“Stop talking that silly guff,” Cookie told him. “Moe Brimstine isn’t interested in any kind of mystical crud or anything else, for that matter, except the do-re-mi. And neither is Mr. Billig. And Moe Brimstine wouldn’t be working for anyone but himself or Mr. Billig – probably both. That’s true, isn’t it, Jack?”
The kingman didn’t seem at all inclined to be talkative, but at this question he did nod his head with conviction.
Juno put a glass in Phil’s hand. “Here, drink this,” she told him. Phil looked at the brown stuff. “What is it?” he asked.
“Not soybean milk,” she assured him. “Drink it up!”
The whiskey, which tasted as if it were laced with something bitter, burned his throat and brought tears to his eyes, but almost immediately his head began to feel clearer. He surveyed the room. Outside of Mary’s work table, none of the mess had been cleaned up, though someone had taped the Moslem prayer rug over the broken window.
“And what’s more,” Cookie was saying dogmatically, “your idea about that cat being mystical is crud too.”
Sacheverell looked at him and Jack with exquisite blankness. “But didn’t you feel it?” he asked. “Didn’t you feel what it did to all of us?”
Jack shifted uneasily and didn’t meet his gaze, but Cookie shrugged his shoulders and said nervously, “Oh, that! We were just all of us worked up, between your mumbo-jumbo and the fighting. We’d have believed anything.”
“But didn’t you feel your whole being change?” Sacheverell insisted. “Didn’t you feel universal love and understanding burgeon?”
“Universal sky-pie!” Cookie said rudely. “I didn’t feel a thing that meant anything. Did you, Jackie?”
The kingman didn’t quite nod his head, but he certainly didn’t shake it. And he didn’t look at Sacheverell.
The latter surveyed them both with sad wonderment. “You’ve already forgotten,” he said. “You’ve made yourselves forget. But how,” he asked Cookie, “do you explain the behavior of the cats? They recognized the Green One. They tendered him worship.”
“They just panted around after him,” Cookie asserted. “He’s probably an oversexed hermaphrodite mutant. And another thing – if that cat’s mystical and all dripping with powers, why did he let himself be knocked out? Why didn’t he feed Moe Brimstine some universal sky-pie?”
“There was glass and distance between them,” Sacheverell reminded him. “Besides, if Mr. Brimstine is a Beelzebite -”
“What’s more,” Cookie went on relentlessly, “why did he let himself be knocked out by Jack in the first place? Jackie, before you stun-gunned the little brute, you didn’t feel any great burgeon of universal love, did you?”
Jack frowned. “I stunned him instinctively,” he said slowly, his downward gazing eyes studying the upset chalice, which chose this moment to roll two inches. “I glimpsed something out of the corner of my eye and shot.” He paused. “I actually thought it was a mouse.”
“Instinctively or not, you stun-gunned it and we hustled it into the locker as soon as we saw it was green,” Cookie assured him decisively. “Which certainly proves the cat has no powers. Sash here just worked us up into thinking we had. Gave even me such an eerie feeling that if someone had come in wearing an orange sheet and Sash had said it was Mohammed, I’d have believed him.”
“But suppose the Green One was taken by surprise,” Sacheverell argued. “All gods have limitations. Perhaps the Green One is not so much able to read thought as to join together telepathically the thoughts and feelings of mortals.”
Cookie made a rude noise. Jack gave Cookie a quick look that was both angry and imploring, as if to say, “You’ve proved your point. Lay off.”
Sacheverell shrugged and said, “Well, if I have to descend to your materialistic level, what is it that makes the Green One so important to Mr. Brimstine?”
“How should I know?” Cookie said huffily. “Maybe he’s smuggling heroin in it or secret documents for Vanadin; maybe it belongs to the current mistress of the King of South Africa. Did Moe tell you anything, Jackie?”
“Just that he’d give $10,000 for a green cat and that he didn’t want any dye jobs. That was a couple weeks ago. Some of the other boys asked for details, but he said there weren’t any.” He stood up. “But what’s the use of talking about it? We can’t do anything,” he said harshly, suddenly glaring at Sacheverell, as if daring him, or imploring him, to answer.
“Well…” said Sacheverell.
Phil had finished his thinking. He got to his feet and squared his narrow shoulders. “We can rescue the green cat from Brimstine,” he said. “Who’s with me?”
Cookie whirled on him. “Nobody, not even yourself,” he said, while Jack put his hand to his temple and groaned, “Now the Ikeless Joe.”
Juno heaved herself out of her chair, and lumbered over with her glass and bottle. “Look, Phil,” she said, “I gotta admit you’re a spunky little mutt. But nobody, simply nobody, goes up against Moe Brimstine.”
Phil considered that for a moment. “I did,” he said proudly.
“Yeah, I know,” she admitted, “but he didn’t take it seriously.”
Phil looked at Sacheverell. “How about you?” he asked. “You believe in Lucky.”
Cookie glared warningly at Sacheverell. “If any one of us bothers Moe Brimstine about the green cat,” Cookie said, “we’ll all be inhaling molten plastic!”
“Well…” said Sacheverell, looking around for advice. His gaze settled on his wife. “Mary, what steps do you think we should take?”
Mary, chewing her tongue over a difficult job of wax shaving, twitched her shoulders. “I don’t care what anyone else does,” she said, lifting off the microtome-thin flake. “I’m working on Moe Brimstine my own little way.” And she held up for their inspection a small wax head which already was beginning to look like the heavy jowled assistant boss of Fun Incorporated. “And when it’s all finished,” she told them, “then needles and pins!”
Juno said, “Ugh!” Cookie looked almost impressed. While Sacheverell gnawed his lip thoughtfully and, with a wary eye on Jack and Cookie, said, “Yes, I suppose that is the best way after all.”
“Okay,” Phil said and started for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Cookie demanded.
“To get him back,” Phil said.
At that there was a rush of footsteps and several voices competing in assuring him he would do no such thing, but it was Juno who grabbed his shoulders and swiveled him around.
“Phil,” she said, “for wunct I gotta admit that I agree with these jerks. You’re not going to do anything about that – that fool cat. You just gotta get that through your nut wunct and for all.”
Phil just smiled at her.
She shook her head disgustedly. “I shouldn’t have give you that whiskey.”
“It wasn’t the whiskey, but what you put in it,” Cookie interjected crisply. “He’s high.”
Phil grinned at him serenely, as if to prove his point, then suddenly they all stepped back a bit, and for a moment they thought they had recognized his supreme self-confidence and bowed to the inevitable. Then he realized that they were looking beyond him and he felt cool air from the porch.
Dr. Romadka put down a black bag inside the doorway, said smilingly, “Hello, Sacheverell. Hello, Mary,” and nodded briefly to Jack, Juno, and Cookie, before casually turning his gaze to Phil.
“Well, Phil,” the analyst said waggishly, “that was quite a chase you led me, and I consider myself very lucky to have found you at all. It was a most interesting conversation we were having and I’m eager to continue it.” He spared the others a glance. “You’ll excuse us talking professional matters for a moment, I hope. Now, Phil,” he went on persuasively, “I imagine that the… er… person who persuaded, or rather forced you to run away, tried to put all sorts of ideas into your head. But I’m sure I can show you in a few moments just how nonsensical they are. Incidentally, it was that same person who turned out the lights in the first place and put ail the doors on code. Quite a trickster, eh? And my daughter, too! So say good-by to your friends, Phil – I hope they won’t be too angry with me for dragging you off.”