"Now?"
"No. Lunchtime now. Breakfast was hearty but it is now past fourteen. Feel like eating?"
"It's good exercise," I assented. "How about the Sloppy Joe on Appian Way near ring one-oh-five? Or do you want haute cuisine?"
"A Sloppy Joe is okay; I'm not a fussy eater, dear. But I don't think we should go outside for lunch; we might not be able to get back in."
"Why not? You do a slick job of bypassing a change in a door combo."
"Richard, it might not be that easy again. They simply haven't noticed, as yet, that locking me out didn't work. But when they do- They can weld a steel plate across the doorway if that is what it takes. Not that it will, as I shan't fight being moved any more than you did. Let's eat lunch; then I'll pack. What would you like?"
It turned out that Gwen had salvaged from my buttery gourmet items I had in freeze or in sterile pack. I do stock unusual viands. How can you know ahead of time, when working on a story in the middle of the night, that you are going to suffer a craving for a clam sundae? It is merely prudent to have materials on hand. Otherwise you could be tempted to stop work and leave your monastic seclusion in order to find an item you must have-and that way lies bankruptcy.
Gwen laid out a buffet of her supplies and mine-ours, I should say-and we ate while discussing our next move... for move we must. I told her that I intended to call dear Mr. Middlegaff as soon as we finished lunch.
She looked thoughtful. "I had better pack first."
"If you wish. But why?"
"Richard, we have leprosy; that's evident. I think it must be connected with the killing of Schultz. But we don't know. Whatever the cause, when we stick our heads outside, I had better have my things ready just as yours are; we may not get back in." She nodded at her terminal, still shining with the message: ALL SERVICES SUSPENDED. "Putting that terminal back into service would be more than a matter of wheedling a few solenoids, since the computer itself is elsewhere. So we can't beard Mr. Middlegaff from this compartment. Therefore we must do everything we need to do here before we go out that door."
"While you pack, I can duck out to call him."
"Over my dead body!"
"Huh? Gwen, be reasonable."
"Reasonable I emphatically am. Richard Colin, you are my brand-new bridegroom; I intend to get years and years of wear out of you. While this trouble is going on, I am not letting you out of my sight. You might disappear like Mr. Schultz. Beloved, if they shoot you, they are going to have to shoot me first."
I attempted to reason with her; she put her hands over her ears. "I won't argue it, I can't hear you, I'm not listening!" She uncovered her ears. "Come help me pack. Please."
"Yes, dear."
Gwen packed in less time than I had taken, yet my help consisted mostly of keeping out of her way. I'm not too used to living with females; military service is not conducive to homelife and I had tended to avoid marriage, aside from short-term contracts with Amazon comrades-contracts automatically canceled by orders for change of duty. After I reached field grade I had had female orderlies a couple or six times- but I don't suppose that relationship is much like civilian marriage, either.
What I'm trying to say is that, despite having written many thousands of words of love-confession stories under a hundred-odd female pen names, I don't know much about women. When I was learning the writing scam, I pointed this out to the editor who bought from me these sin, suffer, and repent stories. The editor was Evelyn Fingerhut, a glum middle-aged man with a bald spot, a tic, and a permanent cigar.
He grunted. "Don't try to leam anything about women; it would handicap you."
"But these are supposed to be true stories," I objected.
"They are true stories; every one of them is accompanied by a sworn statement: "This story is based on fact.'" He jerked a thumb at the manuscript I had just brought in. "You've got a 'Fact' slip clipped to that one. Are you trying to tell me it ain't so? Don't you want to get paid?"
Yes, I wanted to be paid. To me the acme of prose style is exemplified by that simple, graceful clause: "Pay to the order of-" I answered hastily, "Well, as a matter of fact that story is no problem. I didn't actually know the woman but my mother told me all about her-it was a girl she had gone to school with. This girl did indeed marry her mother's younger brother. She was already pregnant when the truth was discovered... and then she was faced with that horrible dilemma just as I've told it: the sin of abortion, or the tragedy of an incest baby with a possibility of two heads and no chin. All fact, Evelyn, but I trimmed it a bit in telling it. It turned out that Beth Lou was no blood relation to her uncle-and that's the way I wrote it-but also her baby was no relation to her husband. That part I left out."
"So write it again and leave that part in and the other part out. Just be sure to change the names and places; I don't want any complaints."
At a later time I did so and sold that version to him also, but never did get around to telling Fingerhut that it hadn't happened to a schoolmate of my mother, but was something I had cribbed from a book belonging to my Aunt Abby: the librettos of The Ring Cycle by Richard Wagner, who should have stuck to composing music and found himself a W. S. Gilbert to write his librettos; Wagner was a terrible writer.
But his preposterous plots were just right for the true confessions trade... toned down a little, not quite so hard core- and, of course, different names and locales. I didn't steal them. Or not quite. They are all in the public domain today, copyrights expired, and besides, Wagner stole those plots in the first place.
I could have made a soft living on nothing but Wagnerian plots. But I got bored with it. When Fingerhut retired and bought a turkey ranch, I quit the confession business and started writing war stories. This was more difficult-for a time I almost starved-because military matters I do know something about, and that (as Fingerhut had pointed out) is a handicap.
After a while I learned to suppress what I knew, not let it get in the way of the story. But I never had that trouble with confession stories as neither Fingerhut, nor I, nor Wagner, knew anything at all about women.
Especially about Gwen. Somewhere I had acquired the conviction that women need at least seven pack mules to travel. Or their equivalent in big suitcases. And of course women are by nature disorganized. So I believed.
Gwen moved out of her compartment with just one large case of clothes, smaller than my duffel bag, with every garment neatly folded, and one smaller case of-well, non-clothes. Things.
She lined up our chattels-duffel bag, bundle, large case, small case, her purse, my cane, bonsai tree-and looked at them. "I think I can work out a way," she said, "for us to handle all of them at once."
"I don't see how," I objected, "with only two hands apiece. I had better order a freight cage."
"If you wish, Richard."
"I will." I turned toward her terminal... and stopped. "Uh-"
Gwen gave full attention to our little maple tree.
"Uh-" I repeated. "Gwen, you're going to have to loosen up. I'll slide out and find that nearest terminal booth, then come back-"
"No, Richard."
"Huh? Just long enough to-"
"No, Richard."
I heaved a sigh. "What's your solution?"
"Richard, I will agree to any course of action that does not involve us being separated. Leave everything inside this compartment and hope that we can get back in-that's one way. Place everything just outside the door and leave it, while we go to order a freight cage-and call Mr. Middlegaff-that's another way."
"And have it all disappear while we are gone. Or are there no two-legged rats in this neighborhood?" I was being sarcastic. Every habitat in space has its nightwalkers, invisible habitants who cannot afford to remain in space but who evade being returned to Earth. In Golden Rule I suspect that the management spaced them when they caught them... although there were darker rumors, ones that caused me to avoid all sorts of ground pork.
"There is still a third way, sir, adequate for movi
ng us as far as that terminal booth. That being as far as we can go until the housing office gives us a new assignment. Once we know our new address we can call for a cage and wait for it.
"The booth is only a short distance. Sir, earlier you said you could carry both your bag and your bundle, with your cane strapped to your bag. For this short distance I agree to that. I can carry both my cases, one in each hand, with the strap of my purse let out so that I can sling it over my shoulder.
"The only problem then is the little tree. Richard, you've seen pictures in National Geographic of native girls carrying bundles on their heads?" She didn't wait for me to agree; she picked up the little potted tree, placed it atop her head, took her hands away, smiled at me, and sank down, bending only her knees, spine straight and bearing erect-picked up her two cases.
She walked the length of her compartment, turned and faced me. I applauded.
"Thank you, sir. Just one thing more. The walkways arc sometimes crowded. If someone jostles me, I'll do this." She simulated staggering from being bumped, dropped both cases, caught the bonsai as it fell, put it back on top her head, again picked up her luggage. "Like that."
"And I'll drop my bags and grab my cane and beat him with it. The jerk who jostled you. Not to death. Just a reprimand." I added, "Assuming that the miscreant is male and of mature years. If not, I'll make the punishment fit the criminal."
"I'm sure you will, dear. But, truly, I don't think anyone will jostle me, as you will be walking in front of me, breaking trail. All right?"
"All right. Except that you should strip to the waist."
"Really?"
"All pictures of that sort in National Geographic always show the women stripped to the waist. That's why they print them."
"All right if you say to. Although I'm not really endowed for that."
"Quit fishing for compliments, monkey face; you do all right. But you're much too good for the common people, so keep your shirt on."
"I don't mind. If you really think I should."
"You're too willing. Do as you please but I am not, repeat not, urging you to. Are all women exhibitionists?"
"Yes."
The discussion ended because her door signal sounded. She looked surprised. I said, "Let me," and stepped to the door, touched the voice button. "Yes?"
"Message from the Manager!"
I took my finger off the voice button, looked at Gwen. "Shall I open up?"
"I think we must."
I touched the dilator button; the door spread open. A man in a proctor's uniform stepped inside; I let the door snap back. He shoved a clipboard at me. "Sign here. Senator." Then he pulled it back. "Say, you are the Senator from Standard Oil, ain't you?"
V
"He is one of those people who would be enormously improved by death.**
H.H.MUNRO 1870-1916
I said, "You have that backwards. Who are you? Identify yourself."
"Hunh? If you ain't the Senator, forget it; I got the wrong address." He started to back out and bumped his behind against the door-looked startled and turned his head, reached for the dilator button.
I slapped his hand down. "I told you to identify yourself. That clown suit you're wearing is no identification; I want to see your credentials. Gwen! Cover him!"
"Right, Senator!"
He reached for a hip pocket, made a fast draw. Gwen kicked whatever it was out of his hand; I chopped him in the left side of his neck. His clipboard went flying and down he went, falling with the curiously graceful leisureliness of low gravity.
I knelt by him. "Keep him covered, Gwen."
"One second. Senator-watch him!" I pulled back and waited. She went on, "Okay now. But don't get in my line of fire. please."
"Roger wilco." I kept my eyes on our guest, collapsed loosely on the deck. His awkward posture seemed to say that he was unconscious. Nevertheless there was a chance that he was shamming; I had not hit him all that hard. So I applied my thumb to the left lower cervical pressure point, jabbing hard to cause him to scream and claw at the ceiling if he were awake. He did not move.
So I searched him. First from behind, then I rolled him over. His trousers did not quite match his tunic, and they lacked the braid down the sides that a proctor's uniform trousers should have. The tunic was not a good fit. His pockets held a few crowns in paper, a lottery ticket, and five cartridges. These last were Skoda 6.5 mm longs, unjacketed, expanding, used in pistols, tommies, and rifles-and illegal almost everywhere. No wallet, no IDs, nothing else.
He needed a bath.
I rocked back and stood up. "Keep your gun on him, Gwen. I think he's a nightwalker."
"I think so, too. Please look at this, sir, while I keep him covered." Gwen pointed at a pistol lying on the deck.
Calling it a "pistol" dignifies it more than it deserves. It was a lethal weapon, homemade, of the category known traditionally as "nimble gun." I studied it as thoroughly as I could without touching it. Its barrel was metal tubing so light in gauge that I wondered whether or not it had ever been fired. The handgrip was plastic, ground or whittled to conform to a fist. The firing mechanism was concealed by a metal cover held in place by (believe me!) rubber bands. That it was a single-shot weapon seemed certain. But with that flimsy barrel it could turn out to be a one-shot as well; it seemed to me to be almost as dangerous to the user as to his target.
"Nasty little thing," I said. "I don't want to touch it; it's a built-in booby trap."
I looked up at Gwen. She had him covered with a weapon quite as lethal but embodying all the best in modem gunsmith's art, a nine-shot Miyako. "When he pulled a gun on you, why didn't you shoot him? Instead of taking a chance on disarming him? You can get very dead that way."
"Because."
"Because what? If someone pulls a gun on you, kill him at once. If you can."
"I couldn't. When you told me to cover him, my purse was 'way over there. So I covered him with this." Something suddenly glinted in her other hand and she appeared to be a two-gun fighter. Then she clipped it back into her breast pocket- a pen. "I was caught flat-footed, boss. I'm sony."
"Oh, that I could make such mistakes! When I yelled at you to cover him, I was simply trying to distract him. I didn't know you were heeled."
"I said I was sorry. Once I had time to get at my purse I got out this persuader. But I had to disarm him first."
I found myself wondering what a field commander could do with a thousand like Gwen. She masses about fifty kilos and stands not much over a meter and a half high-say one hundred sixty centimeters in her bare feet. But size has little to do with it, as Goliath found out a while back.
On the other hand there aren't a thousand Gwens anywhere. Perhaps just as well. "Were you carrying that Miyako in your purse last night?"
She hesitated. "If I had been, the results might have been regrettable, don't you think?"
"I withdraw the question. I think our friend is waking up. Keep your gun on him while I find out." Again I gave him my thumb.
He yelped.
"Sit up," I said. "Don't try to stand up; just sit up and place your hands on top of your head. What's your name?"
He urged on me an action both unlikely and lewd. "Now, now," I reproved him, "let's have no rudeness, please. Mistress Hardesty," I went on, looking directly at Gwen, "would you enjoy shooting him just a little bit? A flesh wound? Enough to teach him to be polite."
"If you say so. Senator. Now?"
"Well... let's allow him that one mistake. But no second chance. Try not to kill him; we want him to talk. Can you hit him in the fleshy part of a thigh? Not hit the bone?"
"I can try."
"That's all anyone can ask. If you do hit a bone, it won't be out of spite. Now let's start over. What is your name?"
"Uh... Bill."
"Bill, what is the rest of your name?"
"Aw, just Bill. That's all the name I use."
Gwen said, "A little flesh wound now. Senator? To sharpen his memory?"
"Perhaps. Do you want it in your left leg. Bill? Or your right?"
"Neither one! Look, Senator, 'Bill' actually is all the name I've got-and make her not point that thing at me, will you, please?"
"Keep him covered. Mistress Hardesty. Bill, she won't shoot you as long as you cooperate. What happened to your last name?"
"I never had one. I was 'Bill Number Six' at the Holy Name Children's Refuge. Dirtside, that is. New Orleans."
"I see. I begin to see. But what did it say on your passport when you came here?"
"Didn't have one. Just a contractor's work card. It read 'William No-Middle-Name Johnson.' But that was just what the labor recruiter wrote on it. Look, she's wiggling that gun at me!"
"Then don't do anything to annoy her. You know how women are."
"I sure do! They ought not to be allowed to have firearms!"
"An interesting thought. Speaking of firearms- That one you were carrying: I want to unload it but I'm afraid that it might explode in my hand. So we will risk your hand instead. Without getting up, turn around so that your back is toward Mistress Hardesty. I am going to push your zapgun to where you can reach it. When I tell you to-not before!-you can take your hands down, unload it, then again put your hands on your head. But listen closely to this:
"Mistress Hardesty, when Bill turns around, take a bead on his spine just below his neck. If he makes one little suspicious move-kill him! Don't wait to be told, don't give him a second chance, don't make it a flesh wound-kill him instantly."
"With great pleasure. Senator!"
Bill let out a moan.
"All right. Bill, turn around. Don't use your hands, just willpower."
He pivoted on his buttocks, scraping his heels to do so. I noted with approval that Gwen had shifted to the steady twohanded grip. I then took my cane and pushed Bill's homemade gun along the deck to a point in front of him. "Bill, don't make any sudden moves. Take your hands down. Unload your pistol. Leave it open with its load beside it. Then put your hands back on your head."
I backed up Gwen with my cane and held my breath while Bill did exactly what I had told him to do. I had no compunction about killing him and I felt sure that Gwen would kill him at once if he tried to turn that homemade gun on us.
The Cat Who Walked Through Walls Page 5