Catopolis. Part 9

It shattered my calm.

"I can promise I've never been on a bird hunt." As I spoke the words, the mice skittering around in my stomach finally calmed.

I jumped on to the iron walkway crossing the ca.n.a.l, finally feeling free to speak my mind.

"I can promise that when I'm elected, I'll ban such hunts." It was a promise no pedigreed cat would make. "If we work together, we can see change happen. Work with our neighbors instead of against them. There's enough food and shelter for all, if we'd just join together to find it. We can make this world a better place-one where strays have a place to call home, pigeons can be safe in the park, and the dogs battle boredom by pulling on tuggers and chasing b.a.l.l.s. A world where fresh blood isn't chased down and ripped apart."

At that, Jennings let out a bark of laughter.

"You think I'm joking?" I asked.

"If you're voted in, you'll be lucky to change the color of your collar," Whittington said, leaping on to the walkway, so he didn't have to look up at me. He stuck his wet nose in my face. "What have you said the last month that has meant anything? You think making meaningless promises now will make a difference? No one knows what you really want."

"I thought people knew," I whispered, more to myself than to anyone.

Whittington wasn't a bad politician. The election would be easier for me to win if he was. But he was of the old school and wasn't about to change his beliefs. Other cats seemed to instinctively know that about him and thought I was the same. I had to prove I was different.

"Spokespigeon, can you come down here?" I called, finding the distinctive bird in the flock.

After a moment, the bird descended, finding a spot on the rail just out of both Whittington's paw reach and my own.

"I don't go to the hunting parties," I claimed. "I never have, and I never will." The words were an admission, though the bird wouldn't know why.

Jennings came up the steps of the ca.n.a.l without any of a cat's grace and with all the confidence of a dog chasing after a bone. He let out a bark as he made the walkway and joined the mix.

"Never? Why is that?" he demanded.

I knew the dog could smell the truth, and I gave it to him, knowing there was no hope of keeping my secret now. It was as though someone had let me out of a bag. I was free.

I met Whittington's level green eyes for a moment, then turned to Jennings. "I'd never condone such a thing."

The beagle let out a soulful sigh, full of dawning understanding. I thought I knew what he was going to say next. For a long moment I waited, my heart going to stone.

This is it. The end of my career.

But for once, the dog was silent.

Whittington wasn't. "You're nothing but a mutt, aren't you- Whisker McTailzo?" he spat, using one of the worst forms of address another cat could offer: my human name.

There was more than one hiss in response from the bystanders. Even the newshounds and the birds looked shocked.

"At least I'm an honest one." I arched my back, letting my tail fur spike. If I was going to be buried, at least I was the one causing the avalanche. I relaxed my posture and looked up at the protestors' leader. "Do you have a name, spokespigeon?"

"Bergh," the bird chirped.

"Well, Bergh, if you leave now, even if I'm not elected Mayor, I'll fight for your rights. I guarantee I'll be a constant claw in Whittington's side."

There were gasps as I admitted I might not win. Everyone knew it wasn't good practice.

The bird squawked. "For that deal, we will leave in peace."

Their trust was something, at least.

"No!" Whittington leaped forward, taking Bergh down to the ground with a crisp swipe of a paw.

I lunged, striking Whittington's paw away with one of my own, forcing him to release the protester.

"You think you can ban sport?" Whittington yelled as all the birds took to the air, wings snapping in the breeze. "Might as well try to ban eating mice, or are you against that as well? How about all those mice caught and killed to give you votes? Do you agree with that practice?"

I refused his lure. "Change starts one cat at a time," I said. "All I can promise is that I'll work for it, no matter what happens in this election."

"Which must continue," McClung broke in, taking control. She turned to the cats in line. "If you don't have ballots, please remove yourselves from the premises."

"I'll see you in the council chambers... Councillor," Whittington said, not even offering a paw. His eyes were cold.

I turned away. Toward the city. Toward the reality that I'd likely ceded the day to Whittington.

The realization didn't hurt as much as I had expected it to.

As I made my way back toward City Hall, Diefenbaker took up a position at my side. Jennings followed at our heels. At the end of the first block, I realized other cats were following us.

Seeing me embarra.s.sed wasn't enough. They want to see me defeated.

I looked to Jennings, wondering what he would say tomorrow if others killed me tonight. I'd played them false, after all. They had thought I was pedigreed, that I had breeding. What was I really?

A mutt, just as Whittington said.

"Sir? Look at them..." Diefenbaker hissed in my ear.

Without thinking, I did. He was my campaign manager, after all.

I looked, and froze.

While most of the cats following us were grave, a few were smiling. Some even nodded when they saw they had my attention. Not one looked ready to strike.

"What?" The word was less than a stumbling purr in my throat.

"Being part beagle myself," Jennings offered, "I could've told you. Sometimes honesty is enough."

I couldn't blink.

Maybe there'll be a party after all.

"So, what are you going to do next?" Jennings barked as we started padding again.

I knew he meant when the night was over-win or lose-but there was only one thing at the top of my mind.

"I think we might have to consider a new ballot system."

EYE WITNESS.

by Donald J. Bingle.

"You saw this yourself?" Shamus McGee stroked his whiskers absentmindedly as he peered at Willie, sizing him up. Willie was usually reliable, but he hadn't seen head or tail of the snitch for some months now, and things can happen-things that can cause once trustworthy sources to become untrustworthy, even dangerous. The reasons were many: hard times, narcotics, mental illness, religious fervor, old age. He'd seen them all in his decades as a private investigator, and he had to be sure of his information. This was a wild, wild tale-the kind that folks talk about in gatherings on Sat.u.r.day night or when they meet up during a Sunday walk in the park. His reputation was on the line if he reported to the client that this was actually the solution to the mystery. He wanted to be sure he got it right.

"Absolutely, Shamus. Without a doubt. I mean, I couldn't believe my eyes at first, but when you think about it, it explains everything... well, almost everything." Willie twitched with excitement, or perhaps worry, about the information he had just imparted. Shamus couldn't be sure which yet and he needed to know.

Willie's tale was a blockbuster, if true. The religious establishment was bound to be apoplectic. Willie would be investigated and denounced at the very least. His name, his history, everything about him would be sniffed out, batted about to see what shook loose, then released to the news-mongering horde in a manner calculated to make sure their frenzied attacks and howls of protest lasted as long as possible.

Shamus would be unlikely to fare much better, but at least he had a long professional reputation and some friends, or at least long-established contacts, in the news dissemination business. They would hold off on him for awhile. Long enough to see how the basic story sold and whether his bizarre explanation of the ultimate mystery was going to win the day. Then, if it looked as though Willie's information was bogus, they would pounce and tear him apart, too.

It was past strange that he had ever even gotten this a.s.signment. He'd been in the detective business a numbingly long time, but he didn't go for the sensational jobs. This, well, this was truly sensational and the oddest case he'd ever worked... by far. Most of the jobs were straightforward enough, if not downright routine. Not always simple work or pleasant either, but what you expected in the business. Staking out houses and tailing suspects, mostly catching those who cheated on their supposed loved ones. He'd seen more mates leave home in the evening to go visit some piece of tail than he cared to think about.

The clients wanted to know, but they didn't necessarily want to see what was going on right under their noses-most of his clients really didn't get out that much and couldn't handle themselves on the streets like he could. Sure, there was some excitement in the job-an occasional car chase, that kind of thing. But most of the cases were just sad and pathetic.

He hated the missing children cases the worst. Yeah, he had a few successes in his time locating the young ones- some even alive-but there were just too many cases of kids plucked away from their homes or getting lost or just turning up missing to make any sense of the world. The religious just said there was an unknowable reason for everything. The lunatic fringe-fanatics who howled at the moon-they all had theories of abduction and such. Heck, their weirdo theories made as much sense as this case-which reminded him, he'd better get down to business. His client was paying him to track down the secret of the mysterious "manna," not daydream about his crummy job.

"Let's go over the entire story, Willie."

"Geez, Shamus, I've already told I saw the whole thing!"

"But I've got to make sure what you saw makes sense. I can't just take your word for it. You know, there's no bonus for you and no future work from me, not next week, not in a blue moon, if you screw up something this important. Heck, you'll be lucky to eat out of a garbage can if word gets about that you lied..."

"Lied! You know me, Shamus, I ain't no liar!" Willie's nervous twitch became more p.r.o.nounced.

"... or were mistaken about what you saw. You say it all happened in Seattle? That's some distance away. What were you doing there?"

"What does it matter?" Willie's gaze went to the side, then down, looking anywhere but in Shamus' eyes.

"A good detective corroborates every part of the informant's story he can."

"It's embarra.s.sing..."

Shamus opened his mouth in anger, but he withheld some of the fury of his words: "So is telling a tale like this and not being able to prove it! What were you doing in Seattle? I need to know and I need to know now. It doesn't help either of us if the first time I hear about it is on the evening news."

"I followed a girl there."

Shamus considered this for a moment. Willie wasn't exactly a catch, but some of the city dames are pretty randy. Of course, the consequences of casual promiscuity were anything but casual. That's one of the reasons there were so many unwanted offspring in the world. He focused back on the questioning. "Does she know you were there, or were you stalking her from a distance?"

"I wouldn't call it stalking... anyway, whatever you call it, she knew I was there. She caught me... I mean, saw me."

"What's her name?"

"m.u.f.fy."

"Geez, Willie, you know those rich suburban types will never go for a cat like you!" Shamus thought for a few seconds, unconsciously humming a monotonous tune. "Let's go back to the mystery, itself, and make sure we have all the appropriate elements."

"Whatever. You're the detective, Shamus."

"Alright. Now in most of the world, everyone fends for themselves. They work for their food each and every day. But then, well, then there's the rich-they live in fancy houses, people tend to their every need, and their meals are served to them on silver platters. My task is to find the source of their bounty. There's no ready evidence of where it all comes from. No one sees it, no one smells it. It sure doesn't walk into the place by itself."

"Wouldn't that be the cat's meow?"

"Yet every day, the servants of the rich take this cylindrical object, subject it to some mechanical purring apparatus, then, there it is... food on a silver platter. The priests call it 'manna from heaven'."

"That's the story."

"The priests also say that the servants of the pure of soul pray for provisions. If their prayers are answered, the G.o.ds purr, and immediately thereafter food mysteriously appears from nowhere, provided to these rich cats because they are the chosen ones. But you say that's not what really happens."

"Never happened to me, boss, one way or the other, but this m.u.f.fy... I saw it happen to her when I was stalking... er... watching her. It made me real jealous... and hungry, too. So I got p.i.s.sed and left. Thought I'd head down to the waterfront and see what I could catch to eat. That's when I saw it. Big place, huge place. I could barely believe it, Shamus. Filled with the best food you ever smelled. Big old boats were coming in filled with fish and stuff, and they were chopping it up and putting it into these cylindrical objects, then sealing them real tight-not like a garbage can lid, boss-I mean, real tight so you couldn't even smell the food was in 'em.

"They called it a cannery. Cans is what they called the cylindrical objects. Trucks full of the stuff were leaving for all sorts of places. I followed one, and it went to a big building where there were lots of these cans and some regular food, too. Servants would saunter in and bring the cans home. That's why you can't see or smell the food coming in-it's sealed real tight. I got one of them cans, and no matter what I did, I couldn't get it open."

"So you're asking me to believe that the servants have created an entire workforce dedicated to catching food and s.h.i.+pping it hundreds of miles to other servants, who magically unseal it and feed it to us."

"That's about it."

This was just too much. Willie had told him earlier that the food was inside the strange cylindrical objects, but he hadn't told him this whole fantastic story about hordes of servants conspiring to make it appear. He could no longer control his disbelief of the entire story. Shamus spat out his words: "But it makes no sense, Willie. Food doesn't keep long enough to travel hundreds of miles. And besides, why would they do that? What's the purring sound? I just can't stake my professional reputation on an explanation so outlandis.h.!.+ I'll be labeled a heretic, for cat's sake."

"But it's true!"

"Sure, sure, Willie. I suppose next you're going to explain the mysterious red lights that have been reported lately, moving erratically at incredible speeds with no sound or source of power."

"Well, a cat in Seattle named MicroSoftie was telling me about something called 'laser pointers'..."

That did it. Shamus arched his back and hissed. Willie leaped from the top of the park bench and skittered away through a hole in the fence. "Laser pointer, my tail!" he fumed. "Next thing you know, he'll be trying to convince me that the servants are the chosen ones..."

MENTOR OF THE POTALA.

by Bruce A. Heard.

The elegant Birman Tai Pan licks one of his pristine white forepaws, a sign that his work is over.

"Well, Mugs," he sighs, "you've truly outdone yourself this time. It took a bit of doing to get them to give you up, especially since this is the second time you've irritated them. Please try not to do that again. If you do, next time they won't listen to me at all."

He sits on the low branch of a tree with broad, thick leaves, looking down on the Astral emanation of the grizzled, muzzle-scarred gray alley cat regarding him from among the roots. Behind Mugs, a forest of giant rhododendrons slowly bristles into bloom under the soft light of a celestial crescent. A wall of majestic snowy mountains curtains the horizon, their snow-capped peaks contrasting bright against the nocturnal sky.