something that surprised him, his eyes widened, and when he was shocked,
he either twitched or pulled his head back and cocked it as if to say,
Man, have you been guzzling catnip cocktails, or are you just a
congenital bullshit machine? Sometimes he grinned, which was usually
when Bobby and I had to reveal something stupid that we had said or
done, it seemed to me that Mungojerrie grinned way too often.
Bobby’s description of what we glimpsed through the faceplate of
Hodgson’s bio-secure suit seemed to put the feline off his feed for a
few minutes, but he was first and foremost a cat, with a cat’s appetite
and curiosity, so before we finished the tale, he had solicited and
received from Roosevelt another saucer of milk-soaked crustulorum.
“We’re convinced the missing kids and Orson are somewhere in Wyvern, ” I
said to Roosevelt Frost, because I still felt weird about directly
addressing the cat, which is peculiar, considering that I directly
address Orson all the time. “But the place is just too big to search.
We need a tracker.” Bobby said, “Since we don’t own a reconnaissance
satellite, don’t know a good Indian scout, and don’t keep a bloodhound
hanging in the closet for these emergencies …” The three of us looked
expectantly at Mungojerrie.
The cat met my eyes, then Bobby’s, then Sasha’s. He closed his eyes for
a moment, as if pondering our implied request, then finally turned his
attention to Roosevelt.
The gentle giant pushed aside his plate and coffee cup, leaned forward,
propped his right elbow on the table, rested his chin on his fist, and
locked gazes with our whiskered guest.
After a minute, during which I tried unsuccessfully to recall the melody
of the movie theme song from That Darn Cat, Roosevelt said, “Mungojerrie
wonders if you were listening to what I said when we first arrived.”
” Lots of death, ” I quoted.
“Whose? ” Sasha asked.
“Ours.”
“Who says? ” I pointed at the cat.
Mungojerrie managed to look like a swami.
Bobby said, “We know there’s danger.”
“He’s not just saying it’s dangerous, ” Roosevelt explained.
“It’s a .
. sort of prediction.” We sat in silence, staring at the cat, who
favored us with an expression as inscrutable as that on the cats in
Egyptian tomb sculptures, and eventually Sasha said, “You mean
Mungojerrie’s dairvoyant? ”
“No, ” Roosevelt said.
“Then what do you mean? ” Still staring at the cat, who was now gazing
solemnly at one of the candles as if reading the future in the sinuous
dance of the flame upon the wick, Roosevelt said, “Cats know things.”
Bobby, Sasha, and I looked at one another, but none of us could provide
enlightenment.
“What, exactly, do cats know? ” Sasha asked.
“Things, ” Roosevelt said.
“How? ”
“By knowing.”
“What is the sound of one hand clapping? ” Bobby asked rhetorically.
The cat twitched its ears and looked at him as if to say, Now you
understand.
“This cat’s been reading too much Deepak Chopra, ” Bobby said.
Frustration pinched Sasha’s face and voice. “Roosevelt? ” When he
shrugged his massive shoulders, I could almost feel the cubic yard of
displaced air wafting across the table. “Daughter, this animal
communication business isn’t always like talking on the telephone.
Sometimes it is just exactly as clear as that. But then sometimes there
are … ambiguities.”
“Well, ” Bobby said, “does this ball-bearing mousetrap think we have
some chance of finding Orson and the kids, then getting back here
alive any chance at all? ” With his left hand, Roosevelt gently scratched
the cat behind the ears and stroked its head. “He says there’s always a
chance. Nothing is hopeless.”
“Fifty-fifty chance? ” I wondered.
Roosevelt laughed softly. “Mr. Mungojerrie says he isn’t a bookmaker.”
“So, ” Bobby said, “the worst that can happen is that we all go back
there to Wyvern and we all die, get shredded and processed and packaged
as lunch meat. Seems to me, that’s always been the worst that could
happen, so nothing’s changed. I’m up for it.”
“Me too, ” said Sasha.
Obviously still speaking for the cat, which purred and leaned into his