At the wheel of the Corvette, Hunter felt on his left shoulder fingers that lay lightly at first, but then gripped strongly. He put his right hand on top of the hand there and turned his head and looked at Margo’s face — the yellow hair drawn flat, the long lips, the hungry cheeks, the dark eyes — and she looked back, expressionless, at him.
Without lifting his hand from hers he called up to the truck: “We’ll camp here by the sea. When the tide goes down we’ll enter Vandenberg.”
Don Merriam gazed up the elevator shaft at the circle of sky swirling symphonically with a red-black storm, as if the colors had been chosen to match the fur of his conductor standing silently beside him.
The circle grew slowly, then rapidly, then the elevator stopped, and its floor was once more seamlessly part of the etched silver pavement.
Nothing seemed to have changed. The pillar of hurtling moonrock still towered like a gray pinnacle four times the height of Everest. Beyond the empty pavement the great plastic structures crouched off into the distance like an army of abstract sculptures. The pit yawned with its unsupported silver railings.
Then Don saw that only one saucer — colored with a violet-yellow yin-yang — hovered beside the Baba Yaga. That stained moon ship gleamed as if newly burnished, and instead of the ladder there hung below the hatch a stubby man-wide metal tube that looked telescoped.
Beyond the Baba Yaga, the Russian moon ship gleamed freshly, too, and a similar extensible-looking metal tube projected outside its hatch, which was located near the nose.
The felinoid lightly touched Don’s shoulder and said in his caressingly slurred English: “We are taking you to an Earth friend. Your ship is fueled and serviced, and it goes with us, but you will ride in mine at first There will be a transfer in space. Have no fear.”
Paul Hagbolt woke with a start Tigerishka was snarling at him: “Wake up! Get dressed. We’ve got a visitor!”
The start carried him a yard away from the window against which he’d been resting, so for the moment all he could do was grope around impotently in null gravity while he tried to get the sleep out of his eyes and mind.
The inner sun had been switched on again, and the windows were solid pink once more, creating with the flowers the effect of a combination conservatory and boudoir.
Tigerishka was jerking some flappy objects out of a door in the Waste Panel. She proceeded to throw them at him.
“Get dressed, monkey!”
One of them got hooked on her claws and she ripped it loose in a fury and hurled it after the others.
Paul, or rather his body, intercepted the objects without difficulty, since they were well aimed. They were his clothes, nicely laundered and smelling freshly of cotton and other fabrics, though there were no creases in the pants. He fumbled at them, saying in a voice still squeaky with sleep: “But, Tigerishka—”
“I’ll help you, you stupid ape!”
She coasted to him quickly and, grabbing the shirt, started to ram his foot into the arm of it.
“What’s happened, Tigerishka?” he demanded, not helping her. “After last night—”
“Don’t ever mention last night to me, monkey!” she snarled. The shirt ripped, and she tried to shove his foot into the next garment she grabbed, which happened to be his coat.
“But you’re acting as if you were angry and ashamed about what happened,” he protested, still ignoring her attempts to dress him.
She stopped what she was doing and grabbed him by the shoulders as they floated there and glared her violet-irised eyes into his.
“Ashamed!” she repeated vibrantly. Then, very coldly: “Paul, have you ever masturbated a lower animal?”
He just stared back at her stupidly, feeling his muscles tighten, especially around the neck.
“Don’t act so shocked!” she commanded irritably. “It happens all the time on your planet. One way or another, you do it to get seed from bulls and stallions for artificial insemination…and so on!”
He said quietly: “You mean that what happened last night wasn’t a real embrace?”
She hissed at that, just like a cat, then said harshly: “A real embrace would have shredded your flimsy anthropoid genitals! I was silly, I was bored, I felt sorry for you. That was all.”
For a moment Paul saw clearly how a superbeast would at its level have neuroses just like those of a talking anthropoid, how it would suffer from attacks of irrealism, do the wrong thing, get bored, fritter away time and feelings. For a moment he realized how lonely and confused he himself would have to be to pretend to love a cat as if it were a girl, to fantasize an erotic passion for Miaow… But just then Tigerishka slapped him with her pads and snarled: “Don’t dream, monkey. Get dressed!”
The fragile bridge of understanding which his intuition had been building crashed, though this was not instantly apparent on the surface, for he continued as quietly as before: “You mean that was the whole experience, that was all that last night meant to you? Just being ‘nice’ to a pet?”
She said firmly: “Last night my feelings were fully ninety per cent pity for you and boredom with myself.”
“And the other ten per cent?** he persisted.
She dropped her great eyes from his. “I don’t know, Paul. I just don’t know,” she said very tautly, grabbing his coat again. Then, “Oh, get dressed yourself,” she hissed exasperatedly and pushed off for the control panel. “But be quick about it. Our visitor’s almost at the door.”
Paul ignored that. A hot maliciousness was flooding up into his cold misery. He slowly pulled his coat sleeve off his foot. He said evenly: “It seems to me that last night began with me treating you like a pet, scratching you under the neck and stroking your fur, and you were lapping it up, you were responding just like—”
The pink floor jumped up and bumped him, jarred his spine. She called: “I’ve switched on earth-normal gravity so you’ll be able to get dressed! Oh, if you had any idea of what it means to be cooped up this way with a repulsive bald body and with an utterly inferior mind and to have to wear out one’s throat with the nonsense of sound-making…”
Now at last he did begin to attend to his clothes, though without haste, locating his shorts and his pants and laying them out for pulling on. But at the same time his maliciousness was searching for something — anything, it didn’t matter what — to hurl back at her. Rather quickly he found it.
“Tigerishka,” he said slowly, feeling unaccustomedly heavy but quite comfortable as be sat on the pink velvet floor and pulled on his shorts and reached for his trousers, “you boast that you never miss a mental trick. Certainly your mind works much faster than mine. Presumably you have eidetic memory for everything that happens around you — including what you spy on in my mind. Yet last night when I mentioned the four crucial stellar photographs I’d seen — photographs of a planet making a false exit from hyperspace, I realize now — you assured me there could have been only two twist-fields involved, the first near Pluto, the second near Venus.
“Well, whatever you think, there were two other twist-fields represented, two other false exits.” At this point he felt her entering his mind. Nevertheless he went on: “They were the second and fourth in the series, and they involved Jupiter and Luna.”
Her answer rather surprised him. She said curtly: “You’re right. I’ll have to check with the Wanderer at once. It could be…what we’re afraid of.” She turned sharply to the control panel. She was standing on her hind legs now in the same gravity that gripped Paul. “You, welcome our visitor!”
A port like a manhole opened in the center of the pink floor and, facing away from Paul, a man in the uniform of the U.S. Space Force pushed up through it. He lurched his elbows heavily against the rim as the artificial-gravity field took hold of him, but evidently this didn’t startle him particularly, for he quickly boosted the rest of his body into the saucer.