The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Told him not to feed his cat at the conference table. Ridiculous! As if it could possibly harm his fancy table if this kitten happened to pee on it.”

  Hazel shook her head and looked grim, which doesn’t fit her face. “Lazarus has always been a rough cob but, ever since this campaign—Overlord, I mean—started, he has been growing increasingly difficult. Jacob, has your section been handing him gloomy predictions?”

  “Some. But the real difficulty is that our long-range projections are so vague. That can be maddening, I know, because when a city is destroyed, the tragedy is not vague; it’s sharp and sickening. If we change history, we aren’t truly undestroying that city, we are simply starting a new time line. We need projections that will let us change history before that city is destroyed.” He looked at me. “That’s why rescuing Adam Selene is so important.”

  I looked stupid—my best role. “To make Lazarus better tempered?”

  “Indirectly, yes. We need a supervising computer that can direct and program and monitor other large computers in creating multi verse projections. The biggest supervising computer we know of is the one on this planet, Athene or Teena, and her twin on Secundus. But this sort of projection is a much bigger job. Public functions on Tertius are mostly automated fail-safe and Teena steps in only as a trouble-shooter. But the Holmes IV—Adam Selene or Mike—through a set of odd circumstances, grew and grew and grew with apparently no one trying to keep his size down to optimum…then his self-programming increased enormously through a unique challenge: running the Lunar Revolution. Colonel, I don’t think any human brain or brains could possibly have written the programs that Holmes IV self-programmed to let him handle all the details of that revolution. My older daughter, Deety, is a top specialist in programming; she says a human brain could not do it and that, in her opinion, an artificial intelligence could swing it only the way Holmes IV did it—by being faced with the necessity, a case of ‘Root, Hog, or Die.’ So we need Adam Selene—or his essence, those programs he wrote in creating himself. Because we don’t know how to do it.”

  Hazel glanced at the pool. “I’ll bet Deety could do it. If she had to.”

  “Thank you, dear, on behalf of my daughter. But she is not given to false modesty. If Deety could do it, or thought she had even a slim chance, she would be hacking away at it now. As it is, she’s doing what she can; she is working hard at tying together the computer bank we have.”

  “Jacob, I hate to say this—” Hazel hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I need to get it off my chest. Papa Mannie isn’t optimistic over the results even if we are totally successful in retrieving all the memory banks and programs that constitute the essential Adam Selene—or ‘Mike’ as Papa Mannie calls him. He thinks his old friend was hurt so badly in the last attack—I remember it to this day; it was dreadful—Mike was hurt so badly that he withdrew into a computer catatonia and will never wake up. For years Papa tried to wake him, after the Revolution when Papa had free access to the Warden’s Complex. He doesn’t see how bringing those memories and programs here will do it. Oh, he wants to try, he’s eager to, he loves Mike. But he’s not hopeful.”

  “When you see Manuel, tell him to cheer up; Deety has thought of an answer.”

  “Really? Oh, I hope so!”

  “Deety is going to provide Teena with lots more unused capacity, both for memory and for symbol manipulation, thought—and then she’ll shove Mike into bed with Teena. If that does not bring Mike back to life, nothing will.”

  My love looked startled, then giggled. “Yes, that ought to do it.”

  She then went back to the pool and I learned from Jacob Burroughs why his daughter Deety spoke so emotionally about the Father of the Atom Bomb: She had seen—they had seen, all four of them, their own home wiped out by an atom bomb—a fission bomb, I inferred, but Jake did not say.

  “Colonel, it is one thing to read a headline or hear a news report; it is something else entirely when it’s your own home that has the mushroom cloud covering it.

  “We are dispossessed, we can never go home. Eventually we were wiped completely off the slate. In our time line there is nothing to show that we four—myself, Hilda, Deety, Zeb—ever existed. The houses we once lived in are gone, never were; the earth has closed over them with no scars.” He looked as lonely as Odysseus, then went on:

  “Lazarus sent a Time Corps field operative back—Dora? May I speak to Elizabeth?”

  “Start talking.”

  “Lib love? Place that rosette Pete wanted—or was it Archie? Spike the earliest date of surveillance. Go back three years. Evacuate.”

  “Paradox, Jacob.”

  “Yes. Place those three years in a loop, squeeze them off, throw them away. Check it.”

  “I check you, dear. More?”

  “No. Off now.”

  Burroughs continued, “—sent a field operative to our time line to try to find us, anywhere in the fifty-year bracket from my birth to the night we ran for our lives. We are not there at all. We were never born. Both Zeb and I had military careers as well as academic ones; we are not in military records, we are not in campus records. There is a record of my parents…but they never had me. Colonel, in all the dozens, hundreds, of ways that citizens were recorded in the twentieth century in the United States of North America not one trace could be found that showed that we had ever been there.”

  Burroughs sighed. “The Gay Deceiver not only saved our lives that night; she saved our very existence. She took evasive action so fast that the Beast lost track—What is it, dear?”

  Jane Libby was standing by us, dripping, and looking round-eyed. “Papa?”

  “Say it, love.”

  “We need those sneakies Pythagoras wanted but they should go back much farther, oh, ten years or more. Then, when they spot the tick at which the Overlord or whoever started watching THQ, back off some and evacuate. Loop and patch, and they’ll never suspect that we outflanked them. I told Deety; she thinks it could work. What do you think?”

  “I think it will. Let me get your mother on line and we’ll introduce it. Dora, let me have Elizabeth again, please.” Nothing in his face or manner suggested that he had just spoken to Libby Long, proposing what was (so far as I could see) the same plan.

  “Elizabeth? A message from our table tennis champ. Jane Libby says to place that rosette at minus ten years, spike first surveillance, then go back—oh, say, three years—evacuate, squeeze off a loop and patch in. Both Deety and I think it will work. Please submit it to the panel, credited to Jane Ell, with Deety’s vote and mine noted.”

  “And my vote.”

  “You have smart children, mistress mine.”

  “Comes of picking smart fathers, sir. And good ones. Good to his offspring, good to his wives. Off?”

  “Off.” Burroughs added, to the girl waiting, “Your parents are proud of you, Janie. I predict that the maths section will produce a unanimous report in the next few minutes. You have answered the objection Lazarus raised—his quite legitimate objection—by producing a solution under which it does not matter who did this to us; we can repair it safely without knowing who did it. But did you notice that your method may also tie down who did it? With a little bit of luck.”

  Jane Libby looked as if she had just received a Nobel Prize. “I noticed. But the problem simply called for safe evacuation; the rest is serendipitous.”

  “‘Serendipitous’ is another way of spelling ‘smart.’ Ready for some supper? Or do you want to get back in the bowl? Or both? Why don’t you throw Colonel Campbell in with his clothes on? Deety and Hilda will help you, I’m certain, and I think Hazel might.”

  “Now wait a minute!” I protested.

  “Sissy!”

  “Colonel, we won’t do that to you! Pop is joking.”

  “I am like hell joking.”

  “Throw your pop in first, for drill. If it doesn’t hurt him, then I’ll submit quietly.”

&nbs
p; “Blert!”

  “You just keep out of this!”

  “Janie baby.”

  “Yes, Pop?”

  “Find out how many orders there are for strawberry malted milks and hot dogs, or unreasonable facsimiles. While you are doing that, I will hang my clothes in the dry cabinet—and if the colonel is smart, he will, too; Colonel, this is a rowdy bunch, especially in this exact combination—Hilda, Deety, Hazel, and Janie. Explosive. Who takes care of the kitten?”

  An hour later Dora (a little blue light) led us to our stateroom; Hazel carried the kitten and one saucer, I carried our clothes, the other saucer, my cane, and her handbag. I was pleasantly tired and looking forward to going to bed with my bride. For too long she had not been in my bed. From my viewpoint we had missed two nights…not long for old married couples, much too long for a honeymoon. And the moral of that is: Don’t get yourself mugged on your honeymoon.

  From her standpoint it had been…a month? “Best of girls, how long has it been? That Lethe field has left me with my time sense fouled up.”

  Hazel hesitated. “It has been thirty-seven Tertian days here. But to you it should feel like overnight. Well, two nights…because, by the time I came to bed last night, you were snoring. I’m sorry. Hate me some but not too much. Here’s our wee bunty ben.”

  (“Wee bunty ben” indeed! It was larger than my luxury suite in Golden Rule and more lavish…with a bigger and better bed.) “Bride, we bathed in Lazarus’s Taj Mahal playroom. I no longer have to remove my cork leg and I took care of everything else in that Taj Mahal. If you have anything to do, do it. But be quick about it! I’m eager.”

  “Nothing. But must take care of Pixel.”

  “We’ll put his saucers in the ’fresher, shut him in, let him out later.”

  So we did, and went to bed, and it was wonderful, and the details are none of your business.

  Sometime later Hazel said, “We’ve been joined.”

  “We still are.”

  “I mean, ‘We have company.’”

  “So I noticed. He climbed on my shoulder blades way back when, but I was busy and he weighs almost nothing, so I didn’t mention it. Can you grab him and keep him from being rolled on and crushed while I get us untangled?”

  “Yes. No hurry about it. Richard, you’re a good boy. Pixel and I have decided to keep you.”

  “Just try to get rid of me! You can’t. Love, you phrased something oddly. You said it was ‘thirty-seven Tertian days here.’”

  She looked up at me soberly. “It was longer than that for me, Richard.”

  “I wondered. How long?”

  “About two years. Earth years.”

  “I be goddam!”

  “But, dear, while you were ill, I did come home every day. Thirty-seven times I came to your hospital room in the morning, exactly as I promised. You recognized me every time, too, and smiled and seemed happy to see me. But of course the Lethe field made you forget every moment even as it happened. Each evening I went away again, and came back later that evening, having been gone, on the average, about three weeks each time. The schedule wasn’t difficult for me, but Gay Deceiver made two trips every evening, with either the double twins or Hilda’s crew making the runs. Let me up now, dear; I have the Pixel cat safe.”

  We rearranged ourselves comfortably. “What were you doing, gone so much?”

  “Time Corps field work. Historical research.”

  “I guess I still don’t understand what the Time Corps does. Couldn’t you have waited a month, then both of us could have done it, together? Or do I have my head on backwards?”

  “Yes and no. I asked for the assignment. Richard, I’ve been trying to trace down what happens after you and I tackle rescuing Adam Selene. Mike the computer.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Nothing. Not a damn thing. We can find only two time lines from that event—it’s a cusp event; you and I created both futures. I searched the following four centuries on both lines—on Luna, down dirtside, several colonies and habitats. They all say either that we succeeded…or that we tried and died…or they don’t mention us at all. The last is the usual case; most historians don’t believe that Adam Selene was a computer.”

  “Well…we’re no worse off than we were before. Are we?”

  “No. But I had to look. And I wanted to check it out before you woke up. Out from under the Lethe field, I mean.”

  “Do you know, small person, I think well of you. You are considerate of your husband. And of cats. And of other people. Uh—No, none of my business.”

  “Speak up, beloved, or I tickle.”

  “Don’t threaten me. I’ll beat you.”

  “At your own risk—I bite. Look, Richard, I’ve been waiting for the question. This is the first time we’ve been alone. You want to know how horny old Hazel stuck it out in faithful chastity for two aching years. Or rather, you don’t believe she did but you are too polite to say so.”

  “Why, damn your eyes! Look, my love, I’m a Loonie, with Loonie values. Love and sex are ruled by our ladies; we men accept their decisions. That’s the only happy arrangement. If you want to boast a bit, go ahead. If not, let’s change the subject. But don’t accuse me of groundhog vices.”

  “Richard, you are your most infuriating when you are being your most reasonable.”

  “Do you want me to quiz you?”

  “It would be polite.”

  “Tell me three times.”

  “‘I tell you three times and what I tell you three times is true.’”

  “You peeked in the back of the book. All right, I’ll cut to the chase. You are a member of the Long Family. No?”

  She caught her breath. “What caused you to say that?”

  “I don’t know. I truly don’t because it’s been many little things no one of which meant anything and mostly did not stick in my mind. But sometime this evening, while talking with Jake, I found that I was taking it for granted. Am I mistaken?”

  She sighed. “No, you’re right. But I did not intend to load it onto you just yet. You see, I’m on leave of absence from the Family, not a member of it right now. And that was not what I intended to confess.”

  “Wait a second. Jake is one of your husbands.”

  “Yes. But remember, I’m on leave.”

  “For how long?”

  “Till death do us part! I promised you that in the Golden Rule. Richard, histories show that you and I were married at the time of the cusp event…so I asked the Family for a divorce…and settled for a leave of absence. But it might as well be final—they know it, I know it. Richard, I was here every night, every Tertian night I mean—thirty-seven times…but I never slept with the Family. I—Usually I slept with Xia and Choy-Mu. They were good to me.” She added, “But not once with a Long. Not any of them, male or female. I was faithful to you, in my own fashion.”

  “I don’t see why you needed to deprive yourself. Then you are one of Lazarus Long’s wives, too. On leave, but his wife. That ornery old curmudgeon! Hey! Is it possible that he is jealous of me? Hell, yes, it’s not only possible but likely. Certain! He’s not a Loonie; he is not conditioned to accept ‘Lady’s Choice.’ And he comes from a culture in which jealousy was the commonest mental disorder. Of course! Why, the silly bastich!”

  “No, Richard.”

  “In a pig’s eye.”

  “Richard, Lazarus got all the jealousy leached out of him many generations ago…and I’ve been married to him thirteen years with plenty of chance to judge. No, dear, he’s worried. He’s worried about me and he’s worried about you—he knows how dangerous it is—he’s worried about all the Family and all of Tertius. Because he knows how dangerous the multiverse is. He’s devoting his life and all of his wealth to trying to make his people safe.”

  “Well… I wish he could be a little more urbane about it. Mannerly. Polite.”

  “So do I. Here, take the kitten; I gotta pee. Then I vote for some sleep.”

  “Me, too. Bot
h. My, it feels good to get out of bed and stroll to the jakes without having to hop.”

  We had cuddled up together, lights out, her head on my shoulder and the kitten wandering around the bed somewhere, both of us about to sleep, when she murmured, “Richard. Forgot… Ezra—”

  “Forgot what?”

  “His legs. When…he first walked on them…with crutches. Three days ago I think…’bout three months back for me. Xia ’n’ I congratulated Ezra…horizontally.”

  “The best way.”

  “Took him to bed. Wore him out.”

  “Good girls. What else is new?”

  She seemed to have dropped off to sleep. Then she barely muttered. “Wyoming.”

  “What, dear?”

  “Wyoh, my daughter. Little girl playing in fountain…you ’member?”

  “Yes, yes! Yours? Oh, grand!”

  “Meet’r…’n morning. Named for… Mama Wyoh. Lazarus—”

  “She’s a daughter of Lazarus?”

  “Guess so. Ishtar says. Cer’nly had lots…opportunity.”

  I tried to picture the child’s face. A pixie, with bright red hair. “Looks more like you.”

  Hazel did not answer. Her breathing was slow and even.

  I felt paws on my chest, then a tickle on my chin. “Blert?”

  “Quiet, baby; Mama’s sleeping.”

  The kitten settled down, went to sleep himself. So I finished the day as I had begun it, with a baby cat asleep on my chest.

  It had been a busy day.

  XXVII

  “It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.”

  CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON 1832-1898

  “Gwendolyn my love.”

  Hazel stopped with a teethclean in hand, looked startled. “Yes, Richard?”

  “This is our first anniversary. We must celebrate.”

  “I’m quite willing to celebrate but I can’t figure out your arithmetic. And celebrate how? A fancy breakfast? Or back to bed?”

  “Both. Plus a special treat. But eat first. As for my arithmetic, attend me. It is our anniversary because we have been married exactly a week. Yes, I am aware that you think of it as two years—”