The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (46 page)

The fence was heavy steel mesh, two meters high and with a six-strand cradle of barbed wire on top of that. I think the barbed wire was added later; I did not recall it.

Inside the cradle were copper wires on ceramic insulators. About every twenty meters there was a sign:

At the gate was another sign, larger:

Hazel said thoughtfully, “Richard, it does not look as if Uncle Jock lives here this year. Or this is the wrong house and Gay missed her clues. I may have to call for help.”

“It’s the right house and Uncle Jock did—does—live here this year. If this year is 2177, on which I’m keeping an open mind. That sign smells like Uncle Jock; he always did have funny ideas about privacy. One year it was piranhas and a moat.”

I found a push button to the right of the gate and pressed it. A brassy voice, so artificial that it had to be an actor, announced: “Stand one-half meter from pickup. Display your clock badge. Face pickup. Turn ninety degrees and show profile. These premises are guarded by attack dogs, gas, and snipers.”

“Is Jock Campbell at home?”

“Identify yourself.”

“This is his nephew Colin Campbell. Tell him her father found out!”

The brassy voice was replaced by one I recognized. “Dickie, are you in trouble again?”

“No, Uncle Jock. I simply want to get in. I thought you were expecting me.”

“Anyone with you?”

“My wife.”

“What’s her first name?”

“Go to hell.”

“Later, don’t rush me. I need her first name.”

“And I won’t play games; we’re leaving. If you see Lazarus Long—or Dr. Hubert—tell him that I’m sick of childish games and won’t play. Good-bye, Uncle.”

“Hold it! Don’t move; I have you in my sights.”

I turned away without answering and said to Hazel, “Let’s start walking, hon. Town is a far piece down the road but somebody will come along and give us a lift. People around here are friendly.”

“I can phone for help. The way I did from the Raffles.” She lifted her handbag.

“Can you? Wouldn’t the call be relayed right back to this house no matter where or when or what time line? Or have I failed to understand any of it? Let’s start hoofing it. My turn to carry that fierce cat.”

“All right.”

Hazel did not seem to be troubled over our failure to get into Uncle Jock’s place, or Time Headquarters, whichever As for me, I was happy, light-hearted. I had a beautiful, lovable bride. I was no longer a cripple and I felt years younger than my calendar age. If I still had a calendar age. The weather was heavenly in a fashion that only Iowa knows. Oh, it would be hot later in the day (it takes hot sun to grow good corn) but now, at about ten-fifteen, it was still balmy; by the time it was really hot I would have my bride—and the kitten—indoors. Even if we had to stop at the next farmhouse. Let’s see…the Tanguays? Or had the old man sold out by 2177? No matter.

I was not worried by my lack of local legal money, my lack of tangible assets of any sort. A beautiful summer day in Iowa leaves no room for worry. I could work and would—spreading manure if that was the sort of work available. And I would soon spread manure of another sort, moonlighting nights and Sundays. In 2177 Evelyn Fingerhut had not yet retired, so pick some new pen names and sell him the same old tripe. The same stories—just file off the serial numbers.

File off the serial numbers, change the body lines a bit. give it a new paint job, switch it over the state line, and it’s yours!—that’s the secret of literary success. Editors always claim to be looking for new stories but they don’t buy them; they buy “mixture as before.” Because the cash customers want to be entertained, not amazed, not instructed, not frightened.

If people truly wanted novelty, baseball would have died out two centuries back…instead of being ever popular. What can possibly happen in a baseball game that everyone has not seen many times before? Yet people like to watch baseball—shucks, I’d enjoy seeing a baseball game right now, with hot dogs and beer.

“Hazel, do you enjoy baseball?”

“Never had a chance to find out. When the drugs against acceleration came along, I went dirtside for my law degree but never had time to watch baseball even in the idiot box. I worked my way through law school and was I busy! That was when I was Sadie Lipschitz.”

“Why were you? You said you didn’t like that name.”

“Sure you want to know? The answer to ‘Why’ is always ‘Money.’”

“If you want me to know, you’ll tell me.”

“Scoundrel. That was right after Slim Lemke Stone died and—What in the world is that racket?”

“That’s an automobile.” I glanced around for the source of the noise.

Starting about 2150 or a little earlier (I saw my first one the year I signed up) supreme swank for an Iowa fanner was to own and drive a working replica of a twentieth-century “automobile” personal transport vehicle. Of course not a vehicle moved by means of internal explosions of a derivative of rock oil: Even the People’s Republic of South Africa had laws against placing poisons in the air. But with its Shipstone concealed and a sound tape to supply the noise of a soi-disant “IC” engine, the difference between a working replica and a real “automobile” was not readily apparent.

This one was the swankest of all replicas, a Tin Lizzy, a “Ford touring car. Model T, 1914.” It was as dignified as Queen Victoria, whom it resembled. And it was Uncle Jock’s…as I had suspected when I heard that infernal banging.

I said to Hazel, “Here, you take Pixel and soothe him; he’s certainly never heard anything like this. And ease well off to the side of the road; these wagons are erratic.” We continued on down the road; the replica pulled alongside us and stopped.

“Need a lift, folks?” Uncle Jock asked. Up close the racket was horrible.

I turned and grinned at him, and answered, mouthing my words so that they couldn’t possibly be heard above the noise: “Four score and seven years ago did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”

“How’s that again?”

“Billiards will never replace sex, or even tomatoes.”

Uncle Jock reached down and switched off the sound effects. I said, “Thanks, Uncle. The noise was scaring our kitten. It’s mighty nice of you to turn it off. What were you saying? I couldn’t hear you over the engine noise.”

“I asked if you wanted a lift.”

“Why, thank you. Going into Grinnell?”

“I planned to take you back to the house. Why did you run away?”

“You know why. Did Dr. Hubert or Lazarus Long or whatever name he’s using this week put you up to it? If so, why?”

“Introduce me first, if you please, nephew. And pardon me for not getting down, ma’am; this steed is skittish.”

“Jock Campbell you old goat, don’t you dare pretend that you don’t know me! I’ll have your rocks for castanets. Believe!”

For the first time that I can remember. Uncle Jock seemed shocked and baffled. “Madam?”

Hazel saw his expression, said hastily, “Are we inverted? I’m sorry. I’m Major Sadie Lipschitz, Time Corps, DOL, assigned to Overlord. I met you first in Boondock about ten of my subjective years ago. You invited me to visit you here, and I did, in year 2186 as I recall. Click?”

“Click, a clear inversion. Major, I’m happy indeed to meet you. But I’m happier still to learn that I will meet you again. I’m looking forward to it.”

Hazel answered, “We had a good time, I promise you. I’m married to your nephew now…but you’re still an old goat. Get down out of that toy wagon and kiss me like you mean it.”

Hastily Uncle unclutched his rotor and got down; Hazel handed Pixel to me, which saved his life. After a while the old goat said, “No, I have not met you before; I could not possibly forget.”

Hazel answered, “Yes, I have met you before; I’ll never forget. God, it’s good to see you again. Jock. You haven’t changed. When was your last rejuvenation?”

“Five subjective years ago—just long enough to marinate. But I wouldn’t let them youthen my face. When was yours?”

“Same subjective, about. Wasn’t due for it yet but I needed cosmetic because I planned to marry your nephew. So I took a booster along with it. Turned out I needed it; he’s a goat, too.”

“I know. Dickie had to enlist because they were closing in on him from all sides.” (An outright lie!) “But are you sure your name is Sadie? That’s not the name Lazarus gave me as a test word.”

“My name is whatever I want it to be, just as it is with Lazarus. My, I’m glad they moved THQ to your place last night! Kiss me again.”

He did and finally I said mildly, “Not on a public road, folks, not in Poweshiek County. This is not Boondock.”

“Mind your own business, nephew. Sadie, headquarters was not moved here last night; that was three years ago.”

“The majority is never right.”

L. LONG
1912-

We rode back to the house, Hazel up front with Uncle Jock, Pixel and me back with the packages. As a favor to Pixel, the replica Model T moved as silently as a ghost. (Do ghosts really move silently? How do such clichés get started?) The gate opened to Uncle Jock’s voice and no lethal defenses were actuated. If there were any. Knowing Uncle Jock I suspect that there were—but not the ones posted.

We were met on the front veranda by Aunt Til and Aunt Cissy. While Uncle Jock went inside, my aunts welcomed my bride into the family with all the warmth of country manners. Then I passed the kitten to Hazel and I was greeted by them much as Hazel had greeted Uncle but with no time loop to confuse us. Golly, it was good to be home! Despite my sometimes stormy adolescence the happiest memories of my life were associated with this old house.

Aunt Cissy looked older today, in 2177, than I recalled her looking the last time I had seen her—2183, was it? Was this a clue as to why Aunt Til had always looked the same age? An occasional trip to Boondock could work wonders.

Were all three—no, all four, including Aunt Belden—serving fifty-year enlistments with the Fountain of Youth as one of the perks?

Was Uncle Jock metabolically about thirty while maintaining the face and neck and hands of an old man in order to support a charade? (None of your business, Richard!)

“Where’s Aunt Belden?”

“She’s gone to Des Moines for the day,” Aunt Til answered. “She’ll be home for supper. Richard, I thought you were on Mars?”

I consulted a calendar in my head. “Come to think about it, I am.”

Aunt Til looked at me keenly. “Are you looped?”

Uncle Jock came back out just in time to say, “Stop it! That sort of talk is forbidden. You all know it; you all are subject to the Code.”

I said quickly, “I’m not subject to the Code, whatever it is. Yes, Aunt Til, I’m looped. Back from 2188.”

Uncle Jock fixed me with a look that used to scare me when I was ten or twelve. “Richard Colin, what is this? Dr. Hubert gave me to understand that you were under orders to report to Time Headquarters. Just this minute I stepped inside and phoned him about your arrival. But no one goes to Headquarters who is not sworn in and ruled by the Code. Leastwise, if he did, he wouldn’t come out again. You said earlier that you weren’t in trouble but you can stop lying now and tell me about it. I’ll help you if I can; blood is thicker than water. So let’s have it.”

“I’m not in any trouble that I know of. Uncle, but Dr. Hubert keeps trying to hand me some. Are you seriously suggesting that reporting to Time Headquarters could result in my not coming out alive? I’m not sworn into the Time Corps and I am not subject to its code. If you are serious, then I should not report to the Time Corps’ headquarters. Aunt Til, is it all right for us to spend the night here? Or would that embarrass you? Or Uncle Jock?”

Without consulting Uncle Jock even by eye. Aunt Til answered, “Of course you’ll stay here, Richard; you and your darling bride are welcome tonight and as long as you’ll stay and whenever you come back. This is your home and always has been.” Uncle shrugged, said nothing.

“Thanks! Where shall I drop these packages? My room? And I need to make arrangements for this fierce feline. Is there a sandbox around from the last litter? And, while Pixel has had his breakfast, I think he could use some milk.”

Aunt Cissy stepped forward. “Til, I’ll take care of the kitten. Isn’t he a pretty one!” She reached for Pixel; Hazel passed him over.

Aunt Til said, “Richard, your room has a guest in it, a Mr. Davis. Mmm, I think, this being July, that the north room on the third floor would be the most comfortable for you and Hazel—”

“‘Hazel’!” Uncle Jock interjected. “That was the test word Dr. Hubert gave me. Major Sadie, is that one of your names?”

“Yes. Hazel Davis Stone. Now Hazel Stone Campbell.”

“‘Hazel Davis Stone,’” Aunt Til put in. “Are you Mr. Davis’s little girl?”

My bride suddenly perked up. “Depends. A long time ago I was Hazel Davis. Is this ‘Manuel Davis’? Manuel Garcia O’Kelly Davis?”

“Yes.”

“My papa! He’s
here?
”

“He’ll be here for supper. I hope. But—Well, he has duties.”

“I know. I’ve been in the Corps forty-six years subjective and Papa about the same, I think. So we hardly ever see each other, the Corps being what it is. Oh, goodness! Richard, I’m going to cry. Make me stop!”

“Me? Lady, I’m just waiting for a bus. But you can use my handkerchief.” I offered it to her.

She accepted it, dabbed at her eyes. “Brute. Aunt Til, you should have spanked him oftener.”

“Wrong aunt, dear. That was Aunt Abigail, now gone to her reward.”

“Aunt Abby was brutal,” I commented. “Used a peach switch on me. And enjoyed it.”

“Should have used a club. Aunt Til, I can’t wait to see Papa Mannie. It’s been so long.”

“Hazel, you saw him right here—Right
there
,” I said, pointing at a spot halfway to the old barn, “only three days ago.” I hesitated. “Or was it thirty-seven days? Thirty-nine?”