Free The Cat Who Walks Through Walls by Robert A. Heinlein Page A

not easily daunted. In fact I think she enjoyed it.
    As he peeled down. Bill gained a bit of my sympathy; he looked like a plucked chicken, with a woebegone expression to match. When he was down to undershorts (gray with dirt), he stopped and looked at me. “All the way,” I said briskly. “Then duck into the ’fresher and take the works. If you do a poor job, you’ll do it over. If you stick your nose outside in less than thirty minutes, I won’t bother to check you; I’ll simply send you back in. Now get those drawers off—fast!”
    Bill turned his back to Gwen, took off his shorts, then scuttled sideways to the refresher in a futile effort to retain a fraction of his modesty. He sealed the door behind him.
    Gwen put her pistol into her purse, then worked her fingers, flexing and extending them. “I was getting stiff from holding it. Beloved, may I have those cartridges?”
    “Eh?”
    “The ones you took from Bill. Six, wasn’t it? Five and one.”
    “Certainly, if you wish.” Should I tell her that I too had use for them? No, data of that sort should be shared only on a “need to know” basis. I got them out, handed them to her.
    Gwen looked them over, nodded, again took out her sweet little pistol—slid out its clip, loaded the six confiscated rounds into it, replaced the clip, jacked one into the chamber, locked the weapon and returned it to her purse.
    “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said slowly. “When I first called on you to back me, you covered him with a pocket pen. Then, after you disarmed him, you held him with an empty gun. Is that correct?”
    “Richard, I was taken by surprise. I did the best I could.”
    “I was not criticizing. On the contrary!”
    “There never seemed to be a good time to tell you.” She went on, “Dear, could you spare a pair of pants and a shirt? There are some right on top in your duffel bag.”
    “I suppose so. For our problem child?”
    “Yes. I want to shove his filthy clothes down the oubliette, let them be recycled. The stench won’t clear out of here until we get rid of them.”
    “So let’s get rid of them.” I shoved Bill’s clothes down the chute (all but his shoes), then washed my hands at the buttery’s fountain. “Gwen, I don’t think I have anything more to learn from this lunk. We could leave him some clothes and simply leave. Or…we could leave right away and not leave him any clothes.”
    Gwen looked startled. “But the proctors would pick him up at once.”
    “Exactly. Dear girl, this lad is a born loser; the proctors will grab him before long anyhow. What do they do with nightwalkers today? Have you heard any gossip?”
    “No. Nothing with the ring of truth.”
    “I don’t think they ship them down to Earth. That would cost the Company too much money, thus violating the Golden Rule the way it is interpreted here. There is no jail or prison in Golden Rule; that limits the possibilities. So?”
    Gwen looked troubled. “I don’t think I like what I’m hearing.”
    “It gets worse. Outside that door, perhaps not in sight but somewhere near, are a couple of hoodlums who mean us no good. Or who mean me no good, at least. If Bill leaves here, having flubbed the job he was hired to do, what happens to him? Do they feed him to the rats?”
    “Ugh!”
    “Yes, ‘ugh.’ My uncle used to say, ‘Never pick up a stray kitten…unless you’ve already made up your mind to be owned by it.’ Well, Gwen?”
    She sighed. “I think he’s a good boy. Could be, I mean, if anyone had ever bothered with him.”
    I echoed her sigh. “Just one way to find out.”
     
VI
    “Don’t lock the barn after it is stolen.”
    HARTLEY M. BALDWIN
    It is difficult to punch a man in the nose through a terminal.
    Even if one does not intend to use such direct persuasion, discussion via computer terminal can be less than satisfactory. With the flick of a key your opponent can shut you off or turn you over to a subordinate. But if you are physically present