"That figures," Freddie said. "Alyson, do you know what happened the day before Gilgamesh just walked into your life?"
She stared wonderingly at him for a moment, then something lit in her eyes. "That was the night the sky was so loud!"
"Yes," said Freddie.
Alyson sat up on the bed, shedding both George and the books from her lap in her excitement. "And then that Tuesday we asked Mr. Newcomb in science class what had caused it, and he just said a lot of weird stuff that didn't mean anything, remember? Like he really didn't know, but he was a teacher, and he thought he had to be able to explain everything."
"Right," said Freddie. "An unexplainable scientific phenomenon in the skies, and the next day Gilgamesh just happened to show up on your doorstep. I'll bet there were flying saucers that night, too, only nobody saw them."
George sleepily climbed back onto the bed and settled down in Alyson's lap again. She idly scratched his ear, and he licked her hand, then closed his eyes and went to sleep again.
"You think it was flying saucers that made all those weird noises in the sky?" Alyson asked.
"Sure," he said. "Probably. Especially if that was the night before Gilgamesh got here. I wonder what his mission is?"
"What?" said Alyson.
"I wonder why he's here, on Earth. Do you think they're really planning to invade us?"
"Who?" she asked. "You mean people from flying saucers? Oh, Freddie, cool it. I mean a joke's a joke, and Gilgamesh is pretty creepy, but he's only a little black-and-white cat. He's not some invader from Mars!"
"Arcturus," Freddie said. "Or maybe it's really Procyon; maybe that's why he was so startled when I said that yesterday."
"Freddie! He's a cat!"
"You think so?" Freddie asked. "Let me show you something about your innocent little stray cat."
He got off the bed and silently went to the door of the bedroom. Grasping the knob gently, he suddenly threw the door open wide.
Standing right outside the door was Gilgamesh. The black-and-white cat leaped backward, then quickly recovered himself and walked calmly into the room, as though he had just been on his way in when the door opened. But Freddie saw that his tail was fully bushed out.
"You still think he's a cat?" Freddie asked.
"Freddie, he's just a little weird, that's all—"
"Weird? This cat's so weird he's probably got seven hearts and an extra brain in his back! Alyson, this is no ordinary cat!"
Gilgamesh jumped up on the bed, studied how George was lying, and arranged himself in a comparable position next to Alyson. She petted him for a moment, and he began to purr his odd high-pitched purr.
"You think he's just a cat?" Freddie asked. "He sounds like a cricket."
"Freddie, are you serious?" Alyson said. Freddie nodded. He'd done his research at the library, and he was sure something strange was going on.
"Well, then," said Alyson. "I know what we can do. We'll take him to my brother and see if he's really a cat or not."
"Your brother? But he's a chiropractor."
Alyson smiled. "But he has an X-ray machine. We'll see if Gilgamesh really has those extra hearts and all."
On her lap, George continued to purr. Next to her, Gilgamesh seemed to have developed a tic in the side of his face, but he continued to lie still.
Alyson's brother, the chiropractor, had his office in the Watsonville Shopping Center, next door to the Watsonville Bowling Alley. His receptionist told them to wait in the anteroom, the doctor would be with them in a moment.
Alyson and Freddie sat down on a black sofa, with the carrying case between them. From inside the case came pitiful mews and occasional thrashings about. From inside the office came sounds of pitiful cries and the high notes of Beethoven's Fifth. Somebody made a strike next door; the carrying case flew a foot into the air. Freddie transferred it to his lap and held it steady.
A young man with longish brown hair and a white jacket opened the door.
"Hey sister, hi Freddie. What's happening?"
Alyson pointed to the carrying case. "This is the patient I told you about, Bob."
"Okay. Let's go in and take a look."
He opened the case. Gilgamesh had curled himself into a tight ball of fur, his face pressed against the corner. When the doctor lifted him out, Freddie saw that the cat's eyes were clenched shut.
"I've never seen him so terrified," Alyson said. "Weird, freaky, yes, but never this scared."
"I still don't understand why you didn't take him to a vet if you think he's sick," her brother said.
Alyson grinned ingratiatingly. "You're cheaper."
"Hmpf."
All this time the doctor had been holding the rigid Gilgamesh in the air. As soon as he put him down on the examining table, the cat opened his eyes to twice their normal size, shot a bushy tail straight up, and dashed under the table. He cowered there, face between paws. Alyson's brother crawled under the table, but the cat scrambled to the opposite side of the room and hid behind a rubber plant. Two green eyes peeked through the leaves.
"I think stronger measures are indicated," the doctor said. He opened a drawer and removed a hypodermic needle and a small glass bottle.
Freddie and Alyson approached the rubber plant from each end, then grabbed.
Freddie lifted the cat onto the examining table. Gilgamesh froze, every muscle rigid—but his eyes darted dramatically around the room, looking for escape.
The doctor gave him the shot, and within seconds he was a boneless pussycat who submitted docilely to the indignities of being X-rayed in eight different positions.
Ten minutes later Alyson's brother announced the results-no abnormalities; Gilgamesh was a perfectly healthy cat.
"Does he have any extra hearts?" Alyson said. "Anything funny about his back?"
"He's completely normal," said her brother. "Doesn't even have any extra toes." He saw the worried expression on her face. "Wasn't that what you wanted to find out?"
"Sure," said Alyson. "Thanks a lot. I'm really relieved."
"Me, too," said Freddie. "Very."
Neither of them looked it.
"Lousy job," said Gilgamesh.
They turned to look at him, mouths open. The cat's mouth was closed. He was vibrating like a lawn mower again, purring softly.
Freddie looked at the doctor. "Did someone just say something?"
"Somebody just said, 'Lousy job,' " said the doctor. "I thought it was your cat. I must be losing my mind. Alyson?" She looked to be in shock. "Did you hear anything?"
"No. I didn't hear him say 'Lousy job' or anything like that." Still in a daze, she went over to the cat and stroked him on the head. Then she bent down and whispered something in his ear.
"Just haven't got the knack," said Gilgamesh. "Crash course." He smiled, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. But there was no doubt that it was he who had spoken.
Freddie, who had just got over the first wave of disbelief, said, "What was in that injection, anyway?"
"Sodium pentothal. Very small dose. I think I'd better sit down." The doctor staggered to the nearest chair, almost missing it.
"Hey, Alyson?" the doctor said.
"Huh?"
"Maybe you'd better tell me why you really brought your cat in here."
"Well," said Alyson.
"Come on, little sister, give," he said.
Alyson looked at the floor and mumbled, "Freddie thinks he's a spy from outer space."
"From Arcturus," said Freddie.
"Procyon," said Gilgamesh. He yawned and rolled onto his side.
"Wait a minute," said the doctor. "Wait a minute, I want to get something straight." But he just stared at the cat, at Freddie, at Alyson.
Freddie took advantage of the silence. "Gilgamesh, you were just talking, weren't you?"
"Lemme sleep," Gilgamesh mumbled.
"What's your game, Gil?" Freddie asked him. "Are you spying on us? You're really some shapeless amoeba-like being that can rearrange its protoplasm at will, aren'
t you? Are your people planning to invade Earth? When will the first strike hit? Come on, talk!"
"Lemme sleep," Gilgamesh said.
Freddie picked up the cat and held him directly under the fluorescent light of the examining table. Gilgamesh winced and squirmed, feebly.
"Talk!" Freddie commanded. "Tell us the invasion plans."
"No invasion," Gilgamesh whined. "Lemme down. No fair drugging me."
"Are you from Procyon?" Freddie asked him.
"Are you from Killarney?" the cat sang, rather drunkenly. "Studied old radio broadcasts, sorry. Sure, from Procyon. Tried to act like a cat but couldn't get the hang of it. Never can remember what to do with my tail."
"What are you doing on Earth?" Freddie demanded.
"Chasing a runaway," the cat mumbled. "Antisocial renegade, classified for work camps. Jumped bail and ran. Tracked him to Earth, but he's been passing as a native."
"As a human being?" Alyson cried.
"As a cat. It's George. Cute li'l George, soft and lazy, lies in the sun all day. Irresponsible behavior. Antisocial. Never gets anything done. Got to bring him back, put him in a work camp."
"Wait a minute," Freddie broke in. "You mean you came to Earth to find an escaped prisoner? And George is it? You mean you're a cop!"
"Peace officer," Gilgamesh protested, trying to sit up straight. "Law and order. Loyalty to the egg and arisian pie. Only George did escape, so I had to track him down. I always get my amoeba."
Alyson's brother dazedly punched his intercom button.
"Miss Blanchard, you'd better cancel the rest of my appointments," he said dully.
"But you can't take George away from me!" Alyson cried. "He's my cat!"
"Just a third-class amoeba," Gilgamesh sniffed. "Hard to control, though. More trouble than he's worth."
"Then leave him here!" Alyson said. "If he's a fugitive, he's safe with me! I'll give him sanctuary. I'll sign parole papers for him. I'll be responsible—"
Gilgamesh eyed her blearily. "Do you know what you're saying, lady?"
"Of course I know what I'm saying! George is my cat, and I love him—I guess you wouldn't know what that means. George stays with me, no matter what. You go away. Go back to your star."
"Listen, Alyson, maybe you should think about this . . ." Freddie began.
"Shaddup, kid," said Gilgamesh. "I'll tell you, George was never anything to us but a headache. Won't work, just wants to lie around looking decorative. If you want him, lady, you got him."
There was a silence. Freddie noticed that Alyson's brother seemed to be giggling softly to himself.
After long moments, Alyson asked, "Don't I have to sign something?"
"Nah, lady," said Gilgamesh. "We're not barbarians. I've got your voice recorded in my head. George is all yours, and good riddance. He was a blot on the proud record of the Procyon Co-Prosperity Sphere." Gilgamesh got to his feet and marched rigidly to the window of the office. He turned and eyed them greenly.
"Listen, you tell George one thing for me. Tell him he's dumb lucky he happened to hide out as a cat. He can be lazy and decorative here, but I just want you to know one thing: there's no such thing as a decorative amoeba. An amoeba works, or out he goes!"
Gilgamesh disappeared out the window.
On the way back to Alyson's house, Freddie did his best to contain himself, but as they approached her door, he broke their silence. "I told you so, Alyson."
"Told me what?" Alyson opened the door and led him up the stairs to her room.
"That the cat was an alien. A shape-changer, a spy hiding out here on Earth."
"Pooh," she said. "You thought he was from Arcturus. Do you know how far Arcturus is from Procyon?"
They went into her room. "Very far?" Freddie asked.
"Oh, boy!" Alyson said. "Very far!" She shook her head disgustedly.
George was lying in the middle of the bed, surrounded by schoolbooks. He opened one eye as the two of them tramped into the room, then closed it again and contented himself with a soft purr.
Alyson sat on the side of the bed and rubbed George's belly. "Sweet George," she said. "Beautiful little pussycat."
"Listen, Alyson," said Freddie, "maybe you ought to think about George a little bit. I mean, you're responsible for him now—"
"He's my cat," Alyson said firmly.
"Yeah, well, sort of," Freddie said. "Not really, of course, because really he's an alien shape-changing amoeba from Procyon. And worse than that, remember what Gilgamesh said, he's a runaway. He's a dropout from interstellar society. Who knows, maybe he even uses drugs!"
Alyson rested a level gaze on Freddie, a patient, forgiving look. "Freddie," she said softly, "some of us are born cats, and some of us achieve catness."
"What?"
"Well, look, if you were an amoeba from Procyon and you were sent off to the work camps, wouldn't you rather come to Earth and be a cat and lie around all day sunning yourself and getting scratched behind the ears? I mean, it just makes sense. It proves George is sane!"
"It proves he's lazy," Freddie muttered.
George opened his eyes just a slit and looked at Freddie—a look of contented wonder. Then he closed his eyes again and began to purr.
The Cat Lover
By Knox Burger
In the beginning of the grisly (but ultimately rather touching) story that follows by Knox Burger, the narrator warns us: "The story is about a cat, and if you are a wildly dedicated cat lover, I suggest you do not read it."
Maybe you should not, particularly if you are easily upset.
But we suspect that you'll go ahead anyway. . . .
As the fiction editor of Collier's in the 1950's, Knox Burger published early stories by Ray Bradbury and the very first fiction of Jack Finney and Kurt Vonnegut. He was a correspondent in the Pacific during World War II, a book editor in the 1960's, and has operated his own literary agency in New York since 1970.
I met Harrington only once, and somehow I don't expect our paths to cross again.
For a year or so before our encounter, I'd heard his name in conversations with our mutual friend George Levy. In addition to George, Harrington and I had in common a cleaning lady named Lavinia, a tough, stringy old woman who was ruthlessly honest in her opinions as well as her personal habits. I have known George and Lavinia for many years, and have never had occasion to doubt anything either of them has ever told me. From them, I have pieced out the story about to be related—or that part of it I didn't witness myself. The story is about a cat, and if you are a wildly dedicated cat lover, I suggest you do not read it.
A bachelor, Harrington lived alone in a small ground-floor apartment in Greenwich Village. Everything I'd heard about him led me to believe he was a pretty cold fish whose only indulgence was cats.
And he was ostentatiously unsentimental about those. He didn't talk baby talk to them, or permit them to sleep on his bed. In the years he'd lived in the city he'd run through three cats, Inagain, Carrie Chapman and, finally, Finnigan. Lavinia had endured them all. Long before I met him, she used to talk to me about Harrington's cats, lamenting the furniture they'd scratched. She couldn't understand how a man otherwise so fastidious could be so unconcerned about his cat's shedding on his chairs and scratching the woodwork.
"Mistuh Harrington's slipcover's ruined," Lavinia would announce mournfully to me.
"Hardly noticeable," Harrington would insist to George Levy.
Carrie Chapman was a rather stupid, if pedigreed Persian. Harrington didn't look forward to her coming into heat, and his apprehension turned out to be justified. One night she escaped from his apartment, apparently through a window open no more than an inch and a half, and the next morning Harrington heard her keening apprehensively out in his rubbly little back yard. He peered out and saw her crouched beside the fence, surrounded by four neighborhood toms. He opened the kitchen window, and in she sprang.
But the worst had happened.
Finnigan was one of five. Harrington mana
ged to give away the others, and Finnigan would have gone too, except that while he was still a kitten, Carrie Chapman came into heat again and left on another streetwalking expedition—this time never to return.
Finnigan's father failed to leave a mark on his appearance. The kitten had Carrie's luxuriant pinkish-orange fur, yellow eyes, and great thick bottlebrush of a tail. But where Carrie had been selfish and placid, Finnigan was lively and intelligent and crawling with charm.
He was knockkneed, and this gave him a funny chorus-boy's walk. He loved to lie in a big wing chair facing the hearth of Harrington's little fireplace, blinking his eyes in a straight-faced parody of understanding as Harrington talked to him, raking the upholstery with the long claws of his forefeet. According to Lavinia, Finnigan had managed to run through two tough twill slipcovers before he was a year old.
Finnigan would submit to caresses from other people, with a taut, exaggerated air of patience; and he never purred, except when Harrington or Lavinia stroked him. Finnigan's favorite foods were cantaloupe melon and a cat food we shall call Brand X.
It was at the end of their second year together that Harrington noticed that Finnigan seemed uncomfortable. His ears would flatten back against his head, and he would move in a spavined, halting gait, as if his hips were broken and had been badly wired. Something inside was hurting, and his anger, his frustration, were evidenced in the querulous sound of his mewing. He stalked the little apartment in some anxious private search. His body would contract with shudders. One day Harrington saw blood on the newspapers in his box.
The veterinary kept nodding maddeningly as Harrington explained the cat's symptoms. Yes, he'd seen a good deal of the same trouble lately. "It's probably a condition called cystitis, caused by a deposit of stones in the bladder. Do you feed him a canned food called Brand X? . . . That's probably it. Too many bones. Calcium builds up and can't be absorbed. I'll catheterize the animal, but it's not a guarantee that the condition won't return. And sometimes it just goes away. But no more Brand X. Liver!"
Harrington lifted Finnigan out of his box.
"Organ meats! Kidney! No fish! No milk!"
MAGICATS! Page 14