The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (21 page)

She answered soothingly, “That’s all right, dear. You handle the radio—we’ll need some Maydays, I think. While I drive.”

“You can drive this behemoth?”

“Certainly. I didn’t want to volunteer, with you two men here. But I’ll be happy to drive. Two more hours, about. Easy.”

Three minutes later Gwen was checking the controls; I was seated beside her, figuring out how to jack my suit into the bus’s radio. Two of those minutes had been spent delegating Bill as master at arms with orders to keep Lady Dee in her seat. She had come forward again, with firm instructions about how things were to be done. Seems she was in a hurry—something about a directors’ meeting in Ell-Four. So we must drive fast, make up for lost time.

This time I did get to hear Gwen’s comment. It was heartwarming. Lady Dee gasped, especially when Gwen told her what to do with her proxies, after she folded them until they were all sharp corners.

Gwen let in the clutches, the
Hear Me
shook, then backed, swung past the other rolligon, and we were away. I finally punched the right buttons on the radio, tuned it to what I thought was the right channel:

“—O, M, F, I, E, S spells ‘
Comfies!
’ the perfect answer to the stresses of modern living! Don’t take the cares of business home with you. Take comfort from Comfies, the scientific stomach boon therapists prescribe more than any other—”

I tried another channel.

“The truth is the one thing that nobody will believe.”

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
1856-1950

I went on hunting for eleven, the emergencies channel, by trial and error; the read-out was marked but not by numbered channels—Auntie had her own codes. The window reading “Help” was not help for emergencies as I had assumed, but spiritual help. I punched it in and got “This is the Reverend Herold Angel speaking from my heart direct to yours, at Tycho-Under Tabernacle, Christ’s Home in Luna. Tune in at eight o’clock Sunday to hear the true meanings of the Scriptural prophecies…and send your love gift today to Box 99, Angel Station, Tycho Under. Our Good News Theme for today: How We Will Know the Master When He Comes. Now we join the Tabernacle Choir in ‘Jesus Holds Me in His—’”

That sort of help was about forty minutes too late, so I moved on to another channel. There I recognized a voice and concluded that I must be on channel thirteen. So I called, “Captain Midnight calling Captain Marcy. Come in. Captain Marcy.”

“Marcy, ground control Hong Kong Luna. Midnight, what the devil are you up to now? Over.”

I tried to explain, in twenty-five words or less, how I happened to be on his maneuvering circuit. He listened, then interrupted: “Midnight, what have you been smoking? Let me talk to your wife; I can believe her.”

“She can’t talk to you now; she’s driving this bus.”

“Hold it. You tell me you are a passenger in the rolligon
Hear Me, Jesus.
That’s Lilybet Washington’s bus; why is your wife driving it?”

“I tried to tell you. She’s been shot. Auntie Lilybet, I mean, not my wife. We were jumped by bandits.”

“There are no bandits in that area.”

“That’s right; we killed ’em. Captain,
listen
, and quit jumping to conclusions. We were attacked. We have three dead and two wounded…and my wife is driving because she’s the only able-bodied person left who can.”

“You’re wounded?”

“No.”

“But you said your wife is the only able-bodied person left who can drive.”

“Yes.”

“Let me get this straight. Day before yesterday you were piloting a spacecraft—Or was your wife the pilot?”

“I was the pilot. What’s itching you. Captain?”

“You can pilot a spacecraft…but you can’t drive a little old roily. That’s hard to swallow.”

“Simple. I can’t use my right foot.”

“But you said you weren’t wounded.”

“I’m not. I’ve just lost a foot, that’s all. Well, not ‘lost’—I have it here in my lap. But I can’t use it.”

“Why
can’t
you use it?”

I took a deep breath and attempted to recall Siacci empiricals for ballistics on atmosphere planets. “Captain Marcy, is there anyone in your organization—or anywhere in Hong Kong Luna—who might be interested in the fact that bandits attacked a public bus serving your city, only a few klicks outside your city pressure? And is there anyone who can receive the dead and wounded when we arrive with them? And who won’t care who drives this bus? And doesn’t find it incredible dial a man could have had a foot amputated years back?”

“Why didn’t you
say
so?”

“God damn it. Captain, it was none of your bloody business!”

There was silence for several seconds. Then Captain Marcy said quietly, “Perhaps you’re right. Midnight, I’m going to patch you through to Major Bozell. He’s a wholesaler by trade but he also commands our Vigilante Volunteers and that’s why you should talk to him. Just hang on.”

I waited and watched Gwen’s driving. When we started, her handling had been a bit rough, just as anyone’s will be in getting acquainted with a strange machine. Now her driving was smooth, if not as dashing as Auntie’s driving.

“Bozell here. Do you read?”

I replied…and almost at once ran into a nightmare feeling of déjà vu, as he interrupted with: “There are no bandits in that area.”

I sighed. “If you say so. Major. But there are nine corpses and an abandoned rolligon in that area. Perhaps someone would be interested in searching those bodies, salvaging their p-suits and weapons, and in claiming that abandoned rolligon…before some peaceful settlers who would never think of turning bandit show up and take everything.”

“Hmmm. Choy-Mu tells me that he is getting a satellite photo of the spot where this alleged attack took place. If there really is an abandoned rolligon—”

“Major!”

“Yes?”

“I don’t care what you believe. I don’t give a hoot about salvage. We’ll be at the north airlock about three-thirty. Can you have a medic meet us, with a stretcher and bearers? That’s for Mistress Lilybet Washington. She’s—”

“I know who she is; she’s been driving that route since I was a kid. Let me talk to her.”

“She’s wounded, I told you. She’s lying down and I hope she’s asleep. If she’s not, I still won’t disturb her; it might start more bleeding. Just have somebody at the airlock to take care of her. And for three dead ones, too, one of them a small child. Its mother is with us and in shock, name of Ekaterina O’Toole, and her husband lives in your city. Nigel O’Toole and maybe you can have somebody call him so that he can meet his family and take care of them. That’s all. Major. When I called you, I was a bit nervous about bandits. But since there aren’t any bandits in this area, we have no reason to ask for vigilante protection out here on the Sea of Serenity this fine sunny day, and I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep.”

“That’s all right; we’re here to help—no need to be sarcastic. This is being recorded. State your full name and legal address, then repeat: As representative of Lilybet Washington of Lucky Dragon Pressure, doing business as the Apocalypse and Kingdom Come Bus Company, I authorize Major Kirk Bozell, commanding officer and business manager of the Hong Kong Luna Vigilante Volunteers, to supply—”

“Hold it. What is this?”

“Just the standard contract covering services for personal protection and property conservation, and guaranteeing payment. You can’t expect to roust a platoon of guards out of bed in the middle of the night and not pay for it. TANSTAAFL. No free lunch.”

“Hmm. Major, do you happen to have any hemorrhoid salve on hand? Preparation H? Pazo? That sort of thing?”

“Eh? I use Tiger Balm. Why?”

“You’re going to need it. Take that standard contract, fold it until it is all sharp corners—”

I stayed tuned to thirteen, made no further effort to find the emergencies channel. So far as I could see there was no point to shouting “
M’aidez!
” on channel eleven when I had already talked to the only likely source of help. I leaned my helmet against Gwen’s and summarized, then added, “Both the idiots insisted that there are no bandits out here.”

“Maybe they weren’t bandits. Maybe they were just agrarian reformers making a political statement. I surely hope we don’t run into any right-wing extremists! Richard, I had better not talk while I’m driving. Strange car, strange road—only it’s not a road.”

“Sorry, hon! You’re doing beautifully. How can I help?”

“It would help a lot if you would spot the markers for me.”

“Sure thing!”

“Then I could keep my eyes down and watch the road close ahead. Some of those potholes are worse than Manhattan.”

“Impossible.”

We worked out a system that helped her while bothering her least. As soon as I spotted a marker I pointed at it. When she saw it, too—not before—she slapped my knee. We didn’t talk because touching helmets did tend to interfere with her driving.

About an hour later a rolligon showed up ahead and came straight toward us at high speed. Gwen tapped her helmet over her ear; I pressed my helmet to hers. She said, “More agrarian reformers?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m out of ammo.”

“So am I.” I sighed. “We’ll just have to get them to the conference table somehow. After all, violence never solves anything.”

Gwen made an unladylike comment and added, “What about that gun you took away from Sir Galahad?”

“Oh. Hon, I haven’t even looked at it. Hand me the stupid hat.”

“You’re not stupid, Richard, just spiritual. Take a look.”

I drew that confiscated side arm from my suit belt, examined it. Then I touched helmets again. “Honey, you’re not going to believe this. It’s not loaded.”

“Huh!”

“Indeed ‘Huh.’ Aside from that I have no comment. And you can quote me.”

I chucked that useless weapon into a corner of the bus and looked out at the other rolligon, now rapidly closing. Why would anyone wear an unloaded weapon? Sheer folly!

Gwen tapped her ear again. I touched helmets. “Yes?”

“The ammo for that gun is on the body, you can bet on it.”

“I won’t bet; I figured that out. Gwen, if I were to try to search that corpse, I would have to cool the other two first. It’s not a good idea.”

“I agree. And no time for it anyhow. There they come.”

Only they didn’t, not quite. The other rolligon, while still some two hundred meters away, swung to its left, made it clear that it was avoiding a collision course. As it passed us I read on its side: Vigilante Volunteers—Hong Kong Luna.

Shortly Marcy called me. “Bozell says he found you but can’t reach you by radio.”

“I don’t know why not. You reached me.”

“Because I figured out that you would be on the wrong channel. Midnight, whatever you should be doing, it is a dead certainty that you will always be doing something else.”

“You flatter me. What should I have done this time?”

“You should have been guarding channel two, that’s what. The one reserved for surface vehicles.”

“Every day I learn something. Thanks.”

“Anyone who doesn’t know that should not be operating a vehicle on the surface of this planet.”

“Captain, you are so right.” I shut up.

We could see Hong Kong Luna over the horizon many minutes before we got there—the emergency landing pylon, the big dishes used to talk to Earth and the bigger ones for Mars and the Belt, the solar power grids—and it got even more impressive as we got closer. Of course everyone lives underground…but I tend to forget how much of Luna’s heavy industry is on the surface—and illogical that I should forget, since most of Luna’s great wealth is tied in with raw sunshine, bitter nights, and endless vacuum. But, as my wife pointed out, I’m the spiritual type.

We passed Nissan-Shell’s new complex, hectare after hectare of pipes and cracking columns and inverse stills and valves and pumps and Bussard pyramids. The long shadows carved by the rising Sun made it a picture out of Gustave Doré, by Pieter Brueghel (zoon), orchestrated by Salvador Dali. Just beyond it we found the north lock.

Because of Aunt Lilybet they let us use the small Kwiklok. Bill went through with Auntie—he had earned that—then Lady Dee and her surviving husband crowded in ahead of Ekaterina and the kids. Dear Diana had distinguished herself again by demanding that she be taken to the spaceport rather than to a city lock. Bill and I had not let her bother Gwen with her royal commands, but it had decreased (if this be possible) her popularity with us. I was glad to see them disappear into the lock. And it worked out all right as Ekaterina’s husband cycled outward through the main lock just as we were losing our VIPs. Nigel O’Toole took his family (including that pathetic little body) back the same way, after Gwen hugged Ekaterina and promised to call her.

Then it was our turn…only to find that Tree-San could not be fitted into a Kwiklok. So we backed out and went around to the larger (and slower) lock. Someone, I saw, was lifting down the body from the turret of
Hear Me, Jesus
and others were unloading its cargo, under the eyes of four armed guards. I wondered what was in that cargo. But it was none of my business. (Or maybe it was—it seemed possible that this cargo had been the cause of carnage and death.) We went into the larger lock—ourselves, bonsai maple, small suitcase, purse, packaged wig, cane, prosthetic foot.

The lock cycled and we entered a long, sloping tunnel, then passed through two pressure doors. At the second door was a slot machine for vending short-time air licenses but it had a sign on it: OUT OF ORDER—Visitors please leave a half crown for 24 hrs. A saucer with some coins in it rested on top of the machine; I added a crown for Gwen and me.

At the bottom of the tunnel one more pressure door let us into the city.

There were benches just inside for the convenience of persons suiting up or suiting out. With a sigh of relief I started unzipping and shortly was fastening in place my artificial foot.

Dry Bones is a village. Lucky Dragon is a small town. Hong Kong Luna is a metropolis second only to Luna City. At the moment it did not look crowded but this was the dead of the night; only night workers were up and around. Even early risers had two more hours of sleep coming, no matter that it was broad daylight outside.