_Cats! He couldn't stand the
things--even when they had
once been his best friends!_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Glenn Wheelan stepped back out of the way as the water came hissing
up across the quiet night beach. He rolled his pants cuffs a turn
higher and looked back at Karen Wylie. "And the whole thing is worse.
Teachers, you know, look forward to vacations as much as kids. More.
But I was almost afraid to come back here."
Karen's cigarette glowed red in the darkness. "But San Miguel is much
brighter and cleaner. They even have a theater that shows nothing but
foreign movies. And three laundromats. Now the place is building up,
Glenn."
"Because of a bunch of oddballs who're tired of all the lunatic outfits
in Los Angeles." Wheelan moved to the girl's side. "Why, even in
Pasadena people talk about San Miguel."
Karen caught his hand and led him up the beach away from the water.
"Well, every town is noted for something. Like one's the lettuce
capital and another's the wine center. It certainly doesn't hurt San
Miguel to be known."
Wheelan turned from the glare that the city's lights made against the
faintly overcast sky. "Ever since I was a kid I've hated cats. They
make me feel crawly all over. Like persimmons do."
"Persimmons don't do any such thing," Karen said, tossing her cigarette
at the foam below.
"So I come back to my old home town. Unpack my bags and walk into my
aunt's homey kitchen, and she springs it on me."
"What?"
"She's one of them now, too. It's not bad enough a bunch of retired
dentists from Omaha go along with Balderstone. My aunt now! I'll have a
hell of a time forcing down second helpings. I get this crawly feeling."
"You're as touchy as Pavlov's dog. Everything makes you crawly."
"Well, look, Karen. You've been up at Cal most of the year. Doesn't
the place seem odder to you?" Wheelan stepped next to a driftwood log.
"Doesn't it bother you?"
* * * * *
Karen sat down on the log and put her elbows on her knees. "I told you,
Glenn. San Miguel looks newer and cleaner. Why, even the slums look
better. I think they've painted them."
"The only time we ever had a cat, when I was eleven, it made me sneeze.
My aunt made me give it away. I wanted to drown it in a gunny sack but
she talked me out of it."
"Oh, you couldn't have. You're too tender and kindly." She held her
hand out and motioned him down beside her.
Wheelan sat, feeling the sand seep in over the sides of his loafers.
"Maybe I'll talk to Neff. There should be a law against this kind of
thing."
"Chief Neff? I doubt if he'll do anything."
"Why?"
"Because he's so active on our Civic Public Relations Committee. And he
owns a couple of motels."
Wheelan absently put his hand on Karen's shoulder. "Now, somebody must
be against this. Maybe Dr. Watchers. He was even against free paper
towels in the public johns."
"He passed away," Karen said, moving Wheelan's arm around her with her
shoulders.
"I could write to the governor," Wheelan said, noticing Karen's soft
dark hair fluttering faintly over the tip of his nose. "There must be a
law against lycanthropy."
Karen shook her head. "No. They checked on it. There is in one of the
New England states. The dunking stool is the penalty, I think."
"Why?" he said in a loud voice.
"Why dunking?"
"No," Wheelan said, blowing her hair out of his face. "Why do people
want to turn into cats anyway? My God, it must feel crawly."
"Well, you know what Mr. Balderstone says."
"He's a quack."
"Perhaps. But nevertheless he perfected a method for turning people
into cats and back. And that's more than a lot of people have done. He
can't be all quack." Karen relaxed and snuggled back against Wheelan.
"Who the hell else would want to discover something like that? You
might just as well invent an economical method of canning persimmons."
Wheelan shuddered. "Cats."
Karen closed her eyes. "Anyway, he says it's a great tension-reliever.
People get out of themselves. Forget their troubles. Aggressions.
That's very important in times like these when everyone is worrying
about blowing up unexpectedly."
Wheelan tightened his arm around her. "Damn. When I think of all those
people going out to the old fairgrounds and turning into cats and
yowling around it...."
"Makes you crawly?"
Wheelan turned her head up and kissed her.
Karen's tongue shot under his and back and she pulled away. "You take
everything too seriously. Mr. Balderstone has a way of helping people
relax. So what? What's that Latin thing about disputandum and all?"
"Yeah, but a whole town. My town and yours! And it's given over to
turning people into cats."
"My town and yours! You sound like Chief Neff." She kissed him on the
cheek. "Hey. Last summer we didn't spend all this time debating."
* * * * *
Wheelan smiled quickly. "I'm maturing. Once you pass twenty-six you get
wisdom. You'll see."
"I say if they want to be cats let them. It's very good therapy. And
Lord knows we need it."
"It's not right."
Karen sighed. "What was that comic strip when we were kids, about the
cat and the mouse? Cicero's Cat?"
"Krazy Kat?"
She nodded. "You're like that mouse. Always have to go around throwing
bricks at the cats. And it always got him in trouble. Ignatz. That was
his name, Ignatz Mouse. That's who you are."
"Very profound insight." Wheelan ran his hand down her back, touching
each of the white buttons on her sweater. "I'm still going to do
something about it."
Though she was facing away Wheelan could feel her smile. "Glenn?" she
said.