The Cat Megapack
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COPYRIGHT INFO
The Cat Megapack is copyright © 2013 by Wildside Press, LLC. Cover art © EveStock / Fotolia.
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Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidepress.com
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“Introduction: …In the Dark,” by Robert Reginald, is original to this book. Copyright © 2013 by Robert Reginald. Published by arrangement with the author.
“All Cats Are Gray,” by Andre Norton, was originally published in Fantastic Universe Science Fiction, August–September 1953.
“Seven Saw Murder,” by G. T. Fleming-Roberts, was originally published in G-Men Detective, Winter, 1945.
“The Hemingway Kittens,” by A. R. Morlan, was originally published in Shelf Life: Fantastic Stories Celebrating Bookstores, edited by Gary Ketter, Dreamhaven, 2002; and reprinted in The Hemingway Kittens and Other Feline Fancies and Fantasies, by A. R. Morlan, Borgo Press, 2013. Copyright © 2002, 2013 by A. R. Morlan. Reprinted by arrangement with the author.
“Out of Place,” by Pamela Sargent, was originally published in Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, October 1981. Copyright © 1981, 2013 by Pamela Sargent. Reprinted by arrangement with the author.
“Nipper…Nip…Nip,” by Robert Reginald, is original to this book. Copyright © 2013 by Robert Reginald. Published by arrangement with the author.
“The Cat,” by E. F. Benson, was originally published in The Illustrated London News, Nov. 27, 1905.
“Universes,” by A. R. Morlan, was originally published in Eldritch Tales, #29, 1993, and reprinted in different form in The Hemingway Kittens and Other Feline Fancies and Fantasies, by A. R. Morlan, Borgo Press, 2013. Copyright © 1993, 2013 by A. R. Morlan. Reprinted by arrangement with the author.
“Beast of the Tarn,” by John Russell Fearn, was originally published in Thrilling Mystery Stories, September 1937. Copyright © 1937 by John Russell Fearn; Copyright © 2002 by Philip Harbottle. Reprinted by arrangement with Cosmos Literary Agency.
“Mrs. Milligan’s Cat,” by Gary Lovisi, was originally published in Crafty Cat Crimes: 100 Tiny Cat Tale Mysteries, edited by Stefan Dziemianowicz, Robert Weinberg, and Martin H. Greenberg, Barnes & Noble Books, 2000; and reprinted in Attitude: Stories, by Gary Lovisi, Borgo Press, 2013. Copyright © 2000, 2013 by Gary Lovisi. Published by arrangement with the author.
“The Ballet of the Cats,” by Sydney J. Bounds, was originally published under the pen name David Somers in Fantasy Adventures #3, Wildside Press, 2003. Copyright © 2003 by Sydney J. Bounds. Reprinted by arrangement with Cosmos Literary Agency.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Over the last few years, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Reginald Bretnor, Mary Wickizer Burgess , Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
This volume was edited by primarily by Robert Reginald and Mary Wickizer Burgess, with some help from me.
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS
The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).
Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.
THE MEGAPACK SERIES
MYSTERY
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The Charlie Chan Megapack
The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack
The Detective Megapack
The Father Brown Megapack
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Mystery Megapack
The Penny Parker Megapack
The Pulp Fiction Megapack
The Victorian Mystery Megapack
The Wilkie Collins Megapack
GENERAL INTEREST
The Adventure Megapack
The Baseball Megapack
The Christmas Megapack
The Second Christmas Megapack
The Classic American Short Stories Megapack
The Classic Humor Megapack
The Military Megapack
SCIENCE FICTION, FANTASY, HORROR
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The Edward Bellamy Megapack
The E.F. Benson Megapack
The Second E.F. Benson Megapack
The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack
The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack
The Philip K. Dick Megapack
The Ghost Story Megapack
The Second Ghost Story Megapack
The Third Ghost Story Megapack
The Horror Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Murray Leinster Megapack
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack
The Macabre Megapack
The Second Macabre Megapack
The Martian Megapack
The Mummy Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The Pinocchio Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Pulp Fiction Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The First Science Fiction Megapack
The Second Science Fiction Megapack
The Third Science Fiction Megapack
The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack
The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack
The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack
The Steampunk Megapack
The Vampire Megapack
The Werewolf Megapack
The Wizard of Oz Megapack
WESTERNS
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The Max Brand Megapack
The Buffalo Bill Megapack
The Cowboy Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Western Megapack
The Second Western Megapack
The Wizard of Oz Megapack
YOUNG ADULT
The Boys’ Adventure Megapack
The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack
The G.A. Henty Megapack
The Rover Boys Megapack
The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack
The Tom Swift Megapack
AUTHOR MEGAPACKS
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The Edward Bellamy Megapack
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The E.F. Benson Megapack
The Second E.F. Benson Megapack
The Max Brand Megapack
The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack
The Wilkie Collins Megapack
The Philip K. Dick Megapack
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Anna Katharine Green Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Murray Leinster Megapack
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
INTRODUCTION: …IN THE DARK, by Robert Reginald
It may be true that all cats are gray in the dark, but the twenty-five stories and two poems in this anthology feature pieces both dark and light, with nary a gray one among them. “Cat” is defined herein in the broadest possible terms, including all feline creatures of whatever size and situation—but mostly, we’re still dealing with the domestic house cat, Felis silvestris catus.
Humans who keep pets tend to fixate either on cats and dogs, but rarely have both. Most folks will at least tolerate dogs, even if they don’t want them sharing their households; but there’s a certain percentage of the population that actively hates cats, often for irrational reasons. You’ll find both cat lovers and haters represented within the virtual pages of this Megapack.
The mysterious, almost indefinable nature of the cat has often intrigued and inspired writers of popular literature. This anthology features cats in science fiction, horror, mystery, young adult, western, and mythological settings, among others. Several of the tales are told from the cat’s point of view. Some of the kitties are agents of good, and others of evil; but most just provide interesting glimpses into the lives of felines and their “owners” (who actually owns whom is one of the enduring [and unaswerable] questions posed by those who choose to share their lives with these mysterious creatures).
Anyone who loves cats and their antics and their natures will find something of interest here. Some of the stories date back 100 years or more; but even most of those are by fairly well-known writers. I’ve also seeded this book with a number of reprinted pieces from current-day authors, one of whom (A. R. Morlan) has recently published a collection of cat stories for Borgo Press.
This is the first of what I hope will become a continuing series of cat story anthologies. If you want to see more of these—if you have story suggestions—please let us know. In the meantime, enjoy!—
—Robert Reginald, 29 June 2013
SEVEN SAW MURDER, by G. T. Fleming-Roberts
Julie found Pinkney Street mildly terrifying that night. It was a narrow street filled with old people who shut themselves up at dusk.
The street lamps came at every other intersection, and their yellow rays were blunted from thrusting at impenetrable darkness—a darkness that was one part night and another part broad-leafed maples spaced precisely along the sidewalk.
Julie was afraid of the dark and not much else. She was not afraid of the sort of men who step from doorways and follow women. Julie had been a model in Chicago and then a “cover girl” before she had married Harvey.
She knew something about men who became annoying and what to do about it. But she was afraid of darkness and the unseen things and even the small sounds they made.
She wasn’t afraid of Harvey’s Uncle Charley Pedlow; wasn’t afraid to ask Uncle Charley to lend Harvey some money. Charley Pedlow had an enormous amount of money, even though he lived on Pinkney Street in what was just a degree better than a shack. Harvey had said that he didn’t know just how much money Uncle Charley had, but he was sure it was more than some of the social reformers thought any man ought to have.
Harvey wouldn’t ask his uncle for money. Harvey’s pride got in the way. Besides, he had several times made it clear that he had no use for the man because of his reputation for selfishness, mercilessness in financial deals, and his annoying eccentricity.
Julie smiled as she thought of Harvey and walked briskly across an unlighted intersection. Randolph Street, that was. Now you counted four houses from the corner, and Uncle Charley’s was the one that looked like a squat “A” on top of a flat “H.”
The house sat thirty feet back from the sidewalk. Two maples dwarfed it, shrouded it, reduced it to something you could pass every day without noticing.
Julie had never been there, but Harvey had pointed it out to her. She had met Uncle Charley just twice—both times unavoidably.
She stopped on the sidewalk and stared in at the house. Somebody was standing on the stoop at the south side of Uncle Charley’s door—a scarcely discernible figure pancaked against the wall, watching her.
“Is that you, Mr. Pedlow?” she called nervously.
The shadowy figure moved a little. Something metallic dropped to the stoop, rang like a cracked bell. Whoever it was, there on the stoop, turned and ran into the shadows along the south side of the house.
Julie shivered and pulled the silver fox pelts closer about her throat. She had worn the furs chiefly because of what they did for her morale, but she was glad of them now for another reason; the June night had suddenly become chill.
She clutched her large handbag under her arm, drew a long breath, took resolute steps up the brick approach walk and onto the stoop. She could find no bell-push in the dark, so she knocked.
In a little while, she heard footsteps through the paper-thin walls. There was a slim show of yellow light, soon blotted out by the advancing figure of a man. A key turned over, a knob rattled, and the door opened far enough to allow a shaggy gray head to thrust out.
Julie spoke hurriedly.
“Mr. Pedlow. I’m Harvey’s wife.”
“Well, well!” Uncle Charley sounded highly pleased. He opened the door fully, clicked on the ceiling light of the living room.
He was a tall, gaunt man of fifty-five. His shoulders were pulled down to a slope by wide blue suspenders. He wore brown wool pants so much larger around the waist than he was that there was a sort of Kangaroo pouch in front. He clung to the door frame and swayed over Julie. He was chuckling and she realized he’d been drinking.
“I don’t remember your name,” he said.
“Julie.”
“Sure,” he said with an attempt at heartiness. “Sure, it’s Julie. You come right in, Julie, and have a chair.” He backed unsteadily, spread his arms in a wide gesture.
“Thanks,” she said, and then she added, “Uncle Charley.”
There was one chair to have, a lopsided platform rocker. An oak library table occupied the center of the floor. On it was a pottery lamp connected to the ceiling fixture. A couch covered with artificial leather was the only other piece of furniture. The ragged carpet on the floor was felted with cat hairs.
Of course, there were cats. Julie counted five of the creatures without trying, and then there were two more. She remembered that one of the things Harvey held against Uncle Charley was his love of cats.
“Nasty little insincere animals, cats,” was Harvey’s opinion. “They’ll go to anybody who feeds them.”
Julie rather liked cats, but not to the extent that Uncle Charley did. Seven cats, ranging from a half-grown calico that was pretending that Julie was frightening, to a huge gray Tom with one eye and a chewed ear.
“Like cats, Julie?” Uncle Charley asked.
She said that she did. She took her eyes off the ugly gray tom who was acting coy around the platform of the rocker, and looked at Uncle Charley.
Uncle Charley wasn’t exactly beautiful. He had yellowish eyes like the yellow cat that was rubbing on his pants legs. A four-day gray beard stubble sprouted from his hollow cheeks. His nose was almost thin enough to have an edge on it.
Uncle Charley looked right back at her and grinned. It wasn’t exactly a nice grin. The grin somehow r
eminded her of the shadowy figure she had seen lurking around Uncle Charley’s front door.
“By the way, did someone leave here just before I arrived?” she queried.
“Leave?” Uncle Charley shook his head. He kept looking at her. She wasn’t sorry that he found her attractive. But there was such a thing as carrying appreciation too far. She pulled her fur a little closer around her neck and gave the navy blue skirt of her suit a prim tug.
“I came to talk to you about Harvey,” she said quickly. “Harvey and his new business.”
“Harvey?” Uncle Charley made a face as though he wasn’t pleased to be reminded of Harvey. “Oh, Harvey.” He winked at Julie. “Which reminds me—”
He went stumbling back through the cased opening into the dining room. A black cat lurked there in the shadows and yowled. Uncle Charley opened the kitchen door and disappeared into the room beyond.
A white cat came out of the dining room and straight toward Julie as if bent on something important. It sat down six feet in front of the patent rocker and began to wash its face.
The calico half-kitten came romping out from the couch, its hind parts making more rapid progress than its forelegs. An alley tiger intercepted the calico and batted it for a loop. The ugly gray cat rubbed against Julie’s ankles and purred like Harvey’s electric razor on a cold morning. He left short gray hairs clinging to the smooth surface of Julie’s stockings.
“Go away,” she said to the battle-scarred veteran, and suppressed an uneasy shudder. For no reason at all, her nerves were tight with strain.
Uncle Charley emerged from the kitchen with two fingers stuck down inside two water tumblers he was carrying and a squat bottle of brandy in his other hand.
“Speaking of Harvey always reminds me to take a drink,” he said. “A puritan, Harvey.”
“You just don’t know him,” Julie said. “I don’t think you ever tried very hard to know him.”
“Ha!” Uncle Charley put the glasses down on the library table and poured a generous portion into each tumbler. “Here you are, Julie.” He handed her a glass. “This is mighty good stuff.”
It was, in spite of the memory of Uncle Charley’s none-too-clean fingers. It tasted like the brandy that was served in the Stork Club.