He shook his head. “The way I see it we would have had no trouble at all if we had tended to our own business. The Lord never intended men to go out into space. We should junk the space stations and stay home; then we would be all right.”
I pointed out that the slugs came here in their own ships; we did not go after them—and got a warning signal from Mary not to talk too much.
The storekeeper placed both hands on the counter and leaned toward me. “We had no trouble before space travel; you’ll grant that?”
I conceded the point. “Well?” he said triumphantly.
I shut up. How can you argue?
We did not go into town after that and saw no one and spoke to no one. On the way home (we were on foot) we passed close to the shack of John the Goat, our local hermit. Some say that John used to keep goats; I know he smelled like one. He did what little caretaking I required and we respected each other, that is, we saw each other only when strictly necessary and then as briefly as possible. But, seeing him, I waved.
He waved back. He was dressed as usual, stocking cap, an old army blouse, shorts, and sandals. I thought of warning him that a man had been shot nearby for not complying with the bare-to-the-waist order, but decided against it. John was the perfect anarchist; advice would have made him only more stubborn. Instead I cupped my hands and shouted, “Send up the Pirate!” He waved again and we went on without coming within two hundred feet of him, which was about right unless he was downwind.
“Who’s the Pirate, darling?” Mary asked.
“You’ll see.”
Which she did; as soon as we got back the Pirate came in, for I had his little door keyed to his own meow so that he could let himself in and out—the Pirate being a large and rakish tom cat, half red Persian and half travelling salesman. He came in strutting, told me what he thought of people who stayed away so long, then headbumped my ankle in forgiveness. I reached down and roughed him up, then he inspected Mary.
I was watching Mary. She had dropped to her knees and was making the sounds used by people who understand cat protocol, but the Pirate was looking her over suspiciously. Suddenly he jumped into her arms and commenced to buzz like a faulty fuel meter, while bumping her under the chin.
I sighed loudly. “That’s a relief,” I announced. “For a moment I didn’t think I was going to be allowed to keep you.”
Mary looked up and smiled. “You need not have worried; I get along with cats. I’m two-thirds cat myself.”
“What’s the other third?”
She made a face at me. “You’ll find out.” She was scratching the Pirate under the chin; he was stretching his neck and accepting it, with an expression of indecent and lascivious pleasure. I noticed that her hair just matched his fur.
“Old John takes care of him while I’m away,” I explained, “but the Pirate belongs to me—or vice versa.”
“I figured that out,” Mary answered, “and now I belong to the Pirate, too; don’t I, Pirate?”
The cat did not answer but continued his shameless lallygagging—but it was clear that she was right. Truthfully I was relieved; aelurophobes cannot understand why cats matter to aelurophiles, but if Mary had turned out not to be one of the lodge it would have fretted me.
From then on the cat was with us—or with Mary—almost all the time, except when I shut him out of our bedroom. That I would not stand for, though both Mary and the Pirate thought it small of me. We even took him with us when we went down the canyon for target practice. I suggested to Mary that it was safer to leave him behind but she said, “See to it that you don’t shoot him. I won’t.”
I shut up, somewhat stung. I am a good shot and remain so by unrelenting practice at every opportunity—even on my honeymoon. No, that’s not quite straight; I would have skipped practice on that occasion had it not turned out that Mary really liked to shoot. Mary is not just a good trained shot; she is the real thing, an Annie Oakley. She tried to teach me, but it can’t be taught, not that sort of shooting.