The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

Raves for ROBERT HEINLEIN and THE CAT WHO WALKS THROUGH WALLS

“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

“Robert Heinlein has assumed the title of Grand Old Man of Science Fiction…inventive and concerned.”

—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

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

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

“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.