Read Online The Cat Who Walks Through Walls by Robert A. Heinlein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert A. Heinlein
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little flesh wound now. Senator? To sharpen his memory?”
“Perhaps. Do you want it in your left leg. Bill? Or your right?”
“Neither one! Look, Senator, ‘Bill’ actually is all the name I’ve got—and make her not point that thing at me, will you, please?”
“Keep him covered. Mistress Hardesty. Bill, she won’t shoot you as long as you cooperate. What happened to your last name?”
“I never had one. I was ‘Bill Number Six’ at the Holy Name Children’s Refuge. Dirtside, that is. New Orleans.”
“I see. I begin to see. But what did it say on your passport when you came here?”
“Didn’t have one. Just a contractor’s work card. It read ‘William No-Middle-Name Johnson.’ But that was just what the labor recruiter wrote on it. Look, she’s wiggling that gun at me!”
“Then don’t do anything to annoy her. You know how women are.”
“I sure do! They ought not to be allowed to have firearms!”
“An interesting thought. Speaking of firearms—That one you were carrying: I want to unload it but I’m afraid that it might explode in my hand. So we will risk your hand instead. Without getting up, turn around so that your back is toward Mistress Hardesty. I am going to push your zapgun to where you can reach it. When I tell you to—not before!—you can take your hands down, unload it, then again put your hands on your head. But listen closely to this:
“Mistress Hardesty, when Bill turns around, take a bead on his spine just below his neck. If he makes one little suspicious move—kill him! Don’t wait to be told, don’t give him a second chance, don’t make it a flesh wound—kill him instantly.”
“With great pleasure. Senator!”
Bill let out a moan.
“All right. Bill, turn around. Don’t use your hands, just willpower.”
He pivoted on his buttocks, scraping his heels to do so. I noted with approval that Gwen had shifted to the steady two-handed grip. I then took my cane and pushed Bill’s homemade gun along the deck to a point in front of him. “Bill, don’t make any sudden moves. Take your hands down. Unload your pistol. Leave it open with its load beside it. Then put your hands back on your head.”
I backed up Gwen with my cane and held my breath while Bill did exactly what I had told him to do. I had no compunction about killing him and I felt sure that Gwen would kill him at once if he tried to turn that homemade gun on us.
But I worried over what to do with his body. I didn’t want him dead. Unless you are on a battlefield or in a hospital, a corpse is an embarrassment, hard to explain. The management was bound to be stuffy about it.
So I breathed a sigh of relief when he finished his assigned task and put his hands back on his head.
I reached out with my cane, reversed, and dragged that nasty little gun and its one cartridge toward me—pocketed that cartridge, then ground a heel down onto its tubing barrel, crushing the muzzle and ruining the firing mockup, then said to Gwen, “You can ease up a little now. No need to kill him this instant. Drop back to flesh-wound alert.”
“Aye aye. Senator. May I give him that flesh wound?”
“No, no! Not if he behaves. Bill, you’re going to behave, aren’t you?”
“Ain’t I been behaving? Senator, make her put the safety on that thing, at least!”
“Now, now! Yours didn’t even have a safety. And you are in no position to insist on terms. Bill, what did you do with the proctor you slugged?”
“Huh!”
“Oh, come now. You show up here in a proctor’s tunic that does not fit you. And your pants don’t match your coat. I ask to see your credentials and you pull a gun—a rumble gun, for the love of Pete! And you haven’t bathed in—how long? You tell me. But tell me first what you did with the owner of that tunic. Is he dead? Or just sapped and stuffed into a closet? Answer quickly or I’ll ask Mistress Hardesty to give you a memory stimulant. Where is he?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t do
“Perhaps. Do you want it in your left leg. Bill? Or your right?”
“Neither one! Look, Senator, ‘Bill’ actually is all the name I’ve got—and make her not point that thing at me, will you, please?”
“Keep him covered. Mistress Hardesty. Bill, she won’t shoot you as long as you cooperate. What happened to your last name?”
“I never had one. I was ‘Bill Number Six’ at the Holy Name Children’s Refuge. Dirtside, that is. New Orleans.”
“I see. I begin to see. But what did it say on your passport when you came here?”
“Didn’t have one. Just a contractor’s work card. It read ‘William No-Middle-Name Johnson.’ But that was just what the labor recruiter wrote on it. Look, she’s wiggling that gun at me!”
“Then don’t do anything to annoy her. You know how women are.”
“I sure do! They ought not to be allowed to have firearms!”
“An interesting thought. Speaking of firearms—That one you were carrying: I want to unload it but I’m afraid that it might explode in my hand. So we will risk your hand instead. Without getting up, turn around so that your back is toward Mistress Hardesty. I am going to push your zapgun to where you can reach it. When I tell you to—not before!—you can take your hands down, unload it, then again put your hands on your head. But listen closely to this:
“Mistress Hardesty, when Bill turns around, take a bead on his spine just below his neck. If he makes one little suspicious move—kill him! Don’t wait to be told, don’t give him a second chance, don’t make it a flesh wound—kill him instantly.”
“With great pleasure. Senator!”
Bill let out a moan.
“All right. Bill, turn around. Don’t use your hands, just willpower.”
He pivoted on his buttocks, scraping his heels to do so. I noted with approval that Gwen had shifted to the steady two-handed grip. I then took my cane and pushed Bill’s homemade gun along the deck to a point in front of him. “Bill, don’t make any sudden moves. Take your hands down. Unload your pistol. Leave it open with its load beside it. Then put your hands back on your head.”
I backed up Gwen with my cane and held my breath while Bill did exactly what I had told him to do. I had no compunction about killing him and I felt sure that Gwen would kill him at once if he tried to turn that homemade gun on us.
But I worried over what to do with his body. I didn’t want him dead. Unless you are on a battlefield or in a hospital, a corpse is an embarrassment, hard to explain. The management was bound to be stuffy about it.
So I breathed a sigh of relief when he finished his assigned task and put his hands back on his head.
I reached out with my cane, reversed, and dragged that nasty little gun and its one cartridge toward me—pocketed that cartridge, then ground a heel down onto its tubing barrel, crushing the muzzle and ruining the firing mockup, then said to Gwen, “You can ease up a little now. No need to kill him this instant. Drop back to flesh-wound alert.”
“Aye aye. Senator. May I give him that flesh wound?”
“No, no! Not if he behaves. Bill, you’re going to behave, aren’t you?”
“Ain’t I been behaving? Senator, make her put the safety on that thing, at least!”
“Now, now! Yours didn’t even have a safety. And you are in no position to insist on terms. Bill, what did you do with the proctor you slugged?”
“Huh!”
“Oh, come now. You show up here in a proctor’s tunic that does not fit you. And your pants don’t match your coat. I ask to see your credentials and you pull a gun—a rumble gun, for the love of Pete! And you haven’t bathed in—how long? You tell me. But tell me first what you did with the owner of that tunic. Is he dead? Or just sapped and stuffed into a closet? Answer quickly or I’ll ask Mistress Hardesty to give you a memory stimulant. Where is he?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t do
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