Cats in Space and Other Places

by Bill Fawcett

  Old Horsemeat had seen the hatpin (and hid it quickly from Kitty-Come-Here) and so he knew that the situation was not what it seemed and that Gummitch was at the very least being made into a sort of scapegoat. He was quite apologetic when he brought the tin pans of food to the basement during the period of the little cat's exile. It was a comfort to Gummitch, albeit a small one, Gummitch told himself, in his new black halting manner of thinking, that after all a cat's best friend is his man.

  From that night Sissy never turned back in her development. Within two months she had made three years' progress in speaking. She became an outstandingly bright, light-footed, high-spirited little girl. Although she never told anyone this, the moonlit nursery and Gummitch's magnified face were her first memories. Everything before that was inky blackness. She was always very nice to Gummitch in a careful sort of way. She could never stand to play the game "Owl Eyes."

  After a few weeks Kitty-Come-Here forgot her fears and Gummitch once again had the run of the house. But by then the transformation Old Horsemeat had always warned about had fully taken place. Gummitch was a kitten no longer but an almost burly tom. In him it took the psychological form not of sullenness or surliness but an extreme dignity. He seemed at times rather like an old pirate brooding on treasures he would never live to dig up, shores of adventure he would never reach. And sometimes when you looked into his yellow eyes you felt that he had in him all the materials for the book Slit Eyes Look at Life—three or four volumes at least—although he would never write it. And that was natural when you come to think of it, for as Gummitch knew very well, bitterly well indeed, his fate was to be the only kitten in the world that did not grow up to be a man.

  The Tail

  M.J. Engh

  I blame the birds. I enjoy watching birds as a rule—the stimulation is very pleasant—but at times they are intolerable. It was one of those dry winter days that set the fur a-tingle, and the birds were maddening. They were hopping about on the bare branches just outside the window, bobbing their little heads and flirting their little tails at me, and all the while cheeping insultingly. I felt the fur rising along my spine, my tail twitching, and when one of the little beasts actually made a pass at the window, banking off at the last moment with that titillating motion of theirs, I sprang from the sill in a fury and raced up and down the apartment until I felt calmer. Sitting down again, I lashed my tail once or twice to get rid of the last tingles of rage.

  Then, with a sudden spasm, it lashed itself.

  I do not think you can understand. Perhaps if your right hand suddenly struck you in the face you would feel something of what I felt. But a hand cannot compare with a tail. At all times, a tail has its own character. It is not a part, like a hand or paw; it is a whole.

  Now it lay curled on the floor beside me, and I stared at it. Could my own tail have (to put it so) seceded from me? Perhaps, after all, what had seemed like independent action had been only a violent twitch; certainly the birds had never been so infuriating. Tentatively, gently, I switched it.

  Like a mouse in panic it leaped away, flinging itself out at full length. And, panicked too, I raced crazily through the rooms, as if I could escape by flight the second half of my backbone. I took refuge at last under the table where my humans sat at one of their interminable meals. There I lay flat, and beside me the tail lay twitching. It looked just as it always had—or did it? How often I had cleaned and sported with it, my familiar tabby tail; how often snuggled it neatly around my paws, and yet never (I saw now) truly observed it. Its tip was black. I knew that, of course, but exactly how many black rings should it have? I looked along the length of it, turning slowly to see if it was indeed attached to me. Attached, yes, but no longer mine; or mine, let us say, but not me. Faceless and footless it lay, like a blind furred serpent, and nervously twitched. And I realized that I had no sensation in that tail.

  With caution, if not with prudence, I laid a paw upon it. At the first touch it grew perfectly still; then violently, it tried to jerk away. Instinctively I clutched it.

  It was stronger than I had known. It plunged; it twisted; in frantic struggle we rolled and tumbled, knocking against the feet of the humans, and so burst out into the open again. It had escaped my grasp. We lay prone and watchful, as before.

  I became aware that they were laughing at me. One does not expect much understanding from humans, but one all too easily grows fond of them. Hurt, mortified, I collected myself as best I could and stalked away to fight my strange battle in privacy. Behind me, the thing hung and followed stiffly. I shuddered as I walked.

  In the hall, with the laughter of the humans still pursuing me, it struck. I felt an actual yank at the base of my spine, as if some rude child had tugged my tail sideways, and then another. It was lashing violently from side to side, thumping hard against my flanks. Like a spanked kitten, I scampered down the hall and bounded into the next room.

  But I had had enough humiliation. I turned, at bay, and slashed at it. It was quick—as quick as I—and hard to hold. Round and round we plunged, one way and then another, in mutual flight and attack, a hideous parody of kittenhood tail-chases. And now, with fury it flung itself at me, whipping and pounding about my legs. With a lucky snatch I pinned it down and buried my teeth in its thick fur. But it tore convulsively away, lashed to the other side, fell lightly back, and lay twitching at full length.

  Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder at it. A prickling shiver rose along my spine, and I began to feel my tail again. I turned slowly and patted it with my paw, and in paw and tail alike, I felt the touch. With some trepidation I flexed it. My tail—yes, it was mine, my own. Very thoughtfully I began to wash it.

  And now I wait. And if sometimes I bite at it with a kind of tentative anger, if more often I lick it with a reluctant gentleness, if long I sit gazing or lie brooding upon it, I have my reasons, yes. You do not understand.

  Well Worth the Money

  Jody Lynn Nye

  "We need volunteers," the video memo blaring in the I.A.T.A. employee cafeteria stated, "to crew an exciting but potentially hazardous and rewarding expedition featuring the latest in Drebian/Terran technology. If you are interested in being one of the few, the brave, call extension 6508."

  That brief message had begun a dizzying odyssey for Balin Jurgenevski. He had been with the Intergalactic Assay and Trade Association on Fladium station for a mere five years, four months. His dream of becoming a trade ship captain had been heretofore laughed at, let alone unfulfilled. Men and women with four times his seniority were still without commands of their own. Everyone wanted to be a captain, sailing the stars in the command chair of a powerful vessel, or even one that had the training wheels off. Still, "potentially hazardous" didn't sound nearly as interesting as "rewarding." It wouldn't hurt to find out if their idea of rewarding matched his. He applied for the job.

  As the personnel director explained it to him and the two other people who "made the cut" (Jurgenevski's suspicion was that they were the only ones who applied),

  Humanity's newest ally and trading partner, the strange, bloblike Drebs, were seeking to pay their debt for goods and services tendered to them by the Terran government by offering it their space travel technology, which lay far beyond the Terrans' current reach. Naturally, every single company which had ever launched a charge into space was interested. The government threw open the rights at auction.

  I.A.T.A, had been the winner of the sealed bid seeking to gain and manufacture the Drebian starship electronics. The Drebs duly signed, or rather smeared, their symbols on contracts, and the deal was done. All this had been beamed all over the news for months. At last, the first machinery off the line was finished and ready for testing. Jurgenevski's first command would be the double shake-down cruise of a newly refitted vessel, the Pandora.

  Because the knowledge was irreplaceable and the ship wasn't, I.A.T.A. wanted three volunteers, chosen only from its rank of junior officers, for a quick mission to Argylenia, a textile sup
plier orbiting a blue-white star in Leo Sector.

  The flight to Argylenia was intended at first only to test the new superfast space drive, but I.A.T.A.'s board of directors had, at the last minute, decided to add the Drebs' interactive computer electronics system to the Pandora. This had not been leaked to the press, or as far as Jurgenevski could remember, throughout the rest of I.A.T.A.

  So if it was potentially a one-way trip, why take it? Jurgenevski had to admit he knew the answers: the money and the prestige. There was trip pay to be earned, recording fees, specialist fees, and the big one: hazard pay. It was tough for anyone with less than ten years experience to pull down that much credit or accrue the instant seniority that they'd earn for bringing the Pandora back successfully. It might, it was hinted, get him at least exec officer status—if not a full command—if he, the crew, and the Pandora made it back in their several pieces.

  "We have an emergency order for a shipment of stauralinium 106 that has to get out to Argylenia as soon as possible to prevent the planetary computer system from melting down," the vice president of the company told him. "With a half-life of only 110 days, the sooner you get it out there, the better. With her new drives, the Pandora is the fastest ship we have, not to mention the only one ready to depart for a week, You're still going to the same destination. It's just more urgent that you get there quickly, even with an experimental ship. I'm prepared to offer you a bonus of 10% per day for every day you can knock off the transit time.

  "I'm willing to try, sir," Jurgenevski promised.

  Getting to know the ship with her reconstructed innards was a piece of cake. The controls were standard, and as for the new computer system, the Drebs made that effortless. The sky-blue-and-pink blob scientists guided them one by one into the fold-out booth that attached to the left side of the control unit.

  "It reads your personality and intellect," the chief Dreb burbled through his translator, "thereby saving time between command and execution. This is particularly of use during a crisis."

  As the newly promoted commander, Jurgenevski went first. At twenty-six, he was the youngest of the three crew members. The whole process consisted of a lot of lights flashing into his eyes, and probes poking into his ears and against his scalp, but beyond slightly disorienting him, it didn't feel like much. He shrugged to the other two as he came out. With a wary expression on her face, Diani Marius followed. She was the ship's helm and navigation officer. Okabe Thomas went last. Thomas, the old man of the crew at thirty-four, was known as a trade specialist and diplomat, aside from his talents as an engineer. None of them had been with the company more than seven years, and none had immediate family. I.A.T.A. was taking no chances with survivor benefits or suits for wrongful death.

  All three of them acted with great solemnity during the departure ceremony, in which the Drebs and the Humans praised the spirit of cooperation and one another. Carrying the ship's cat, I.A.T.A's traditional mascot of good luck that went on every vessel it sent out, they filed on board with the floodlights of the media recorders following them into the Pandora's, hatch. They all waved goodbye to the press and their employers. Jurgenevski felt his heart sink. Fladium Base wasn't much, but it had been his home for years. He might never see it again. He felt a little uncomfortable being alone with the Pandora's reconstructed innards for the first time.

  Not everyone shared his anxiety. As soon as the white enameled doors sealed behind them, Okabe Thomas let out a whoop and slapped his hands together.

  "Oh, friends, is this going to be a blast!" he cried, grabbing his shipmates in a three-and-a-half-way hug. Kelvin, a black-and-white female, mixed breed cat, protested and demanded to be put down.

  Marius rescued Kelvin from the crush and put her on the deck. "What are you so thrilled about, Thomas? This thing could blow up on us. We could all die!"

  "Not a chance, Helm. Ship?" Thomas said, addressing the air. "Or can I call you Pandora?"

  "Working." The computers pleasant, though burbly, voice responded.

  "Crank this sucker up and let's get out of here."

  "Destination?"

  Marius dashed for her console and ran up the coordinates for Argylenia. "Twenty-seven degrees, fifty minutes, right ascendancy minus 15," she read off.

  "Understood. On the command?"

  Marius looked at Jurgenevski. "Given," he said, with some surprise.

  Lights on the console shifted from red to green, and gradually up to white. The ship moved under their feet, but so gently that the crewmembers had no trouble getting to their assigned crash couches before the Pandora attained acceleration. Jurgenevski grabbed the cat and stuffed her into her crashbox under the console before he sat down. The huge screen, which took up the entire front of the pilo's compartment, warmed up to show the field of stars and those surrounding Fladium's sun.

  "Destination will be reached within thirty-seven days," the Pandora's voice assured them, as they strapped in.

  Jurgenevski grinned broadly at his crew and settled in with his hands tucked behind his head. "I think I'm going to like this ship. She's worth every credit they paid for her. Twenty-five days early. That means a 250% bonus on top of all our other pay."

  "That's impossible," Marius protested. "It should take at least sixty-two, even at maxium acceleration."

  Thomas winked. "She read our greedy little minds and knew we wanted to go fast. Pandora, honey, give the doubting member of our crew the details of the journey."

  Unerringly, the red sensor lights of the Drebian personality monitor went on in front of Marius. Her personal screen filled with mathematical formulae and star maps, reflections of which shone on her face, her expression slowly gaining in enlightenment. "Hot damn, I didn't think a ship this size could do that." She looked up at the others. "Do you mean that's all I have to do? I love it!"

  "Whee-hah!" Jurgenevski cheered. "I might be able to buy my own ship when we get home."

  The galaxy on the big screen streaked into a shock of white, then all light vanished as the ship bounced into her first jump. When there was nothing more to look at, Jurgenevski cleared his throat.

  "Um, well," he began. "Since we've got five weeks, I want us all to bone up on the features of this ship. We've got reports to send back at regular intervals, and I don't want them to catch us out on a single detail." He tapped the insignia on the shoulder of his dark blue coverall hopefully. "I want real ones of these when I get home."

  If we get home," Marius said, suddenly looking gloomy.

  "What are you talking about?" Thomas asked, with his customary cheerful mien. "The Pandora will take good care of us. Won't you, sweetheart?" he said to the air.

  "Working," the computer voice said. "Affirmative. Honeycakes."

  Jurgenevski pointed toward one of the speakers. "Did you tell her to call you that?" he asked Thomas.

  "Naw, but she's picking up on the things I usually say." Thomas thought about it a moment. "I don't think I've said 'honeycakes' yet, though. Not in the computer's presence. I guess the Drebs told the truth when they said that the box reads your mind."

  "This is still an experimental vessel," Marius pointed out, resuming the previous argument.

  "That's why I want us to know everything there is to know about the Pandora," Jurgenevski assented. "Engine capability, clearance under bridges, armaments . . ."

  "Yes, why are we armed?" Thomas said. "We're only going to Argylenia. That's right through well-established, well-patrolled throughways."

  "Not this time," Marius said, showing him her terminal. "Pandora's redirected us. We go right through a corner of Smoot territory. Computer, put it on the big screen."

  The diagrams appeared, greatly enlarged, with the ship's flight path indicated by a line of dashes in red. The Smoot were another bloblike race that Humanity had discovered, but had entirely failed to befriend. The Smoot seemed to be offended by the presence in the universe of a race of vertebrates, which they saw as an offense against their Creator, to be exterminated whenever possible
. Thomas's smoky complexion drained to ash, and he swallowed.

  "Can't we go around them?" the engineer asked.

  "Two hundred-and-fifty percent bonus," Jurgenevski said, temptingly.

  Thomas sighed heavily. "Maybe we won't meet any of them."

  "Working," Pandora said. Thomas's own screen lit up suddenly with another array of formulae, this time referring to the schematics of two powerful, sidemounted laser cannon, and a nose-mounted plasma torpedo launcher. The screen blanked, only to fill again with a list of evasive maneuvers of which the Pandora was capable of executing, with diagrams, followed by a flashing cursor, and the legend, in block print, "YOUR CHOICE?"

  "Whew!" Thomas whistled and patted the console. "You sure know how to make a fellow feel welcome, honey."

  A querulous complaint erupted from underneath the control panel.

  "You want to let the cat out, Thomas?" Marius asked.

  So far as Jurgenevski could tell after only a week, the Drebs had done their work with the usual, expected degree of genius. The mind-reading capabilities of the computer were not only complete, but subtle. Every morning when he opened his eyes, a screen went on above his bunk, and beside his elbow, a door slid up to reveal a steaming cup of coffee. On the screen, the Pandora reported the ship's status, complete with a tiny diagram of how far they had traveled during his dark shift. Nothing was wrong or even remotely awry. Jurgenevski sighed and reached for the cup. The system was flawless. An eight-year-old could run the ship, play a video game, and do his homework all at the same time. Even the coffee was perfect. Never bitter, it always came out at exactly the temperature he liked to drink it, just under boiling, but cool enough that it didn't scorch his tongue. He drained his cup down to the melted sugar on the bottom. Pandora seemed to know that he didn't like his sugar mixed in, just dropped straight through, leaving a faint trail of sweetening in the top seven-eighths of the cup. It was absolutely uncanny what tiny details the computer picked up on and exploited. It scared him a little: what if the Pandora decided to take things into her own hands and run the show? He'd look an incredible fool back at I.A.T.A. headquarters.