“Somebody just said, ‘Lousy job,” said the doctor. “I thought it was your cat. I must be losing my mind. Alyson?” She looked to be in shock. “Did you hear anything?”
“No. I didn’t hear him say ‘Lousy job’ or anything like that.” Still in a daze, she went over to the cat and stroked him on the head. Then she bent down and whispered something in his ear.
“Just haven’t got the knack,” said Gilgamesh. “Crash course.” He smiled, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. But there was no doubt that it was he who had spoken.
Freddie, who had just got over the first wave of disbelief, said, “What was in that injection, anyway?”
“Sodium pentothal. Very small dose. I think I’d better sit down.” The doctor staggered to the nearest chair, almost missing it.
“Hey, Alyson?” the doctor said.
“Huh?”
“Maybe you’d better tell me why you really brought your cat in here.”
“Well,” said Alyson.
“Come on, little sister, give,” he said.
Alyson looked at the floor and mumbled, “Freddie thinks he’s a spy from outer space.”
“From Arcturus,” said Freddie.
“Procyon,” said Gilgamesh. He yawned and rolled onto his side.
“Wait a minute,” said the doctor. “Wait a minute, I want to get something straight.” But he just stared at the cat, at Freddie, at Alyson.
Freddie took advantage of the silence. “Gilgamesh, you were just talking, weren’t you?”
“Lemme sleep,” Gilgamesh mumbled.
“What’s your game, Gil?” Freddie asked him. “Are you spying on us? You’re really some shapeless amoeba-like being that can rearrange its protoplasm at will, aren’t you? Are your people planning to invade Earth? When will the first strike hit? Come on, talk!”
“Lemme sleep,” Gilgamesh said.
Freddie picked up the cat and held him directly under the fluorescent light of the examining table. Gilgamesh winced and squirmed, feebly.
“Talk!” Freddie commanded. “Tell us the invasion plans.”
“No invasion,” Gilgamesh whined. “Lemme down. No fair drugging me.”
“Are you from Procyon?” Freddie asked him.
“Are you from Killarney?” the cat sang, rather drunkenly. “Studied old radio broadcasts, sorry. Sure, from Procyon. Tried to act like a cat but couldn’t get the hang of it. Never can remember what to do with my tail.”
“What are you doing on Earth?” Freddie demanded.
“Chasing a runaway,” the cat mumbled. “Antisocial renegade, classified for work camps. Jumped bail and ran. Tracked him to Earth, but he’s been passing as a native.”
“As a human being?” Alyson cried.
“As a cat. It’s George. Cute li’l George, soft and lazy, lies in the sun all day. Irresponsible behavior. Antisocial. Never gets anything done. Got to bring him back, put him in a work camp.”
“Wait a minute,” Freddie broke in. “You mean you came to Earth to find an escaped prisoner? And George is it? You mean you’re a cop?”
“Peace officer,” Gilgamesh protested, trying to sit up straight. “Law and order. Loyalty to the egg and arisian pie. Only George did escape, so I had to track him down. I always get my amoeba.”
Alyson’s brother dazedly punched his intercom button. “Miss Blanchard, you’d better cancel the rest of my appointments,” he said dully.
“But you can’t take George away from me!” Alyson cried. “He’s my cat!”
“Just a third-class amoeba,” Gilgamesh sniffed. “Hard to control, though. More trouble than he’s worth.”
“Then leave him here!” Alyson said. “If he’s a fugitive, he’s safe with me! I’ll give him sanctuary. I’ll sign parole papers for him. I’ll be responsible—”
Gilgamesh eyed her blearily. “Do you know what you’re saying, lady?”
“Of course I know what I’m saying! George is my cat, and I love him—I guess you wouldn’t know what that means. George stays with me, no matter what. You go away. Go back to your star.”
“Listen, Alyson, maybe you should think about this …” Freddie began.
“Shaddup, kid,” said Gilgamesh. “I’ll tell you, George was never anything to us but a headache. Won’t work, just wants to lie around looking decorative. If you want him, lady, you got him.”
There was a silence. Freddie noticed that Alyson’s brother seemed to be giggling softly to himself.
After long moments, Alyson asked, “Don’t I have to sign something?”
“Nah, lady,” said Gilgamesh. “We’re not barbarians. I’ve got your voice recorded in my head. George is all yours, and good riddance. He was a blot on the proud record of the Procyon Co-Prosperity Sphere.” Gilgamesh got to his feet and marched rigidly to the window of the office. He turned and eyed them greenly.
“Listen, you tell George one thing for me. Tell him he’s dumb lucky he happened to hide out as a cat. He can be lazy and decorative here, but I just want you to know one thing: there’s no such thing as a decorative amoeba. An amoeba works, or out he goes!”
Gilgamesh disappeared out the window.
On the way back to Alyson’s house, Freddie did his best to contain himself, but as they approached her door, he broke their silence. “I told you so, Alyson.”
“Told me what?” Alyson opened the door and led him up the stairs to her room.
“That the cat was an alien. A shape-changer, a spy hiding out here on Earth.”
“Pooh,” she said. “You thought he was from Arcturus. Do you know how far Arcturus is from Procyon?”
They went into her room. “Very far?” Freddie asked.
“Oh, boy!” Alyson said. “Very far!” She shook her head disgustedly.
George was lying in the middle of the bed, surrounded by schoolbooks. He opened one eye as the two of them tramped into the room, then closed it again and contented himself with a soft purr.
Alyson sat on the side of the bed and rubbed George’s belly. “Sweet George,” she said. “Beautiful little pussycat.”
“Listen, Alyson,” said Freddie, “maybe you ought to think about George a little bit. I mean, you’re responsible for him now—
“He’s my cat,” Alyson said firmly.
“Yeah, well, sort of,” Freddie said. “Not really, of course, because really he’s an alien shape-changing amoeba from Procyon. And worse than that, remember what Gilgamesh said, he’s a runaway. He’s a dropout from interstellar society. Who knows, maybe he even uses drugs!”
Alyson rested a level gaze on Freddie, a patient, forgiving look. “Freddie,” she said softly, “some of us are born cats, and some of us achieve catness.”
“What?”
“Well, look, if you were an amoeba from Procyon and you went sent off to the work camps, wouldn’t you rather come to Earth and be a cat and lie around all day sunning yourself and getting scratched behind the ears? I mean, it just makes sense. It proves George is sane!”
“It proves he’s lazy,” Freddie muttered.
George opened his eyes just a slit and looked at Freddie—a look of contented wonder. Then he closed his eyes again and began to purr.
FULL SUN
Brian W. Aldiss
One of the creatures that has long lurked in the shadows beyond our scientific knowledge is the werewolf, that supernaturally powerful blend of human and animal. Of course, we know werewolves are only a superstition, they’re nothing to worry about … but maybe that’s what they want us to think, so that, unmolested, they may grow in numbers till sometime in the future they can rise again. Here is a story about such a future.
Brian W. Aldiss is the award-winning author of such books as The Long Afternoon of Earth, and he has recently published a critical history of science fiction, Billion Year Spree.