The Cat Who Walks Through Walls by Robert A. Heinlein
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“A mad dash across space and time…”
—Library Journal
A “tour-de-force through the many installments of Heinlein’s career as an author, and indeed one of the pre-eminent authors of science fiction…a must for any fan.”
—Richmond News Leader
“Heinlein must have had a wonderful time writing this and his readers will share in the fun.”
—Virginia Pilot
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—Time
“A marvelous beginning.”
-New York Daily News
“Begins with a bang…”
—Fantasy Review
“One of the grand masters of science fiction.”
—Wall Street Journal
“A rollicking, swashbuckling science-fiction adventure tale that is likely to appeal as much to people who dislike sci-fi as it does to die-hard Heinlein fans.”
—Toledo Blade
Other books by Robert A. Heinlein
ASSIGNMENT IN ETERNITY
THE BEST OF ROBERT HEINLEIN
BETWEEN PLANETS
CITIZEN OF THE GALAXY
DESTINATION MOON
THE DOOR INTO SUMMER
DOUBLE STAR
EXPANDED UNIVERSE: MORE
WORLDS OF ROBERT A.
HEINLEIN
FARMER IN THE SKY
FARNHAM’S FREEHOLD
FRIDAY
GLORY ROAD
THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH
HAVE SPACE SUIT—WILL
TRAVEL
I WILL FEAR NO EVIL
JOB: A COMEDY OF JUSTICE
THE MAN WHO SOLD THE
MOON
THE MENACE FROM EARTH
METHUSELAH’S CHILDREN
THE MOON IS A HARSH
MISTRESS
THE NOTEBOOKS OF LAZARUS
LONG
THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST
ORPHANS OF THE SKY
THE PAST THROUGH TOMORROW:
FUTURE HISTORY
STORIES
PODKAYNE OF MARS
THE PUPPET MASTERS
RED PLANET
REVOLT IN 2100
ROCKET SHIP GALILEO
THE ROLLING STONES
SIXTH COLUMN
SPACE CADET
THE STAR BEAST
STARMAN JONES
STARSHIP TROOPERS
STRANGER IN A STRANGE
LAND
THREE BY HEINLEIN
TIME ENOUGH FOR LOVE
TIME FOR THE STARS
TOMORROW THE STARS (Ed.)
TO SAIL BEYOND THE SUNSET
TUNNEL IN THE SKY
THE UNPLEASANT PROFESSION
OF JONATHAN HOAG
WALDO & MAGIC, INC.
THE WORLDS OF ROBERT A.
HEINLEIN
This Ace book contains the complete
text of the original hardcover edition.
THE CAT WHO WALKS THROUGH WALLS
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
PRINTING HISTORY
G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition / November 1985
Berkley international edition February 1986
Ace edition / July 1988
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1985 by Robert A. Heinlein.
For information regarding the cover art, please contact:
Glass Onion Graphics
P.O. Box 88
Brookfield, Connecticut 06804
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: G. P. Putnam’s Sons,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0-441-09499-6
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
The name “ACE” and the “A” logo are
trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
To
Jerry and Larry and Harry
Dean and Dan and Jim
Poul and Buz and Sarge
(Men to have at your back)
R.A.H.
Contents
Epigraph
BOOK ONE
Indifferent Honest
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
BOOK TWO
Deadly Weapon
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
BOOK THREE
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits—and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM
Quatrain XCIX, Fifth Edition
(as rendered by Edward FitzGerald)
BOOK ONE—
Indifferent Honest
I
“Whatever you do, you’ll regret it.”
ALLAN McLEOD GRAY 1905-1975
“We need you to kill a man.”
This stranger glanced nervously around us. I feel that a crowded restaurant is no place for such talk, as a high noise level gives only limited privacy.
I shook my head. “I’m not an assassin. Killing is more of a hobby with me. Have you had dinner?”
“I’m not here to eat. Just let me—”
“Oh, come now. I insist.” He had annoyed me by interrupting an evening with a delightful lady; I was paying him back in kind. It does not do to encourage bad manners; one should retaliate, urbanely but firmly.
That lady, Gwen Novak, had expressed a wish to spend a penny and had left the table, whereupon Herr Nameless had materialized and sat down uninvited. I had been about to tell him to leave when he mentioned a name. Walker Evans.
There is no “Walker Evans.”
Instead, that name is or should be a message from one of six people, five men, one woman, a code to remind me of a debt. It is conceivable that an installment payment on that ancient debt could require me to kill someone—possible but unlikely.
But it was not conceivable that I would kill at the behest of a stranger merely because he invoked that name.
While I felt obliged to listen, I did not intend to let him ruin my evening. Since he was sitting at my table, he could bloody well behave like an invited guest. “Sir, if you don’t want a full dinner, try the after-theater suggestions. The lapin ragout on toast may be rat rather than rabbit but this chef makes it taste like ambrosia.”
“But I don’t want—”
“Please.” I looked up, caught my waiter’s eye. “Morris.”
Morris was at my elbow at once. “Three orders of lapin ragout, please. Morris, and ask Hans to select a dry white wine for me.”
“Yes, Dr. Ames.”
“Don’t serve until the lady returns, if you please.
“Certainly, sir.”
I waited until the waiter had moved away. “My guest will be returning soon. You have a brief time to explain yourself in private. Please start by telling me your name.”
“My name isn’t important. I—”
“Come, sir! Your name. Please.”
“I was told simply to say ‘Walker Evans.’”
“Good as far as it goes. But your name is not Walker Evans and I do not traffic with a man who won’t give his name. Tell me who you are, and it would be well to have an ID that matches your words.”
“But—Colonel, it’s far more urgent to explain who must die and why you are the man who must kill him! You must admit that!”
“I don’t have to admit anything. Your name, sir! And your ID. And please do not call me ‘Colonel’; I am Dr. Ames.” I had to raise my voice not to be drowned out by a roll of drums; the late evening show was starting. The lights lowered and a spotlight picked out the master of ceremonies.
“All right, all right!” My uninvited guest reached into a pocket, pulled out a wallet. “But Tolliver must die by noon Sunday or we’ll all be dead!”
He flipped open the wallet to show me an ID. A small dark spot appeared on his white shirt front. He looked startled, then said softly, “I’m very sorry,” and leaned forward. He seemed to be trying to add something but blood gushed from his mouth. His head settled down onto the tablecloth.
I was up out of my chair at once and around to his right side. Almost as swiftly Morris was at his left side. Perhaps Morris was trying to help him; I was not—it was too late. A four-millimeter dart makes a small entry hole and no exit wound; it explodes inside the body. When the wound is in the torso, death follows abruptly. What I was doing was searching the crowd—that and one minor chore.
While I was trying to spot the killer, Morris was joined by the headwaiter and a busman. The three moved with such speed and efficiency that one would have thought that having a guest killed at a table was something they coped with nightly. They removed the corpse with the dispatch and unobtrusiveness of Chinese stagehands; a fourth man flipped up the tablecloth, removed it and the silver, was back at once with a fresh cloth, and laid two places.
I sat back down. I had not been able to spot a probable killer; I did not even note anyone displaying a curious lack of curiosity about the trouble at my table. People had stared, but when the body was gone, they quit staring and gave attention to the show. There were no screams or expressions of horror; it seemed as if those who had noticed it thought that they were seeing a customer suddenly ill or possibly taken by drink.
The dead man’s wallet now rested in my left jacket pocket.
When Gwen Novak returned I stood up again, held her chair for her. She smiled her thanks and asked, “What have I missed?”
“Not much. Jokes old before you were born. Others that were old even before Neil Armstrong was born.”
“I like old jokes, Richard. With them I know when to laugh.”
“You’ve come to the right place.”
I too like old jokes; I like all sorts of old things—old friends, old books, old poems, old plays. An old favorite had started our evening: Midsummer Night’s Dream presented by Halifax Ballet Theater with Luanna Pauline as Titania. Low-gravity ballet, live actors, and magical holograms had created a fairyland Will Shakespeare would have loved. Newness is no virtue.
Shortly music drowned out our host’s well-aged wit; the chorus line undulated out onto the dance floor, sensuously graceful in half gravity. The ragout arrived and with it the wine. After we had eaten Gwen asked me to dance. I have this trick leg but at half gee I can manage the classic slow dances—waltz, frottage glide, tango, and so forth. Gwen is a warm, live, fragrant bundle; dancing with her is a Sybaritic treat.
It was a gay ending to a happy evening. There was still the matter of the stranger who had had the bad taste to get himself killed at my table. But, since Gwen seemed not to be aware of the unpleasant incident, I had tabled it in my mind, to be dealt with later. To be sure I was ready any moment for that tap on the shoulder…but in the meantime I enjoyed good food, good wine, good company. Life is filled with tragedy; if you let it overwhelm you, you cannot enjoy life’s innocent pleasures.
Gwen knows that my leg won’t take much dancing; at the first break in the music she led us back to our table. I signaled Morris for the check. He produced it out of midair; I dialed my credit code into it, set it for standard gratuity plus half, added my thumbprint.
Morris thanked me. “A nightcap, sir? Or a brandy? Perhaps the lady would enjoy a liqueur? Compliments of Rainbow’s End.” The owner of the restaurant, an ancient Egyptian, believed in good measure—at least to his regulars; I’m not sure how tourists from dirtside were treated.
“Gwen?” I queried; expecting her to refuse—Gwen’s drinking is limited to one glass of wine at meals. One.
“A Cointreau would be pleasant. I would like to stay and listen to the music a while.”
“Cointreau for the lady,” Morris noted. “Doctor?”
“Mary’s Tears and a glass of water, please. Morris.”
When Morris left, Gwen said quietly, “I needed time to speak with you, Richard. Do you want to sleep at my place tonight? Don’t be skittish; you can sleep alone.”
“I am not all that fond of sleeping alone.” I clicked over the possibilities in my mind. She had ordered a drink she did not want in order to make me an offer that did not fit. Gwen is a forthright person; I felt that had she wished to sleep with me she would have said so—she would not have played getaway-closer about it.
Therefore she had invited me to sleep in her compartment because she thought it to be unwise or unsafe for me to sleep in my own bed. Therefore—
“You saw it.”
“From a distance. So I waited until things quieted down before returning to the table. Richard, I’m not sure what happened. But if you need a place to lie doggo—be my guest!”
“Why, thank you, my dear!” A friend who offers help without asking for explanations is a treasure beyond price. “Whether I accept or not, I am in your debt. Mmm, Gwen, I too am unsure what happened. The total stranger who gets himself killed while he’s trying to tell you something—A cliché, a tired cliché. If I plotted a story that way today, my guild would disown me.” I smiled at her. “In its classic form you would turn out to be the killer…a fact that would develop slowly while you pretended to help me search. The sophisticated reader would know from chapter one that you did it, but I, as the detective, would never guess what was as plain as the nose on your face. Correction: on my face.”
“Oh, my nose is plain enough; it’s my mouth that men remember. Richard, I am not going to help you hang this on me; I simply offered you a hideout. Was he really killed? I couldn’t be sure.”
“Eh?” I was saved from answering too quickly by Morris’s arrival with our liqueurs. When he left, I answered, “I had not thought about any other possibility. Gwen, he was not wounded. Either he was killed almost instantly…or it was faked. Could it be faked? Certainly. If shown on holo, it could be done in real time with only minor props.” I mulled it over. Why had the restaurant staff been so quick, so precise, in covering it up? Why had I not felt that tap on the shoulder? “Gwen, I’ll take you up on that offer. If the proctors want me, they’ll find me. But I would like to discuss this with you in greater detail than we can manage here, no matter how carefully we keep our voices down.”
“Good.” She stood up. “I won’t be long, dear.” She headed for the lounges.
As I stood up Morris handed me my stick and I leaned on it as I followed her toward the lounges. I don’t actually have to use a cane—I can even dance, as you know—but using a cane keeps my bad leg from getting too tired.
When I came out of the gentlemen’s lounge, I placed myself in the foyer, and waited.
And waited.
Having waited long past what is reasonable I sought out the maître d’hôtel. “To
“Your guest. Dr. Ames?”
“Yes.”
“But she left twenty minutes ago. I ushered her out myself.”
“So? I must have misunderstood her. Thank you, and good night.”
“Good night. Doctor. We look forward to serving you again.”
I left Rainbow’s End, stood for a moment in the public corridor outside it—ring thirty, half-gravity level, just clockwise from radius two-seventy at Petticoat Lane, a busy neighborhood even at one in the morning. I checked for proctors waiting for me, halfway expecting to find Gwen already in custody.
Nothing of the son. A steady flow of people, mostly groundhogs on holiday by their dress and behavior, plus pullers for grimp shops, guides and ganders, pickpockets and priests. Golden Rule habitat is known systemwide as the place where anything is for sale and Petticoat Lane helps to support that reputation insofar as fleshpots are concerned. For more sober enterprises you need only go clockwise ninety degrees to Threadneedle Street.
No sign of proctors, no sign of Gwen.
She had promised to meet me at the exit. Or had she? No, not quite. Her exact words were, “I won’t be long, dear.” I had inferred that she expected to find me at the restaurant’s exit to the street.
I’ve heard all the old chestnuts about women and weather, La donna è mobile, and so forth—I believe none of them. Gwen had not suddenly changed her mind. For some reason—some good reason—she had gone on without me and now would expect me to join her at her home.
Or so I told myself.
If she had taken a scooter, she was there already; if she had walked, she would be there soon—Tony had said, “Twenty minutes ago.” There is a scooter booth at the intersection of ring thirty and Petticoat Lane. I found an empty, punched in ring one-oh-five, radius one-thirty-five, six-tenths gravity, which would take me as close as one can get by public scooter to Gwen’s compartment.
Gwen lives in Gretna Green, just off Appian Way where it crosses the Yellow Brick Road—which means nothing to anyone who has never visited Golden Rule habitat. Some public relations “expert” had decided that habitants would feel more at home if surrounded by place names familiar from dirtside. There is even (don’t retch) a “House at Pooh Corner.” What I punched in were coordinates of the main cylinder: 105, 135, 0.6.