The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (12 page)

“Mistress Hardesty,” Gwen answered promptly.

“I agree,” Dr. Schultz said soberly. “A proper precaution. Senator, what is your surname?”

“It can’t be ‘Cantor’; I might run into someone who knows what Senator Cantor looks like. Uh… Hardesty?”

“No, she’s your secretary, not your wife. ‘Johnson.’ There have been more senators named ‘Johnson’ than any other name, so it arouses no suspicion—and it matches Bill’s last name…which could be useful.” He wrote on the card, handed it to me. “Your host’s name is Tiger Kondo and he teaches all sorts of kill-quick in his spare time. You can depend on him.”

“Thank you, sir.” I glanced at the card, pocketed it. “Doctor, do you want more retainer now?”

He grinned jovially. “Now, now! I haven’t yet determined how deeply I can bleed you. My motto is ‘All the traffic will bear’—but never make the mark anemic.”

“Reasonable. Till later, then. We had better not leave together.”

“I agree. Nineteen o’clock is my best guess. Dear friends, it has been both a pleasure and a privilege. And let us not forget the true importance of this day. My felicitations, ma’am. My congratulations, sir. May your life together be long and peaceful and filled with love.”

Gwen got on her tiptoes and kissed him for that, and they both had tears in their eyes. Well, so did I.

“The biscuits and the syrup never come out even.”

LAZARUS LONG
1912—

Gwen took us straight to the Spaceman’s Widow, tucked in behind Macy’s storerooms just as she had said, in one of those odd little corners formed by the habitat’s cylindrical shape—if you didn’t know it was there, you probably would never find it. It was pleasantly quiet after the crowds we had encountered at the spaceport end of the axis.

Ordinarily this end was for passenger craft only, with freighters ganging up at the other end of the axis of spin. But positioning the new addition for bringing it up to spin had caused all traffic to be routed to the Moonward, or forward, end—“forward” because Golden Rule is long enough to have a slight tidal effect, and will have even more when the new addition is welded on. I don’t mean that it has daily tides; it does not. But what it does have—

(I may be telling too much; it depends on how much you have had to do with habitats. You can skip this with no loss.)

What it does have is a tidal lock on Luna; the forward end points forever straight down at the Moon. If Golden Rule were the size of a shuttle craft, or as far away as Ell-Five, this would not happen. But Golden Rule is over five kilometers long and it orbits around a center of mass only a little over two thousand kilometers away. Surely, that’s only one part in four hundred—but it’s a square law and there’s no friction and the effect goes on forever; it’s locked. The tidal lock Earth has on Luna is only four times that—much less if you bear in mind that Luna is round as a tennis ball whereas Golden Rule is shaped more like a cigar.

Golden Rule has another orbital peculiarity. It orbits from pole to pole (okay, everybody knows that—sorry) but also this orbit, elliptical but almost a perfect circle, has that circle fully open to the Sun, i.e., the plane of its orbit faces the Sun, always, while Luna rotates under it. Like Foucault’s pendulum. Like the spy satellites patrolling Earth.

Or, to put it another way. Golden Rule simply follows the terminator, the day-and-night line on Luna, around and around and around, endlessly—never in shadow. (Well—In shadow at Lunar eclipses, if you want to pick nits. But only then.)

This configuration is only metastable; it is not locked. Everything tugs at it, even Saturn and Jupiter. But there is a little pilot computer in Golden Rule that does nothing but make sure Golden Rule’s orbit is always full face to the Sun—thereby giving Old MacDonald’s Farm its bountiful crops. It doesn’t even take power to speak of, just the tiniest nudges against the tiny deviations.

I hope you skipped the above. Ballistics is interesting only to those who use it.

Mr. Kondo was small, apparently of Japanese ancestry, very polite, and had muscles as sleek as a jaguar—he moved like one. Even without Dr. Schultz’s tip I would have known that I did not want to encounter Tiger Kondo in a dark alley unless he was there to protect
me
.

His door did not open fully until I showed Dr. Schultz’s card. Then he at once made us welcome with formal but warm hospitality. The place was small, only half filled, mostly men, and the women were not (I thought) their wives. But not tarts, either. The feeling was that of professional equals. Our host sized us up, decided that we did not belong in the main room with the regulars, put us in a little side room or booth, one big enough for us three and our baggage but just barely. He then took our orders. I asked if dinner was available.

“Yes and no,” he answered. “Sushi is available. And sukiyaki cooked at the table by my eldest daughter. Hamburgers and hot dogs can be had. There is pizza but it is frozen; we do not make it. Or recommend it. This is primarily a bar; we serve food but do not demand that our guests eat here. You are welcome to play go or chess or cards all night and never order anything.”

Gwen put a hand on my sleeve. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

She spoke to him at some length and I never understood a word. But his face lit up. He bowed and left. I said, “Well?”

“I asked if we could have what I had last time…and that is not a specific dish but an invitation to Mama-San to use her judgment with whatever she has. It also let him admit that I had been here before…which he would never have done had I not published it, as I was here with another man. He also told me that our little pet here is the best specimen of rock maple he has ever seen outside Nippon…and I asked him to spray it for me just before we leave. He will.”

“Did you tell him we were married?”

“Not necessary. The idiom I used in speaking of you implied it.”

I wanted to ask her when and how she had learned Japanese but did not—Gwen would tell me when it suited her. (How many marriages are ruined by that itch to know “all about” a spouse? As a veteran of countless true confession stories I can assure you that unbridled curiosity about your wife’s/husband’s past is a sure formula for domestic tragedy.)

Instead I spoke to Bill. “Bill, this is your last chance. If you want to stay in Golden Rule, now is the time to leave. After you have had dinner, I mean. But after dinner we are going down to the Moon. You can come with us, or stay here.”

Bill looked startled. “Did
she
say I got a choice?”

Gwen said sharply, “Of course you do! You can come with us…in which case I shall require you to behave like a civilized human being at all times. Or you can remain in Golden Rule and go back to your turf—and tell Fingers you botched the job he got you.”

“I didn’t botch it!
He
did.”

Meaning me—I said, “That does it, Gwen. He resents me. I don’t want him around—much less have to support him. He’ll slip poison into my soup some night.”

“Oh, Bill wouldn’t do that. Would you. Bill?”

I said, “Oh, wouldn’t he? Notice how quick he is to answer? Gwen, earlier today he tried to shoot me. Why should I put up with his surly behavior?”

“Richard, please! You can’t expect him to get well all at once.”

This feckless discussion was cut short by Mr. Kondo returning to the table to arrange it for dinner…including hold-down clips for our little tree. One tenth of Earth-normal gravity is enough to hold food on a plate, hold feet against the floor—but just barely. The chairs here were fastened to the floor; there were seat belts on them if you wished to use them—I didn’t but a belt does have its points if you have to cut tough steak. Tumblers and cups had lids and sidesippers. The last was perhaps the most needed adaptation; you can easily scald yourself picking up a cup of hot coffee in a tenth gee—the weight is nothing but the inertia is undiminished…and so it slops, all over you.

As Mr. Kondo was placing flatware and sticks at my place he said quietly into my ear, “Senator, is it possible that you were present at the Solis Lacus drop?”

I answered heartily, “I certainly was, mate! You were there, too?”

He bowed. “I had that honor.”

“What outfit?”

“Go for Broke, Oahu.”

“Old ‘Go for Broke,’” I said reverently. “The most decorated outfit in all history. Proud, man, proud!”

“On behalf of my comrades I thank you. And you, sir?”

“I dropped with… Campbell’s Killers.”

Mr. Kondo drew air through his teeth. “Ah, so! Proud indeed.” He bowed again and went quickly into the kitchen.

I stared glumly at my plate. Caught out—Kondo had recognized me. But when the day comes that, asked point blank, I deny my comrades, don’t bother to check my pulse, don’t even bother to cremate me—just haul me out with the swill.

“Richard?”

“Huh? Yes, dear?”

“May I be excused?”

“Certainly. Do you feel all right?”

“Quite all right, thank you, but I have something to take care of.” She left, headed for the passage leading to the lounges and the exit, moving in that feather-light motion that is dancing rather than walking—at a tenth gee real walking can be accomplished only by wearing grips, magnetic or otherwise—or very long practice; Mr. Kondo was not wearing grips—he glided like a cat.

“Senator?”

“Yes, Bill?”

“Is she mad at me?”

“I don’t think so.” I was about to add that I would be displeased with him if he persisted in—then shut up in my mind. Threatening to leave Bill behind was too much like beating a baby; he had no armor. “She simply wants you to stand tall and not blame other people for your acts. Not make excuses.”

Having delivered myself of my favorite duck-billed platitude I went back to glum self-assessment.
I
make excuses. Yes, but not out loud, just to myself. That’s an excuse in itself, chum—whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve been, is all, totally, one hundred percent, your own fault. All.

Or to my credit. Yes, but damned little. Come on, be truthful.

But look where I started…and still got all the way up to colonel.

In the most whoreson, chancre-ridden, thieving, looting gang of thugs since the Crusades
.

Don’t talk that way about the Regiment!

Very well. But they aren’t the Coldstream Guards, are they?

Those
dudes! Why, just one platoon of Campbell’s—

Dreck.

Gwen returned, having been gone—oh, quite a time. I hadn’t checked the time when she left but it was now, I saw, almost eighteen. I tried to stand—not practical with both table and chair bolted down. She asked, “Have I held up dinner?”

“Not a bit. We ate, and threw the leavings to me pigs.”

“All right. Mama-San won’t let me go hungry.”

“And Papa-San won’t serve without you.”

“Richard. I did something without consulting you.”

“I don’t see anything in the book that says that you have to. Can we square it with the cops?”

“Nothing like that. You’ve noticed the fezzes around town all day—excursionists up from the Shriners convention in Luna City.”

“So that’s what they are. I thought Turkey had invaded us.”

“If you like. But you’ve seen them today, wandering up and down the Lane and the Camino, buying anything that doesn’t bite. I suspect that most of them are not staying overnight; they have a full program in Luna City and have hotel rooms there already paid for. The late shuttles are sure to be crowded—”

“With drunk Turks, woofing into their fezzes. And onto the cushions.”

“No doubt. It occurred to me that even the twenty o’clock schedule is likely to be fully booked rather early. So I bought tickets for us and reserved couches.”

“And now you’re expecting me to pay you back? Submit a claim and I’ll pass it along to my legal department.”

“Richard, I was afraid we would not get away from here at all tonight.”

“Mistress Hardesty, you continue to impress me. What was the total?”

“We can straighten out finances another time. I just felt that I could eat dinner in a happier frame of mind if I was sure that we could get away promptly after dinner. And, uh—” She paused, looked at Bill. “Bill.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“We are about to eat dinner. Go wash your hands.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t grunt. Do as I tell you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bill got up docilely, went out.

Gwen turned back to me. “I was antsy. Fidgety. Because of the Limburger.”

“What Limburger?”

“Your Limburger, dear. It was part of what I salvaged from your larder, then I put it out on the cheese and fruit tray when we had lunch. There was a little hundred-gram wedge, untouched, still in its wrapping, when we finished. Rather than throw it away, I put it in my purse. I thought it might make a nice snack—”

“Gwen.”

“All right, all right! I saved it on purpose…because I’ve used it in looking-glass warfare before this. It’s much nicer than some of the things on the list. Why, you wouldn’t believe what nasty—”

“Gwen. I wrote the list. Stick to your muttons.”

“In Mr. Sethos’s office, you will remember that I was seated almost against the bulkhead—and right by the main ventilation discharge. Quite a draft against my legs and uncomfortably warm. I got to thinking—”

“Gwen.”

“They’re all alike, all through the habitat—local control, both on heat and volume. And the louvre just snaps on. While Accounting was working up our final statement, the Manager was studiously ignoring us. I turned the volume down and the heat to neutral, and snapped off the cover. I rubbed Limburger cheese all over the vanes of the heat exchanger, and tossed the rest of the package as far back into the duct as I could manage, and put the louvre back on. Then, just before we left, I turned the heat control to ‘cold’ and turned the volume up.” She looked worried. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“No. But I’m glad you’re on my side. Uh…you
are
—aren’t you?”

“Richard!”

“But I’m even gladder that we have reservations on the next shuttle. I wonder how long it will be until Sethos feels chilly and turns up the heat?”