“Is very good idea,” she agreed, sinking down on the bed. “But please call Dytie, Phil.”

She makes one feel at ease, Phil thought as he placed himself in the foam chair opposite. “Well, Dytie, it began…” and for the next hour he told her in some detail the story of what had happened to him ever since he had awakened to see Lucky sitting on the window sill. He suppressed entirely, however, the incident of watching her last night, which made it necessary for him also to condense the account of his session with Dr. Romadka. Dytie frequently interrupted him to ask for explanations, some of them exceedingly obvious things, such as what was a hatpin, and what was the Federal Bureau of Loyalty and what was it that male and female wrestlers tried to do to each other in the ring? On the other hand, she sometimes passed up things he expected to puzzle her, though he couldn’t always tell whether this was because she really understood them, or because she didn’t want to. Orthos interested her not at all, stun-guns, mightily. Lucky’s exploits did not seem to startle her much. Her usual comment was along these lines: “That pussycat. Is so stupid. But lucky too. Thas good name you give him, Phil.”

When he came to the Humberford Foundation and Dytie’s brother, she rolled over on her stomach and listened with closer attention. But when he hesitantly mentioned how Dion had seemed to develop such an instant yen for Dora Pannes, she whooped knowingly. “That brother,” she chortled. “He chase anything with two legs and milk glands. ‘Cept of course when he pregnant.”

“What!”

“Say something? Must got wrong word,” Dytie interposed quickly, brushing the matter aside.

But she was very much interested in Morton Opperly and insisted on Phil telling her a great deal about the famous scientist.

“He smart man,” she said with conviction. “Very much like meet.”

“I’ll try to manage it sometime,” Phil said and told how the green cat had been captured by Dora Pannes.

Dytie shook her head solemnly. “Some people got very hard hearts,” she said. “Don like pussycat all.”

Phil quickly rounded off his story with an account of how the fake green cat in the alley had scratched him.

Dytie got up and came over and touched his hands tenderly. “Poor Phil,” she said, then summarized: “So we know who have pussycat, but not where?”

“That’s right,” Phil said quickly, “and that where is a tough one, because Billig’s hiding from the FBL.” And he got up rapidly, trying not to make it obvious that he wanted to put a few feet between them. Dytie’s fingers were soft and gentle enough, but there was something about her touch and her close presence that set him shivering. Conceivably, it was her odor, which wasn’t strong or even unpleasant, just completely unfamiliar. She looked after him rather wistfully, but did not try to follow. He faced her across the room.

“Well, that’s my story, Dytie,” he said a bit breathlessly. “And now I want to ask my questions. Just what kind of a cat have you got, that Fun Incorporated could hope to bribe the federal government with it? Is it a mutant with telepathic powers and able to control emotions? Is it a throwback, or maybe deliberately bred back to an otherwise extinct animal? Is it some cockeyed triumph of Soviet genetics, working along lines our scientists don’t accept? Damn it, is it even some sort of Egyptian god, like Sacheverell thinks? It’s your turn to talk, Dytie.”

But instead of answering him, she merely smiled and said, “‘Scuse me, Phil, but that long story yours really long. Be right back.”

He expected her to walk out the window and wondered what he’d do. But she merely went into the bathroom and shut the door.

He paced around, unbearably keyed up, lifting small objects and putting them down again. Nervously he turned on the radio, sight and sound, though he didn’t look at it and didn’t understand a word of what the inane sports gossipist was loudly yapping about the feats, follies and frivolities of the muscle stars. Then on his next circuit of the room, he happened to tread hard as he passed the radio, and something went wrong with it, so that the sound sank to a very low mumble and he was once more alone in his agitation.

So much so that he jumped when he heard a small noise behind him.

The hall door had opened. Mitzie Romadka was standing just outside, looking both adolescent and weary in faded blue sweater and slacks. A lock of her long, dark hair trailed in front of her ear. She fixed on Phil an unhappy, defiant stare.

“Last night I said ‘Goodbye forever’ and I meant it,” she began abruptly. “So don’t get any ideas. I’ve come here to warn you about something.” Her voice broke a little. “Oh, it’s all such an awful mess.” She bit her lip and recovered herself. “It isn’t just that Carstairs, Llewellyn and Buck hate me, or that you tried to make me get mushy and humble. When I came home by the service chute early this morning, I overheard my father talking with two other men. I listened and found out that he’s a Soviet agent and that his job now is to get the green cat no matter how much killing it takes. And he thinks you have it.”

Phil looked at her and the hours between were gone and he was back in the little tangled square at dawn and Mitzie was about to leave him, and all his snapping nervous tension flowed in a new and steadier channel.

“Darling,” he said softly and carefully, as if a sudden noise might make her vanish, “Mitzie darling, I wasn’t trying to humble you.”

“Oh?” she said, tucking the lock of hair back of her ear.

He moved toward her very slowly. “Actually I was just being conceited and I was jealous – both of you and your boy friends.”

“Be very careful what you say, Phil,” she whispered fearfully. “Be very honest.”

“All right then,” he said, “I was trying to humble you; I was doing my best to. I was full of the sort of vanity and condescension that comes from understanding too much. I didn’t know that your kind of defiance and glory has a place in the world. Mitzie, I love you.”

He put his arms around her and she didn’t vanish. The feeling of her body against his wasn’t like anything he’d imagined. It was simply slim and quite trusting and terribly tired.

Then her chin lifted from his shoulder and he was shoved back about six feet.

Mitzie was glaring at and beyond him. He was relieved that she didn’t seem to have a gun, or knife, or claws, or anything like that.

He looked around. Dytie da Silva, leaning against the bathroom door, was watching them quizzically. “‘Allo,’ she greeted them cheerfully, then asked Phil, “Girl friend?”

Mitzie turned pale. “How many do you try to take on at once?” she spat at Phil.

“Don worry,” Dytie advised relaxedly. “He very timid at first.”

“Oh!” Mitzie exclaimed loudly, and stamped on the floor with both feet at once.

The radio came on loud again. “… long been known that she and her husband weren’t on sleeping terms. But ironically her fans had to wait until what, with the outlawing of male-female wrestling, was probably her last professional appearance, before getting a glimpse of her new boy friend.”

In the middle of the bright screen was Phil, with a dazed look and a silly smile on his face. Juno’s arm was clutched around him and she was shouting “… even I gotta have a love life! And don’t you be insulting it!”

“Oh!” Mitzie shouted, crashed the palm of her hand against Phil’s left cheek, ran out the door and slammed it behind her. Phil stood there a few seconds. Then he turned off the radio and wiped the tears out of his left eye.

“Why you no chase?” Dytie inquired pleasantly. “Don worry, Phil, she come back. She really love you all more. She proud you such virile man, have many girls.”

“Please,” Phil groaned, lifting his hand. “That was goodbye forever.”

“Forever is never. She come back,” Dytie said.