The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “I’m fond of you, too, monkey face. What I was saying was that, if your present pack of lies is wearing thin, don’t bother to build up another structure filled with solemn assurances that this is at last the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Forget it. The old structure may be threadbare—but I don’t care. I’m not looking for holes or inconsistencies because I don’t care. I just want to live with you and hold your hand and hear you snore.”

  “I don’t snore! Uh…do I?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t had enough sleep in the last eighty hours for it to be a problem. Ask me in fifty years.” I reached across the table, tickled a nipple, watched it grow. “I want to hold your hand, listen to your snores, and occasionally—oh, once or twice a month—”

  “Once or twice a month!”

  “Is that too often?”

  She sighed. “I guess I must settle for what I can get. Or go out on the tiles.”

  “Tiles? What tiles? I was saying that once or twice a month we’ll go out to dinner, see a show, go to a night club. Buy you a flower to pin in your hair. Oh, oftener, I guess, if you insist…but too much night life does interfere with writing. I intend to support you, my love, despite those bags of gold you have squirreled away.” I added, “Some problem, dear? Null program? Why the expression?”

  “Richard Colin, you are beyond doubt the most infuriating man I have ever married. Or even slept with.”

  “Did you let them sleep?”

  “Oh, you mother! I shouldn’t have saved you from Gretchen. ‘Once or twice a month’! You set me up for that. Then sprang the trap.”

  “Madam, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “You do so! You think I’m a sweaty little nymphomaniac.”

  “You’re not too little.”

  “Keep doing it. Go on. Push me hard enough and I’ll add a second husband to our marriage. Choy-Mu would marry us—I know he would.”

  “Choy-Mu is a dinkum cobber, too right. And I’m sure he would marry you; he doesn’t have sand in his skull. If you so elect, I’ll try to make him feel welcome. Although I hadn’t realized that you were that well acquainted with him. Were you speaking seriously?”

  “No, damn it. I’ve never made a practice of plural marriage; coping with one husband at a time is complex enough. Certainly Captain Marcy is a nice boy but he’s much too young for me. Oh, I won’t say that I would turn him down for a night of bundling if he asked me gracefully. But it would be simply for fun, nothing serious.”

  “I won’t say that you would turn him down, either. Well, let me know ahead of time, if convenient, so that I can gracefully fail to notice. Or stand jigger. Even hand out towels. Lady’s option.”

  “Richard, you’re entirely too agreeable.”

  “You want me to be jealous? But this is Luna, and I’m a Loonie. Only by adoption but nevertheless a Loonie. Never a groundhog, banging his head against a rock wall.” I paused to kiss her hand. “My lovely mistress, you are indeed small and not massy. But your heart is big. Like the loaves and fishes, you are a rich plenitude for as many husbands and lovers as you choose. I am happy to be first—if I am first—among equals.”

  “‘Is this a dagger which I see before me?’”

  “No, an icicle.”

  “Really? Let’s grab it before it melts.”

  We did, but just barely; I was tired. Afterwards I said, “Gwen, why are you frowning? Did I do so poorly?”

  “No, love. But I still have those lies on my mind…and this time please don’t change the subject. I know that the inscription on that brass plate over there is correct, because I knew three of those four. Knew them well; I was adopted by two of them. Beloved, I am a Founding Father of Luna Free State.”

  I said nothing because sometimes there is nothing one can say. Shortly Gwen wiggled and said almost angrily, “Don’t look at me that way! I know what you’re thinking; 2076 is quite a while back. So it is. But, if you’ll get dressed, I’ll take you down to Old Dome and show you my chop and thumbprint on the Declaration of Independence. You might not believe that it’s my chop…but I can’t fake a thumbprint. Shall we go look?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Want to know my age? I was born Christmas Day 2063, so I was twelve and a half when I signed the Declaration. That nails down how old I am.”

  “Sweetheart, when I decided to become a native Loonie or a reasonable facsimile, I studied the history of Luna to help me get away with it. There is no Gwendolyn among the signers. Wait a second, not saying you lied—saying you must have had another name then.”

  “Yes, of course. Hazel. Hazel Meade Davis.”

  “‘Hazel.’ Later married into the Stone Gang. Leader of the children’s auxiliaries. Um, Hazel was a redhead.”

  “Yes. Now I can stop taking some pesky pills and let my hair go back to its natural color. Unless you prefer it this shade?”

  “Hair color isn’t important. But—Hazel, why did you marry me?”

  She sighed. “For love, dear, and that is true. To help you when you were in trouble…and that is true, too. Because it was inevitable and that is true, also. For it is written in history books in another time and place that Hazel Stone returned to Luna and married Richard Ames aka Colin Campbell…and this couple rescued Adam Selene, chairman of the Revolutionary Committee.”

  “Already written, eh? Predestined?”

  “Not quite, my beloved. In other history books it is written that we failed…and died trying.”

  XVII

  “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

  Her infinite variety: other women cloy

  The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry

  Where most she satisfies—”

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 1564-1616

  So this girl tells the school nurse, “My brother thinks he’s a hen.” The nurse answers, “Oh, goodness! What’s being done to help him?” The girl answers, “Nothing. Mama says we need the eggs.”

  Are a woman’s delusions anything to worry about? If she’s happy with them? Was I duty bound to take Gwen to a shrink to try to get her cured?

  Hell, no! Shrinks are the blind leading the blind; even the best of them are dealing from a short deck. Anyone who consults a shrink should have his head examined.

  Close scrutiny showed that Gwen was possibly over thirty, probably under forty—but certainly not as old as fifty. So what was a gentle way to handle her claim that she was born more than a century ago?

  Everyone knows that natives of Luna age more slowly than groundhogs who have grown up in a one-gee field. Gwen’s delusion seemed to include the notion that she herself was actually a Loonie instead of the native groundhog she had claimed to be. But Loonies do age, albeit slowly, and Loonies more than a hundred years old (I had met several) do not look only thirty-odd years old; they look ancient.

  I would have to try hard to let Gwen think that I believed her every word…while believing none and telling myself that it did not matter. I once knew a man who, sane himself, was married to a woman who believed devoutly in astrology. She was forever buttonholing someone and asking what sign her victim was born under. That sort of antisocial nuttiness must be much harder to live with than Gwen’s gentle delusion.

  Yet this man seemed happy. His wife was an excellent cook, a pleasant woman (aside from this hole in her head), and may have been a bedroom artist equal to Rangy Lil. So why should he worry about her syndrome? She was happy with it, even though she annoyed other people. I think he did not mind living in an intellectual vacuum at home as long as he was physically comfortable there.

  Having gotten off her pretty chest what was fretting her, Gwen went right to sleep, and soon I did likewise, for a long, happy, solid night of rest. I woke up restored and cheerful, ready to fight a rattlesnake and allow the snake the first two bites.

  Or ready to eat a rattlesnake. Come Monday, I was going to have to find us new quarters; I’m usually willing to go out for other meals but breakfast sh
ould be available before one has to face the world. This is not the only reason to be married but it is a good one. Of course there are other ways to manage breakfast at home, but marrying and conning your wife into getting breakfast is, I believe, the commonest strategy.

  Then I came a little wider awake and realized that we could get breakfast right here. Or could we? What hours did the kitchen function? What time is it now? I checked the notice posted by the dumbwaiter, was depressed by it.

  I had cleaned my teeth and put on my foot and was pulling on my pants (while noting that I must buy clothes today; these trousers were reaching critical mass), when Gwen woke up.

  She opened one eye. “Have we met?”

  “We of Boston would not consider it a formal introduction. But I’m willing to buy you breakfast anyhow; you were fairly lively. What’ll it be? This fleabag offers only something called ‘café complet,’ a bleak promise at best. Or you can get decent and we’ll creep slowly out to see Sloppy Joe.”

  “Come back to bed.”

  “Woman, you’re trying to collect my life insurance. Sloppy Joe? Or shall I order for you a cup of lukewarm Nescafé, a stale croissant, and a glass of synthetic orange juice for a luxurious breakfast in bed?”

  “You promised me waffles every morning. You promised me. You did.”

  “Yes. At Sloppy Joe’s. That’s where I’m going. Are you coming with me? Or shall I order for you the Raffles specialty of the house?”

  Gwen continued to grumble and moan and accuse me of unspeakable crimes and urge me to come die like a man while promptly and efficiently getting up, refreshing for the day, and dressing. She finished looking spic and span instead of three days in the same clothes. Well, we both did have brand-new underclothes, recent hot baths, and putatively clean minds and nails…but she looked bandbox fresh while I looked like the pig that slowly walked away. Which was all her misfortune and none of my own; Gwen was wonderfully good to wake up to. I felt bubblingly happy.

  As we left room L she took my arm and hugged it. “Mister, thank you for inviting me to breakfast.”

  “Anytime, little girl. What room is Bill in?”

  She sobered instantly. “Richard, I did not propose exposing you to Bill until after you had eaten. Better perhaps?”

  “Uh—Oh, hell, I don’t enjoy waiting for breakfast and I see nothing to be gained by making Bill wait for his. We don’t have to look at him; I’ll grab a table for two and Bill can sit at the counter.”

  “Richard, you are a soft-hearted slob. I love you.”

  “Don’t call me a soft-hearted slob, you soft-hearted slob. Who lavished spending money on him?”

  “I did and it was a mistake and I got it back from him and it won’t happen again.”

  “You got some of it back from him.”

  “Got back what he had left and quit rubbing my nose in it, please. I was an idiot, Richard. Too right.”

  “So let’s forget it. This is his room?”

  Bill was not in his room. An inquiry at the desk confirmed what knocking had shown to be likely: Bill had gone out a half hour earlier. I think Gwen was relieved. I know I was. Our problem child had become a major pain in the Khyber. I had to remind myself that he had saved Auntie to see anything good about him.

  A few minutes later we entered the local Sloppy Joe. I was looking around for a free table for two when Gwen squeezed my arm. I looked up, then looked where she was looking.

  Bill was at the cashier’s station, paying a check. He was doing so with a twenty-five-crown note.

  We waited. When he turned around he saw us—and looked ready to run. But there was nowhere to run except past us.

  We got him outside without a scene. In the corridor Gwen looked at him, her face cold with disgust. “Bill, where did you get that money?”

  He looked at her, looked away. “It’s mine.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You left Golden Rule without a farthing. Any money you have you got from me. You lied to me last night—you held out on me.”

  Bill looked doggedly stubborn, said nothing. So I said, “Bill, go back to your room. After we’ve had breakfast we’ll see you there. And we’ll have the truth out of you.”

  He looked at me with barely restrained fury. “Senator, this ain’t none of your pidgin!”

  “We’ll see. Go back to the Raffles. Come, Gwen.”

  “But I want Bill to return my money. Now!”

  “After breakfast. This time let’s do it my way. Are you coming?”

  Gwen shut up and we went back into the restaurant. I saw to it that we did not discuss Bill; some subjects curdle the gastric juices.

  About thirty minutes later I said, “Another waffle, dear?”

  “No, thank you, Richard, I’ve had enough. They’re not as good as yours.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m a natural-born genius. Let’s finish up, then go back and take care of Bill. Shall we skin him alive, or merely impale him on a stake?”

  “I’ve been planning to question him on the rack. Richard, life lost some of its beauty when truth drugs replaced thumb screws and hot irons.”

  “My beloved, you are a bloodthirsty little wretch. More coffee?”

  “You just say that to flatter me. No more, thank you.”

  We returned to the Raffles, went to Bill’s room, were unable to raise him, went back to the desk. The misanthrope who had checked me in was again on duty. I asked, “Have you seen anything of William Johnson, room KK?”

  “Yes. About thirty minutes ago he collected his key deposit and left.”

  “But I bought that key!” Gwen said, rather shrilly.

  The desk manager was unruffled. “Gospazha, I know you did. But we return the deposit for the return of the key. It doesn’t matter who rented the room.” He reached for his rack, took down key card KK. “The deposit just barely pays for changing the magnetic code if someone fails to return his key—it doesn’t pay for the nuisance. If you dropped your card in the corridor and somebody picked it up and turned it in, we would pay the deposit…then you would have to pay a second deposit to get into your room.”

  I took Gwen firmly by the elbow. “Fair enough. If he shows up, let us know, will you? Room L.”

  He looked at Gwen. “You don’t want room KK?”

  “No.”

  He turned his attention to me. “You have Room L at its single rate. For double occupancy we charge more.”

  Suddenly I had had it. All the kaka, all the shoving around, all the petty nonsense I could take. “You try to clip me one more crown and I’ll haul you down to Bottom Alley and unscrew your head! Come along, dear.”

  I was still fuming when I let us into our room and locked the door. “Gwen, let’s not stay in Luna. The place has changed. For the worse.”

  “Where do you want to go, Richard?” She looked and sounded distressed.

  “Uh—I would opt to emigrate, right out of the System—Botany Bay, or Proxima, or such—if I were younger and had two legs.” I sighed. “‘Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.’”

  “Sweetheart—”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I’m here, and I want to mother you. I go where you go. I’ll follow you to the ends of the Galaxy. But I don’t want to leave Luna City just yet…if you will indulge me. We can go out now and search for somewhere else to stay. If we don’t find a place—Rabbi Ezra may be right—can’t we put up with that surly clerk until Monday? Then we can certainly find a place.”

  I concentrated on slowing my heart, managed it. “Yes, Gwen. We might shop for a place to move into after the weekend, after the Shriners leave, if we can’t find a suitable place available at once. I wouldn’t mind that shmo on the desk if we were sure of proper cubic after the weekend.”

  “Yes, sir. May I tell you now why I need to stay in Luna City for a while?”

  “Eh? Yes, certainly. Matter of fact, I ought to stay rooted to one spot for a while, too. Get some writing done, make some money to offset the rather heavy expenses of this week.
”

  “Richard. I’ve tried to tell you. There are no money worries.”

  “Gwen, there are always money worries. I’m not going to spend your savings. Call it macho if you like, but I intend to support you.”

  “Yes, Richard. Thank you. But you need feel no pressure of time. I can lay hands promptly on whatever amount of money we need.”

  “So? That’s a sweeping statement.”

  “It was intended to be, sir. Richard, I stopped lying to you. Now is the time for large chunks of truth.”

  I brushed this aside with both hands. “Gwen, haven’t I made it clear to you that I don’t care what fibs you’ve told or how old you are or what you have been? It’s a fresh start, you and me.”

  “Richard, stop treating me as a child!”

  “Gwen, I am not treating you as a child. I am saying that I accept you as you are. Today. Now. Your past is your business.”

  She looked at me sadly. “Beloved, you don’t believe that I am Hazel Stone. Do you?”

  Time to lie! But a lie is no good if it’s not believed (unless it is told to be disbelieved, which could not apply here). Time to fan-dance instead. “Sweetheart, I’ve been trying to tell you that it does not matter to me whether or not you are Hazel Stone. Or Sadie Lipschitz. Or Pocahontas. You are my beloved wife. Let’s not cloud that golden fact with irrelevancies.”

  “Richard, Richard! Listen to me. Let me talk.” She sighed. “Or else.”

  “‘Or else’?”

  “You know what ‘Or else’ means; you used it on me. If you won’t listen, then I must go back and report that I have failed.”

  “Go back where? Report to whom? Failed in what?”

  “If you won’t listen, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You told me not to let you leave!”

  “I won’t be leaving you; I’ll just be running a quick errand, then back home to you. Or you’re welcome to come with me—oh, I wish you would! But I must report my failure and resign my commission…then I’ll be free to go with you to the ends of the universe. But I must resign, not simply desert. You are a soldier; you understand that.”