-eyed heads through the wall, seeking something, and that just the other side of the wall stood their vast and unimaginable bodies. Seeking what? The members, long dead as well, who had slain them and brought them to this?

  "You've been in Egypt," Sir Jeffrey said.

  "Briefly."

  "I have always thought that Egyptian women were among the world's most beautiful."

  "Certainly their eyes are stunning. With the veil, of course, one sees little else."

  "I spoke specifically of those circumstances when they are without the veil. In all senses."

  "Yes."

  "Depilated, many of them." He spoke in a small, dreamy voice, as though he observed long-past scenes. "A thing I have always found—intriguing. To say the least." He sighed deeply; he tugged down his waistcoat, preparatory to rising; he replaced his eyeglass. He was himself again. "Do you suppose," he said, "that such a thing as a cab could be found at this hour? Well, let us see."

  "By the way," I asked when we parted, "whatever came of the wives' petition for an exorcism?"

  "I believe the bishop sent it on to Rome for consideration. The Vatican, you know, does not move hastily on these things. For all I know, it may still be pending."

  A Little Intelligence

  By Randall Garrett

  Randall Garrett is probably best known as the author of the popular "Lord Darcy" stories, about an alternative twentieth century world where magic works and the Plantagenet Emperor John IV rules a widespread and prosperous Anglo-French Empire upon which the sun has never set. The "Lord Darcy" series includes the well-known novel Too Many Magicians, and the short-story collections Murder and Magic and Lord Darcy Investigates. Garrett is also the author, along with wife Vicky Ann Heydron, of the Gandalara Cycle series, consisting of The Steel of Raithskar, The Glass of Dyskornis, and The Bronze of Eddarta. His short fiction was recently collected in The Best of Randall Garrett.

  In the "Lord Darcy" stories, Garrett successfully blended the mystery story with fantasy, creating a detective who uses magic as one of his criminological tools; here, Garrett instead blends the traditional tale of detection with science fiction to create a suspenseful SF mystery centered around a cat, a Sister of the Order of the Holy Nativity, and some very cantankerous aliens . . . a mystery you may be able to solve, if—like the story's protagonist—you have "A Little Intelligence."

  Sister Mary Magdalene felt apprehensive. She glanced worriedly at the priest facing her and said, "But—I don't understand. Why quarter the aliens here?"

  Her gesture took in her office, the monastery, the convent, the school, the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament. "Because," said Father Destry patronizingly, "there is nothing here for them to learn."

  The nun eyed Father Destry uneasily. The single votive candle flickering before the statue of the Virgin in the wall niche beside him cast odd shadows over his craggy, unhandsome face. She said, "You mean that the beings of Capella IX are so well versed in the teachings of the Church that they couldn't even learn anything here?" She added with innocent sarcasm, "My, how wonderful for them!"

  "Not quite, Sister. The Earth Government isn't worried about the chances of the Pogatha learning anything about the Church. But the Pogatha would be hard put to learn anything about Terrestrial science in a Cathedral."

  "The walls are full of gadgets," she said, keeping her voice flat "Vestment color controls, sound suppressor fields for the confessionals, illumination—"

  "I know, I know," the priest interrupted testily. "I'm talking. specifically about military information. And I don't expect them to tear down our walls to learn the secrets of the vestment color controls."

  Sister Mary Magdalene shrugged. She had been deliberately baiting Father Destry, and she realized she was taking out on him her resentment against the government for having dumped a delegation of alien beings into her otherwise peaceful life.

  "I see," she said. "While the—Pogatha?—Pogatha delegation is here, they're to be kept within the cathedral grounds. The Earth government is assuming they'll be safe here."

  "Not only that, but the Pogatha themselves will feel safer here. They know Terrestrial feelings still run high since the war, and they know there could be no violence here. The Government wanted to keep them in a big hotel somewhere—a place that would be as secure as any. But the Pogatha would have none of it."

  "And one last question, Father. Why does it fall to the Sisters of the Holy Nativity to put them up? Why can't the Holy Cross Fathers take care of them? I mean—really, I understand that they're alien beings, but they are humanoid—"

  "Quite so. They are females."

  The nun's eyebrows rose. "They are?"

  Father Destry blushed faintly. "I won't go into the biology of Capella IX, partly because I don't completely understand it myself. But they do have a matriarchal society. They are oviparous mammals, but the rearing of children is always left to the males, the physically weaker sex. The fighters and diplomats are definitely female."

  "In that case"—the nun shrugged in defeat—"if those are the Bishop's wishes, I'll see that they're carried out. I'll make the necessary arrangements." She glanced at her wristwatch and said curtly, "It's almost time for Vespers, Father."

  The priest rose. "The Government is preparing a brochure on the—ah—physical needs of the Pogatha. I'll have it sent to you as soon as it arrives."

  "Care and Feeding of Aliens, eh? Very well, Father. I'll do my best."

  "I'm sure you will, Sister." He looked down at his hands as though suddenly unsure of himself. "I know this may be a hard job, Sister, but"—he looked up, smiling suddenly—"you'll make it. The prayers of everyone here will be with you."

  "Thank you, Father."
>
  The priest turned and walked out. Sister Mary Magdalene, unhappily conscious that though she respected Father Destry's learning and piety she could feel no warmth toward him as a person, watched him depart. As he reached the door a lithe coal-black shape padded over to him and rubbed itself lingeringly against the priest's legs.

  Father Destry smiled at the cat, but it was a hollow, artificial smile. The priest did not enjoy the affections of Sister Mary Magdalene's pet. He closed the office door.

  The cat leaped to the top of the nun's desk.

  "Miaou," it said calmly.

  "Exactly, Felicity," said Sister Mary Magdalene.

  Sister Mary Magdalene spent the next two days reading the digests of the war news. She had not, she was forced to admit, kept up with the war as much as she might have. Granted, a nun was supposed to have renounced the devil, the flesh and the world, but it was sometimes a good idea to check up and see what all three were up to.

  When the Government brochure came, she studied it carefully, trying to get a complete picture of the alien race that Earth was fighting. If she was going to have to coddle them, she was going to have to know them.

  The beginning of the war was shrouded in mystery. Earth forces had landed on Capella IX 30 years before and had found a civilization two centuries behind that of Earth, technologically speaking. During the next 20 years, the Pogatha had managed to beg, borrow and steal enough technology from the Earth colonies to almost catch up. And then someone had blundered.

  There had been an "incident"—and a shooting war had begun. The Pogatha feeling, late in arising, was that Earthmen had no right settling on Capella IX; they were aliens who must he driven off. The colonists refused to abandon 20 years' effort without a fight.

  It was a queer war. The colonists, badly outnumbered, had the advantage of technological superiority. On the other hand, they were hindered by the necessity of maintaining a supply line 42 light-years long, which the Pogatha could and did disrupt. The colonists were still dependent on Earth for war material and certain supplies.

  The war had waggled back and forth for nearly ten years without any definite advantage to either side. Thermonuclear weapons had not been used, since they would leave only a shattered planet of no use to anyone.

  Both sides were weary; both sides wanted to quit, if it could be done without either side losing too much face. Human beings had an advantage in that Earth itself was still whole, but the Pogatha had an almost equal advantage in the length of the colonists' supply lines. Earth would win eventually; that seemed obvious. But at what cost? In the end, Earth would be forced to smash the entire Pogatha civilization. And they did not want to do that.

  There was an element of pride in the Pogatha viewpoint. They asked themselves: would not suicide be better than ignominious slaughter at the hands of the alien Earthmen? Unless a peace with honor could be negotiated, the Pogatha would fight to the last Pogath, and would quite likely use thermonuclear bombs in a final blaze of self-destructive glory.

  The four Pogatha who were coming to the little convent of the Cathedral Chapter of the Sisters of the Holy Nativity were negotiators that had to be handled with the utmost care. Sister Mary Magdalene was no military expert, and she was not an interstellar diplomat, but she knew that the final disposition of a world might rest with her. It was a heavy cross to bear for a woman who had spent 20 years of her life as a nun.

  Sister Mary Magdalene turned her school duties over to Sister Angela. There was mild regret involved in this; one of Sister Mary Magdalene's joys had been teaching the dramatics class in the parochial high school. They had been preparing a performance of Murder in the Cathedral for the following month. Well, Sister Angela could handle it well enough.

  The supplies necessary for the well-being of the Pogatha were sent by the government, and they consisted mostly of captured goods. A cookbook translated by government experts came with the food, along with a note: "These foods are not for human consumption. Since they are canned, there is no need to season them. Under no circumstances try to mix them with Terrestrial foods. Where water is called for, use only distilled water, never tap water. For other liquids, use only those provided."

  There was also a book of etiquette and table settings for four. The Pogatha would eat alone. There would be no diplomatic banquets here. Sister Mary Magdalene found out why when she went, accompanied by Felicity, to talk to the sisters who prepared the meals for the convent.

  Sister Elizabeth was a plumpish, smiling woman who loved cooking and good food and who ruled her domain with an almost queenly air. Looking like a contented plump hausfrau in her kitchen uniform, she smiled as Sister Mary Magdalene came in.

  "Good morning, Sister."

  "Have you opened any of the Pogatha food cans yet?" the sister-in-charge wanted to know.

  "I didn't know whether I should," Sister Elizabeth said. Seeing Felicity prowling on the worktable in search of scraps of food, she goodnaturedly waved at the cat and said, "Stay away from there, Felicity! That's lunch!"

  The cat glowered at her and leaped to the floor.

  Sister Mary Magdalene said, "I'd like to have a look at the stuff they're going to eat. Suppose you pick a can at random and we'll open it up."

  Sister Elizabeth nodded and went into the storeroom. She returned carrying an ordinary-looking can. Its label was covered with queer script, and it bore a picture of a repulsive-looking little animal. Above the label was pasted a smaller label which real, in Roman characters, vagha.

  Sister Mary Magdalene flipped open the translated Pogatha cookbook and ran her finger along the "V" section of the index. Finding her reference, she turned the pages and read. After a moment she announced, "It's supposed to be something like rabbit stew. Go ahead and open it."

  Sister Elizabeth put it in the opener and pressed the starter. The blade bit in. The top of the can lifted.

  "Whoof!" said Sister Mary Magdalene.

  "Ugh!" said Sister Elizabeth.

  Even Felicity, who had been so interested that she had jumped up to the table to watch the proceedings, wrinkled her bewhiskered nose in disgust and backed away.

  "It's spoiled," Sister Elizabeth said sadly.

  But the odor was not quite that of decay. True, there was a background of Limburger cheese overlaid with musk, but this was punctuated pungently with something that smelled like a cross between butyl mercaptan and ammonia.

  "No," said Sister Mary Magdalene unhappily. "It says in the book that the foods have distinctive odors."

  "With the accent on the stinc. Do you mean I have to prepare stuff like that in my kitchen?"

  "I'm afraid so," said Sister Mary Magdalene.

  "But everything else will smell like that! It'll absolutely ruin everything!"

  "You'll just have to keep our own food covered. And remember that ours smells just as bad to them."

  Sister Elizabeth nodded, tightlipped, the joviality gone from her face. Now she, too, had her cross to bear.

  The appearance of the Pogatha, when they finally arrived, did not shock Sister Mary Magdalene; she had been prepared for the sight of ugly caricatures of human beings by the photographs in the brochure. Nor was she bothered by the faint aroma, not after the much stronger smell of the can of stew. But to have one of them address her in nearly perfect English almost floored her. Somehow she had simply not prepared herself for intelligent speech from alien lips.

  Father Destry had brought them in from the spaceport, along with the two Earthmen who were their honor escort. She had been watching the courtyard through the window of her office, and had thought she was quite prepared for them when Father Destry escorted them into the office.

  "Sister Mary Magdalene, permit me to introduce our guests. This is Vor Nollig, chief diplomat, and her assistants: Vor Betla, Vor Gontakel and Vor Vun."

  And Vor Nollig said, "I am honored, Sister."

  The voice was deep, like that of a man's, and there was certainly nothing effeminate about these creatures. The nun, in
her surprise, could only choke out a hasty: "Thank you." Then she stood back, trying to keep a pleasant smile on her face while the others spoke their pieces.

  They were not tall—no taller than Sister Mary Magdalene's own five five—but they were massively built. Their clothing was full and bright-colored. And, in spite of their alienness, the nun could tell them apart with no difficulty. Vor Nollig and Vor Betla had skins of a vivid cobalt-blue color. Vor Gontakel was green, while Vor Vun was yellow.

  The Government brochure, Sister Mary Magdalene recalled, had remarked that the Pogatha had races that differed from each other as did the races of Earth. The blue color was a pigment, while the yellow color was the color of their blood—thus giving the Pogatha a range of yellow-green-blue shades according to the varying amount of pigment in the skin.

  In an odd parallel to Earth history, the Blues had long been the dominant race, holding the others in subjection. It had been less than a century ago that the Yellows had been released from slavery, and the Greens were still poverty-stricken underdogs. Only the coming of the Earthmen had brought the three races together in a common cause.

  Father Destry was introducing the two Earthmen.

  ". . . Secretary Masterson and Secretary Bass. They will be staying at the Holy Cross Monastery during the negotiations."

  Sister Mary Magdalene had recovered her composure by now. Looking around with a sweeping gesture that took in Father Destry, the four aliens, the stocky Masterson and the elongated Bass, she said, "Won't you all sit down?"

  "You are most gracious," said Vor Nollig brusquely, "but our trip has been a long one, and we are most anxious to—ah—the word—freshen up, is it?"

  The nun nodded. "I'll show you to your rooms."

  "You are most kind."

  "I think you'll find everything prepared. If you don't, just ask for whatever you'll need."

  She left the men in her office and escorted the four Pogatha outside, across to the part of the convent where they would be staying. When the aliens were installed in their rooms, Sister Mary Magdalene returned to her office and was surprised to find Father Destry and the two U.N. Secretaries still there. She had supposed that the priest would have taken the U.N. men over to the monastery.