"The green cat," Phil added.
Sacheverell's face grew serenely grave. "No one has the green cat," he
reproved Phil. "It would not be permitted. He has us. We are his humble
worshippers, his primal hierophants."
"But I want to see him," Phil said.
"That will be permitted," Sacheverell assured Phil, "when he wakes and
the world changes. Meanwhile, compose yourself, er ... Phil Gish, you
say? Phil ... philo ... love ... an auspicious name."
"Why the mucking hell is this green cat so important, anyhow? What is
it?"
The two men turned. Juno was still standing on the threshold. She was
swayed forward a little, hugging her elbows, yet had her shoulders
squared and was glaring at them surlily, like a rebellious schoolgirl.
"The green cat is love," Sacheverell told her softly. "The love that
blossoms even from hate."
There was another interruption. This one took the form of a coy,
girlish snicker. Phil turned to the side of the room he had not yet
inspected closely, the one facing the fireplace. In it was a deep,
wide bay window closely shuttered with gray jalousies, as were all the
other windows in the room except for one fronting on darkness beside
the fireplace. In the bay was a semicircular couch on which Mary Akeley
sprawled adolescently, still in black sweater and stiff, red skirt.
"You know," she said, "I just can't get used to the idea of loving
everything. Sacheverell says I've got to be nice to my little people
and stop sticking hatpins in them and things, but it's hard."
For a morbid moment Phil thought she was referring to the cats. Then
he saw that there were a series of narrow shelves behind her, starting
at the top of the couch and going halfway up the bay and that these
shelves were crowded with dolls. Moving closer, he saw they were not
ordinary dolls, but extremely realistic human figures, most of them
about six inches high. He had never seen dolls so perfectly formed
or realistically dressed. There must have been two or three hundred.
They stood behind Mary like the cross-section of a crowded three-level
street in some tiny living world. In front of the couch was a low table
crowded with blocks of wax, molds, micro-tools and magnifiers, several
partially completed figurines and piled squares of fabrics so delicate
they must have been woven specially.
"You like my little people?" he heard Mary ask him. "Most everyone
does. I got started out making strip-tease dolls, but these that are
all my own are so much more fun. Sacheverell, I think they like having
pins stuck through them. I think that's the way they want to be loved."
"Perhaps, my dear," Phil heard Sacheverell say with an affectionate
chuckle, "but we'll have to wait to see how _he_ feels about it."
And then Phil saw that the dolls represented actual individual people,
were apparently perfect statuettes of them--so perfect that for a
moment he found himself wondering which was the real world: the big one
or this tiny one of Mary's. He recognized President Barnes, the USSR's
Vanadin, square-jawed John Emmet of the Federal Bureau of Loyalty,
several TV and handie stars, Sacheverell, about eight versions of Mary
herself, Jack Jones in black tights, Juno in maroon ones, Dr. Romadka
and--he caught his breath--Mitzie Romadka in an evening frock very
much like the one he'd seen her wearing.
"Recognizing friends?" Mary asked softly, her young face which was so
predominantly nose and chin poking up inquisitively toward his.
Footsteps clumped. Phil realized that Juno had finally come into the
room and was standing behind him looking at the dolls. Mary looked past
him with an innocent smile. "They're awfully cute, aren't they?" she
remarked.