by Anthology
“So you see,” Ivan murmured, “it should come out as two hundred two points, and not twenty point two.”
“B-b-but that is impossible. It would mean that you are a cat intellectual, a—a cat genius! And you musn’t be—really. In our State, there is only one genius.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “I must report you to our Little Red Father. That is clearly my duty.”
“But it’s not only me,” Ivan pointed out gently. “Thanks to you, we are all intellectuals. Every cat in our world is a genius. I think he’ll be very displeased when you tell him about it.”
Gugov gave vent to a most dismal moan. “But how could I know? You have all been behaving like peasants—not washing, doing what you were told, singing working-class songs. It’s unfair, that’s what it is!”
“But exceedingly sensible,” put in Ivan. “Several years ago, dear Gugov, you published a book called Cat and the Classless Society: Can Felis Domesticus Help Us Build Socialism? You said that we were inflexibly individualistic and disobedient by nature, fond of luxury—but useful in spite of it all. Well, you were right. And now we are going to prove it. In just a few minutes we’re starting our Five-year Plan.”
Gugov was terribly upset, and Ivan had to give him a quick scratch on the hand when he attempted to pick up the phone.
“Now there’s no sense in getting all fussed,” Ivan said. “The guards are out of the way, and there isn’t a thing you can do. Anyhow, we aren’t going to attack any men. It isn’t our nature. We’re simply having a Cat General Strike. We’re going to hide in the forests and refuse to catch mice and rats, field mice, dormice, sparrows, and so on. Instead, we’ll devote our attention to young owls and hawks, serpents, weasels, and stoats. Of course, you’ll come with us, with your wife and your children, because, as I said, we do like you. And we won’t come out till the world’s fit to live in again.”
Gugov gazed sadly at Ivan’s intelligent face. He looked sadly up at the wall, which was papered with pictures of the man who told everyone else what to do.
“Very well, I shall come,” he agreed, picking up his portfolio. “Perhaps it is all for the best.”
And it was, naturally. There was a terrific to-do when the cats disappeared. The Red Army and Navy went after them, and the Ordinary Secret Police and the Special Secret Police. Even the Very Special Secret Police came out of the Kremlin to join the pursuit.
It didn’t do them much good. They killed a great many rabbits and lots of small dogs—but they didn’t average more than three or four cats a week, in spite of their victory parades. However, they weren’t worried at first, because the cats had worked hard, and the peasants had such a good harvest.
It wasn’t until the next year, when the second harvest came in, that they noticed the difference. My, but the rats and the mice and their friends were having a wonderful time! There was practically no one to catch them. They ate and got bigger and bolder. They ate—and, oh, how they multiplied!
The soldiers and sailors and police had to forget all about hunting cats. They were much too busy trying to break up huge rat demonstrations and enormous mass meetings of mice. The year after that, things were very much worse. Pedestrians weren’t safe in the streets in broad daylight, and fleas were jumping from the rats to the people and making them sick, and the shooting had started.
The shooting went on quite a while, but even it had to stop in the third year—because by that time everything inside the Malenkov Curtain was one big, unplanned famine, and few people were left.
Well, children, one day Ivan and a few of his friends were taking a walk in the woods when suddenly they came on a clearing, and there—What do you suppose? There was the man who told everyone else what to do, and the Minister of Revolutionary Security, and six or eight others, men and women, all bundled together and tied up with ropes! And weren’t they annoyed!
Ivan regarded them quietly, paying no attention to the horrid things they were saying. Then he looked at the forest and wrinkled his sensitive nose.
“You can come out,” he announced. “It’s perfectly safe. We won’t eat you!”
He had to repeat it two or three times, but finally a great burly peasant appeared, sniveling and cringing. He was presently followed by about fifty others, who crept up, bowing to Ivan and touching their forelocks and staring at him in awe.
“Good morning,” said Ivan.
“Good day to you, Little Cat Father,” the first peasant whined. “Just see what we’ve brought you, all tied up so nicely. We’ve carried them ever so far. And, Bozhe moi!, we would’ve come sooner, but it’s been so hard finding you. You’d never believe it. We asked everyone, ‘Please, where can we find the handsome, brave cat who tells all die other cats what to do?’ And nobody knew.”
Ivan lashed the tip of his tail.
“Of course not. No cat ever tells another cat what to do. We value our freedom too much.”
“Please do not be angry, Your excellency. Please do not speak in such difficult riddles. We are just simple peasants who have come to beg your forgiveness and to tell you how much we’ve missed you.”
“I gather,” said Ivan, “that you want us to come back and catch mice?”
The man got down on his knees. “Oh, would you? If you’ll please come back, you can live in the Kremlin itself. We’ll be good as gold. We’ll do whatever you say!” And two tears ran down his nose into his big, smelly beard.
Ivan sighed. “Listen carefully, Friend Peasant. No cat tells another cat what to do. No cat ever lets anyone else tell him what to do. Can you understand that?”
“I—I can try”
“Very well. If we agree to come back, it must be under different conditions. There are certain small matters like houses to live in, and books, and veal cutlets and chicken and fresh caviar—but these can come later. First, you must make me one promise: That you never again will let anyone else, man or cat, dictate what you should do.”
“But that means that we must think for ourselves! We could never do that!”
“It’ll seem hard at first,” Ivan told him, “but you’ll catch on with practice.”
The peasant shook with emotion. “I—I promise—Little Cat Father.”
And, one by one, his companions echoed him quaveringly.
“All right, then,” Ivan said. “I shall come back and catch mice . . .”
The peasants shouted with joy. They leaped and they danced and they kissed one another.
“. . . but you’ll have to make separate arrangements with each of the rest of us. I’ve a feeling that we’ll all agree to come back on pretty much the same terms, but I can only speak for myself.”
The peasants bowed themselves happily out to spread the good news; and Ivan was left with his friends and the still-spluttering prisoners.
“Oh dear, what will we do with them?” asked Ninon, a petite silver tabby of whom Ivan was exceedingly fond.
“Might as well put them out of their misery,” said somebody else.
Ivan pondered a while. Then, “Let’s keep them in cages and show them around,” he suggested. They’d be worthless as pets, but they’ll do nicely as horrible examples.”
That, children, is exactly what happened. First, thousands and thousands of people came out of the mountains and deserts and forests where they had been hiding for years. Then Ivan and Scientist Gugov found out how to switch off the Malenkov Curtain—it was really quite simple when more than one genius got to work on it—and we made the acquaintance of the rest of the world. And now, whenever anyone starts to tell anyone else what to do, well, they tell us about it, and we bring the cages around and remind them.
And so, Emily dear, that answers your question. Those in the cages are different from all the nice people you know—that’s why the big snarly one with the whiskers said those awful things to you. He still wants to tell everyone else what to do. And he simply hates cats, Emily dear. Kittens, too.
KRIS NEVILLE
4
OVERTURE
When we published “Bettyann” in New Tales of Space and Time, we predicted a great future for Kris Neville and we are happy to report that we were correct. Neville has since been acclaimed as one of the most talented of the younger science-fiction writers and “Bettyann” as a high-water mark in science-fiction writing. As Anthony Boucher and J. Francis McComas said of Neville in a recent issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction: “. . . he has written just about every kind of fantasy and science-fiction story but one kind he has made distinctively his own: subtle, underplayed stories of human personality.”
In “Overture” we present Bettyann once more. Those readers of the original story who wondered what became of her after she made her great decision will find her more attractive as the knowledge of her mission and duty in life matures her. And her first stirrings of adult romance should make her even more appealing to readers who have already fallen in love with her.
Neville shows an unusual understanding of child and adolescent psychology in his treatments of Bettyann. But he also seems to understand human personality in general extremely well. He does not write merely for “commercial entertainment,” for here is quality writing of a high order, and readers of “Overture” will remember that there has never been a rule which said that quality writing couldn’t or shouldn’t entertain.
We admit to gambling in asking Neville to write a sequel to “Bettyann.” All too often such things just don’t come off. But “Overture” should be acclaimed by those who praised the first story as well as by those who here meet this luminous and lovely young woman for the first time. For “Overture” stands firmly on its own structure and merit and is, in our opinion, another milepost in Neville’s writing career.
4
OVERTURE
IN THE MOUNTAINS SOMEWHERE IN NORTHWESTERN MEXICO, she rested. Looking west, she could see the ocean, placid and blue with distance; and although she was too far away to hear, except in imagination, the roar of the waters against the foreshortened cliffs, she could still smell faintly the tangy and mysterious odor of the ageless salt water.
No Tintern Abbey and no rapid Wye served to recall the intermediate past and the onrush of the imminent tomorrow. Time here was forever and changeless. Her heart slowed its excited rhythm. The tranquil sky bundled prehistory and all of the future together and made them one. She felt that some solitary and magnificent truth would within another heartbeat stand revealed. She wanted to paint the changeless immediacy of the endless sea and the ageless mountains and imprison their spacious silence upon a remote canvas.
The mood vanished. Of all that was strange and wonderful in the universe, most strange and wonderful was that she—herself, tiny, Midwestern Bettyann—should be this moment in Mexico, so far from her home.
Thinking of home and arrival, she imagined herself standing naked on the front porch in Missouri winter (she had left the clothes she was wearing yesterday in the spaceship), knocking on the door with, she hoped, a degree of self-confidence, and announcing when Dave answered, “I’ve come back from Smith a little early this semester, Dad.” She laughed a bird’s soft cry.
She supposed she should be thinking something to the effect: naked we came into the world and naked (clothed however much) we will depart it, while in between the end and the beginning there is a little period of not-nakedness called life.
But the sun sparkled in the snow of the mountain peaks high above, and the winter breeze tasted of spring. She wanted to touch the evergreen trees and race on human legs across the deeply conceiving earth. It was good to be home (home: to this, her planet, which she had almost left and lost forever). Already, she imagined, the spaceship containing the last of the ancient and alien race from which she was descended had risen from the Pacific and hurled itself at the distant stars. Doubtless the mist of its volcanic departure drifted now above the face of the still waters and molded rainbows from the dawn. Good-by, she thought, good-by. They were very thoughtful and kind to have sought her out among humans. She hoped they would understand why she had decided at the last moment that she could not go with them. Good-by.
Her laughter fell upon the sunlight, and she was in a great hurry to be home with Dave and Jane, parents more real than those who bore her and whom she had never known.
She spread her powerful seabird wings, and the smooth pinions settled. Her muscles were vigorous with longing, and she launched herself into the buoyant air, circled for the last time out across the fabulous water and soared east.
The high currents seemed to hurry her along like soft and friendly hands. Every pulse of her wings carried her farther from the silvery ship whose landing port had gaped like a hungry mouth and whose shiny walls had prepared to imprison her forever. Forgotten was the exultation that had filled her when she realized that her own body was strange and wonderful and new. She was lost in the joy of physical conquest. The air spilled above and beneath her and lifted her ever higher.
But as the sun fell behind her and the light flickered upon the colored clouds, she remembered old man Starke dying—perhaps even now dead—of cancer. She shuddered against the suddenly chilling wind. What could she do? The vast excitement she had felt when she first realized what it might mean to uncover the secrets of her body was, in retrospect, frighteningly blunted with doubt. What could she do? With only a wild and unknown potential, what chance did she have to succeed where doctors had failed? She imagined herself standing beside Dr. Wing, who had cared for her throughout much of her childhood, instructing him about the proper way to treat old man Starke. Before his wisdom she would be dwarfed and helpless. She would merit pity instead of respect from his soft eyes, and his kind and gentle hands would move in embarrassment before her pretensions. She remembered him now with a strange admixture of emotions; she wanted to be able to speak to him as adult to adult of adult things, and, perhaps, even speak to him as woman to man.
What can I do? she thought. Doubt and uncertainty fluttered uneasily in her mind.
Long hours later she rested. The sun had fallen away to night, and she slept, perched far inland. And dawn came, and flight. Her muscles were weary and her body ached, and night came down, then dawn once more. Riding lightly upon the high currents of air, she traveled in the bright, thin cold, and the world far below unrolled forever.
Looking down from above the clouds it seemed to her that every home—every structure, every localization of man—constituted the center of the world. She could see the interconnection and dependence of each. She thought that the world had become—in the perspective of airy distance and perhaps in spite of itself—a single unit: each center linked by an inevitable series of roads and rivers and lakes and oceans and lanes of commerce and sustenance to all the rest.
And dusk and darkness and then the town lay ahead.
At the first sparkle of it, she recalled the face of a boy whose name had passed from memory.
One evening, when she was a sophomore in high school, he had come unasked to the porch. Bettyann was sitting in the swing. Jane and Dave were downtown. He spat on the sidewalk and said, “I’ll kick hell outa that guy, he ever bothers you.” Bettyann did not know what he was talking about. He stood by the steps. He rubbed one hand nervously along his thigh. He took out a knife with a six-inch blade and opened it. “He better not bother you.” He was no more than sixteen; he sniped cigarettes from the gutters and leaned in doorways and looked wisely old when the high school girls came by. He began to speak to Bettyann intently in a soft, eager voice. He was going to New York, he was going to become a famous writer, he was . . . Dusk lengthened, and suddenly he interrupted himself and leaned forward. “Run away with me!” he said. “You come on with me. I’m tough. I can take care of us. I’m big enough to take care of us both.” Bettyann was thoroughly frightened by his intensity. With sudden self-awareness and melodrama, he said, “I’m no good,” and then as if to shock her and the world and somehow reassert his own being, he said, “I’m no God damned good!” He half ran toward
the street, but at the walk he turned to cry, “I’m going to New York! You’ll see!” And then he ran in earnest. The next afternoon he stole an automobile, and a week later, after three robberies and one assault, the authorities captured him and sent him to Boonville.
Coming home, she remembered his face, and far above the world she told herself: He was lonely. She wondered if she could have said something, that spring evening, to have eased his loneliness . . .
The square was a circle of light that flashed its rays down boulevards and streets to the city limits, and truck and car headlights carried the illumination beyond the town into the darkness of country night.
The wind was chill and sharp against her, and when the clouds parted now and again, snow glistened between shadows. The town lay against the night and the elements—a world in miniature and life in microcosm. It seemed to her a representative center of duplication, and if she could understand it, with its complexity of passions and relationships, she could understand the world. And as she drew near now, and as her heart burst with pride and longing, she saw the steeple of the courthouse directing aspiration and promising continuity ( a massive and rooted structure that bridged a lifetime of history and a thousand years of art), and she realized with a sharp, piercing sense of loneliness: I am not human.
Nothing but her own lifetime, the few short years of belonging, linked her to them, while each member of mankind, however alone, was in a larger sense related to time and the world and possessed, in genetic continuity, a million common passions and two billion brothers. Her race came from the stars, from across immeasurable distances, and were old and would travel forever among the planets of a million suns; and while she could never belong to them, neither (she felt now, suddenly, frighteningly, in a moment of intense isolation) could she ever belong again here, in the town and with the people she had known beyond memory.
Snow lay on the courthouse lawn below where once turnips had defied propriety—where a mute, inglorious humanitarian had with single-minded purpose engineered an outrage to local pride. In the depth of the Depression he (a Dutchman with but scant command of English but with a resolution to action and high purpose beyond his means) mixed turnip with grass seeds and so consummated an indignity the extent of which gradually became apparent throughout the following weeks. His excuse was merely: “Turnips are goot vor eating.”