Creatures From Beyond

SOME ARE BORN CATS Terry and Carol Carr

If creatures from another star wanted to visit Earth in secret, perhaps they could do it by changing their shapes so that they’d look like the everyday life-forms we’re used to seeing … such as cats. But even if the aliens could make themselves look like cats, how would they know how to act? And a cat that doesn’t act like a cat is very conspicuous… .

Carol and I have been married for a long time, and we’ve each written science fiction stories, but Some Are Born Cats was the first one we wrote together. Perhaps that’s the reason this story is one of our favorites.

“Maybe he’s an alien shape-changing spy from Arcturus,” Freddie said.

“What does that mean?” asked the girl.

Freddie shrugged. “Maybe he’s not a cat at all. He could be some kind of alien creature that came to Earth to spy on us. He could be hiding in the shape of a cat while he studies us and sends back reports to Arcturus or someplace.”

She looked at the cat, whose black body lay draped across the top of the television set, white muzzle on white paws, wide green eyes open and staring at them. The boy and the girl lay on her bed, surrounded by schoolbooks.

“You’re probably right,” she said. “He gives me the creeps.”

The girl’s name was Alyson, and it was her room. She and Freddie spent a lot of their time together, though it wasn’t a real Thing between them. Nothing official, nor even unofficial. They’d started the evening doing homework together, but now they were watching “Creature Features,” with the sound turned down.

“He always does that,” Alyson said. “He gets up on the television set whenever there’s a scary movie on, and he drapes his tail down the side like that and just stares at me. I’m watching a vampire movie, and I happen to glance up and there he is, looking at me. He never blinks, even. It really freaks me out sometimes.”

The cat sat up suddenly, blinking. It yawned and began an elaborate washing of its face. White paws, white chest, white face, and the rest of him was raven black. With only the television screen illuminating the room, he seemed to float in the darkness. On the screen now was a commercial for campers; a man who looked Oriental was telling them that campers were the best way to see America.

“What kind of a name is Gilgamesh?” Freddie asked. “That’s his name, isn’t it?”

“It’s ancient Babylonian or something like that,” Alyson told him. “He was kind of a god; there’s a whole long story about him. I just liked the name, and he looked so scraggly and helpless when he adopted us, I thought maybe he could use a fancy name. But most of the time I just call him Gil anyway.”

“Is George short for anything?” the boy asked. George was her other cat, a placid Siamese. George was in some other part of the house.

“No, he’s just George. He looks so elegant, I didn’t think he needed a very special name.”

“Gilgamesh, you ought to pay more attention to George,” the boy said. “He’s a real cat; he acts like a cat would really act. You don’t see him sitting on top of horror shows and acting weird.”

“George gets up on the television set too, but he just goes to sleep,” Alyson said.

The cat, Gilgamesh, blinked at them and slowly lay down again, spreading himself carefully across the top of the TV set. He didn’t look at them.

“Do you mean Gil could be just hypnotizing us to think he’s a cat?” Alyson asked. “Or do you suppose he took over the body of a real cat when he arrived here on Earth?”

“Either way,” Freddie said. “It’s how he acts that’s the tip-off. He doesn’t act like a cat would. Hey, Gil, you really ought to study George—he knows what it’s all about.”

Gilgamesh lay still, eyes closed. They watched the movie, and after it, the late news. An announcer jokingly reported that strange lights had been seen in the skies over Watsonville, and he asked the TV weatherman if he could explain them. The weatherman said, “We may have a new wave of flying saucers moving in from the Pacific.” Everybody in the studio laughed.

Gilgamesh jumped off the television set and left the room.

Freddie’s Saturday morning began at eight o’clock with the “World News Roundup of the Week.” He opened one eye cautiously and saw an on-the-spot reporter interviewing the families of three sky divers whose parachutes had failed to open.

Freddie was about to go downstairs for breakfast when the one woman reporter in the group smilingly announced that Friday night, at 11:45 P.M., forty-two people had called the studio to report a flying-saucer sighting. One man, the owner of a fish store, referred to “a school of saucers.” The news team laughed, but Freddie’s heartbeat quickened.

It took him twenty minutes to get through to Alyson, and when she picked up the phone, he was caught unprepared, with a mouthful of English muffin.”

“Hello? Hello?”

“Mmgfghmf.”

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Chrglfmhph.”

“Oh, my goodness! Mom! I think it’s one of those obscene calls!” She sounded deliriously happy. But she hung up. Freddie swallowed and dialed again.

“Boy, am I glad it’s you,” Alyson said. “Listen, you’ve got to come right over—it’s been one incredible thing after another ever since you left last night. First, the saucers—did you hear about them?—and then Gil freaking out, then a real creepy obscene telephone call.”

“Hold it, hold it,” Freddie said. “I’ll meet you back of the house in five minutes.”

When he got there, Alyson was lying stomach down on the lawn, chewing a blade of grass. She looked only slightly more calm than she sounded.

“Freddie,” she said almost tragically. “How much do you know?”

“About as much as the next guy.”

“No, seriously—I mean about the saucers last night. Did you see them?”

“I was asleep. Did you?”

“See them! I practically touched them.” She looked deep into his eyes. “But Freddie, that’s not the important part.”

“What is? What?”

“Gilgamesh. I seriously believe he’s having a nervous breakdown. I hate to think of what else it could be.” She got up. ‘Wait right here. I want you to see this.”

Freddie waited, a collage of living-color images dancing in his head: enemy sky divers, a massacred school of flying saucers, shape-changing spies from Arcturus… .

Alyson came back holding a limp Gilgamesh over her arm.

“He was in the litter pan,” she said significantly. “He was covering it up.”

“Covering what up?”

“His doo-doo, silly.”

Freddie winced. There were moments when he wished Alyson were a bit more liberated.

Gilgamesh settled down on Alyson’s lap and purred frantically.

“He has never, not once before, covered it up,” she insisted. “He always gets out of the box when he’s finished and scratches on the floor near it. George comes along eventually and does it for him.”

Gilgamesh licked one paw and applied it to his right ear. It was a highly adorable action, one that never failed to please. He did it twice more—lick, tilt head, rub; lick, tilt head, rub —then stopped and looked at Freddie out of the corner of his eye.

“You see what I mean?” Alyson said. “Do you know what that look means?”

“He’s asking for approval,” said Freddie. “No doubt about it. He wants to know if he did it right.”

“Exactly!”

Gilgamesh tucked his head between his white paws and closed his eyes.

“He feels that he’s a failure,” Alyson interpreted.

“Right.”

Gilgamesh turned over on his back, let his legs flop, and began to purr. His body trembled like a lawn mower standing still.

Freddie nodded. “Overdone. Everything he does is self-conscious.”

“And you know when he’s not self-conscious? When he’s staring. But he doesn’t look like a cat then, either.” “What did he do last night, when the saucers were here?”

Alyson sat up straight; Gilgamesh looked at her suspiciously.

“He positively freaked,” she said. “He took one look and his tail bushed out and he arched his back… .”

“That’s not so freaky. Any kind of cat would do that.”

“I know … it’s what comes next.” She paused dramatically. “In the middle of this bushy-tailed fit, he stopped dead in his tracks, shook his head, and trotted into the house to find George. Gil woke him up and chased him onto the porch. Then you know what he did? He put a paw on George’s shoulder, like they were old buddies. And you know how George is—he just went along with it; he’ll groove on anything. But it was so weird. George wanted to leave, but Gil kept him there by washing him. George can’t resist a wash—he’s too busy grooving to do it himself—so he stayed till the saucers took off.”

Freddie picked up Alyson’s half-chewed blade of grass and put it in his mouth. “You think that Gil, for reasons of his own, manipulated George into watching saucers with him?”

Gilgamesh stopped being a lawn mower long enough to bat listlessly at a bumblebee. Then he looked at Alyson slyly and resumed his purring.

“That’s exactly what I think. What do you think?” Freddie thought about it for a while, gazing idly at Gilgamesh. The cat avoided his eyes.

“Why would he want George to watch flying saucers with him?” Freddie asked.

Alyson shrugged elaborately, tossing her hair and looking at the clear blue of the sky. “I don’t know. Flying saucers are spaceships, aren’t they? Maybe Gilgamesh came here in one of them.”

“But why would he want George to look at one?”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Alyson. “Why don’t you ask Gilgamesh about that?”

Freddie glanced again at the cat; Gilgamesh was lying preternaturally still, as though asleep, yet too rigid to be truly asleep. Playing ‘possum, Freddie thought. Listening.

“Hey, Gil,” he said softly. “Why did you want George to see the flying saucers?”

Gilgamesh made no acknowledgment that he had heard. But Freddie noticed that his tail twitched.

“Come on, Gil, you can tell me,” he coaxed. “I’m from Procyon, myself.”

Gilgamesh sat bolt upright, eyes wide and shocked. Then he seemed to recollect himself, and he swatted at a nonexistent bee, chased his tail in a circle, and ran off around the corner of the house.

“You nearly got him that time,” Alyson said. “That line about being from Procyon blew his mind.”

“Next time we tie him to a chair and hang a naked light bulb over his head,” Freddie said.

After school Monday, Freddie stopped off at the public library and did a little research. They kept files of the daily newspapers there, and Freddie spent several hours checking through the papers for the last several months for mentions of flying saucers or anything else unusual.

That evening, in Alyson’s room, Freddie said, “Let’s skip the French vocabulary for a while. When did you get Gilgamesh?”

Alyson had George on her lap; the placid Siamese lay like a dead weight except for his low-grade purr. Alyson said, “Three weeks ago. Gil just wandered into the kitchen, and we thought he was a stray—I mean, he couldn’t have belonged to anybody, because he was so dirty and thin, and anyway, he didn’t have a collar.”

“Three weeks ago,” Freddie said. “What day, exactly?” She frowned, thinking back. “Mmm … it was a Tuesday. Three weeks ago tomorrow, then.”

“That figures,” Freddie said. “Alyson, do you know what happened the day before Gilgamesh just walked into your life?”

She stared wonderingly at him for a moment, then something lit in her eyes. “That was the night the sky was so loud!”

“Yes,” said Freddie.

Alyson sat up on the bed, shedding both George and the books from her lap in her excitement. “And then that Tuesday we asked Mr. Newcomb in science class what had caused it, and he just said a lot of weird stuff that didn’t mean anything, remember? Like he really didn’t know, but he was a teacher, and he thought he had to be able to explain everything.”

“Right,” said Freddie. “An unexplainable scientific phenomenon in the skies, and the next day Gilgamesh just happened to show up on your doorstep. I’ll bet there were flying saucers that night, too, only nobody saw them.”

George sleepily climbed back onto the bed and settled down in Alyson’s lap again. She idly scratched his ear, and he licked her hand, then closed his eyes and went to sleep again.

“You think it was flying saucers that made all those weird noises in the sky?” Alyson asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Probably. Especially if that was the night before Gilgamesh got here. I wonder what his mission is?”

“What?” said Alyson.

“I wonder why he’s here, on Earth. Do you think they’re really planning to invade us?”

“Who?” she asked. “You mean people from flying saucers? Oh, Freddie, cool it. I mean a joke’s a joke, and Gilgamesh is pretty creepy, but he’s only a little black-and-white cat. He’s not some invader from Mars!”

“Arcturus,” Freddie said. “Or maybe it’s really Procyon; maybe that’s why he was so startled when I said that yesterday.”

“Freddie! He’s a cat!”’ “You think so?” Freddie asked. “Let me show you something about your innocent little stray cat.”

He got off the bed and silently went to the door of the bedroom. Grasping the knob gently, he suddenly threw the door open wide.

Standing right outside the door was Gilgamesh. The black-and-white cat leaped backward, then quickly recovered himself and walked calmly into the room, as though he had just been on his way in when the door opened. But Freddie saw that his tail was fully bushed out.

“You still think he’s a cat?” Freddie asked.

“Freddie, he’s just a little weird, that’s all—”

“Weird? This cat’s so weird he’s probably got seven hearts and an extra brain in his back! Alyson, this is no ordinary cat!”

Gilgamesh jumped up on the bed, studied how George was lying, and arranged himself in a comparable position next to Alyson. She petted him for a moment, and he began to purr his odd high-pitched purr.

“You think he’s just a cat?” Freddie asked. “He sounds like a cricket.”

“Freddie, are you serious?” Alyson said. Freddie nodded. He’d done his research at the library, and he was sure something strange was going on.

“Well, then,” said Alyson. “I know what we can do. We’ll take him to my brother and see if he’s really a cat or not.”

“Your brother? But he’s a chiropractor.”

Alyson smiled. “But he has an X-ray machine. We’ll see if Gilgamesh really has those extra hearts and all.”

On her lap, George continued to purr. Next to her, Gilgamesh seemed to have developed a tic in the side of his face, but he continued to lie still.

Alyson’s brother, the chiropractor, had his office in the Watsonville Shopping Center, next door to the Watsonville Bowling Alley. His receptionist told them to wait in the anteroom, the doctor would be with them in a moment.

Alyson and Freddie sat down on a black sofa, with the carrying case between them. From inside the case came pitiful mews and occasional thrashings about. From inside the office came sounds of pitiful cries and the high notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. Somebody made a strike next door; the carrying case flew a foot into the air. Freddie transferred it to his lap and held it steady.

A young man with longish brown hair and a white jacket opened the door.

“Hey sister, hi Freddie. What’s happening?”

Alyson pointed to the carrying case. “This is the patient I told you about, Bob.”

“Okay. Let’s go in and take a look.”

He opened the case. Gilgamesh had curled himself into a tight ball of fur, his face pressed against the corner. When the doctor lifted him out, Freddie saw that the cat’s eyes were clenched shut.

“I’ve never seen him so terrified,” Alyson said. “Weird, freaky, yes, but never this scared.”

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t take him to a vet if you think he’s sick,” her brother said.

Alyson grinned ingratiatingly. “You’re cheaper.”

“Hmpf.”

All this time the doctor had been holding the rigid Gilgamesh in the air. As soon as he put him down on the examining table, the cat opened his eyes to twice their normal size, shot a bushy tail straight up, and dashed under the table. He cowered there, face between paws. Alyson’s brother crawled under the table, but the cat scrambled to the opposite side of the room and hid behind a rubber plant. Two green eyes peeked through the leaves.

“I think stronger measures are indicated,” the doctor said. He opened a drawer and removed a hypodermic needle and a small glass bottle.

Freddie and Alyson approached the rubber plant from each end, then grabbed.

Freddie lifted the cat onto the examining table. Gilgamesh froze, every muscle rigid—but his eyes darted dramatically around the room, looking for escape.

The doctor gave him the shot, and within seconds he was a boneless pussycat who submitted docilely to the indignities of being X-rayed in eight different positions.

Ten minutes later Alyson’s brother announced the results—no abnormalities; Gilgamesh was a perfectly healthy cat.

“Does he have any extra hearts?” Alyson said. “Anything funny about his back?”

“He’s completely normal,” said her brother. “Doesn’t even have any extra toes.” He saw the worried expression on her face. “Wasn’t that what you wanted to find out?”

“Sure,” said Alyson. “Thanks a lot. I’m really relieved.”

“Me, too,” said Freddie. “Very.”

Neither of them looked it.

“Lousy job,” said Gilgamesh.

They turned to look at him, mouths open. The cat’s mouth was closed. He was vibrating like a lawn mower again, purring softly.

Freddie looked at the doctor. “Did someone just say something?”

“Somebody just said, ‘Lousy job,” said the doctor. “I thought it was your cat. I must be losing my mind. Alyson?” She looked to be in shock. “Did you hear anything?”

“No. I didn’t hear him say ‘Lousy job’ or anything like that.” Still in a daze, she went over to the cat and stroked him on the head. Then she bent down and whispered something in his ear.

“Just haven’t got the knack,” said Gilgamesh. “Crash course.” He smiled, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. But there was no doubt that it was he who had spoken.

Freddie, who had just got over the first wave of disbelief, said, “What was in that injection, anyway?”

“Sodium pentothal. Very small dose. I think I’d better sit down.” The doctor staggered to the nearest chair, almost missing it.

“Hey, Alyson?” the doctor said.

“Huh?”

“Maybe you’d better tell me why you really brought your cat in here.”

“Well,” said Alyson.

“Come on, little sister, give,” he said.

Alyson looked at the floor and mumbled, “Freddie thinks he’s a spy from outer space.”

“From Arcturus,” said Freddie.

“Procyon,” said Gilgamesh. He yawned and rolled onto his side.

“Wait a minute,” said the doctor. “Wait a minute, I want to get something straight.” But he just stared at the cat, at Freddie, at Alyson.

Freddie took advantage of the silence. “Gilgamesh, you were just talking, weren’t you?”

“Lemme sleep,” Gilgamesh mumbled.

“What’s your game, Gil?” Freddie asked him. “Are you spying on us? You’re really some shapeless amoeba-like being that can rearrange its protoplasm at will, aren’t you? Are your people planning to invade Earth? When will the first strike hit? Come on, talk!”

“Lemme sleep,” Gilgamesh said.

Freddie picked up the cat and held him directly under the fluorescent light of the examining table. Gilgamesh winced and squirmed, feebly.

“Talk!” Freddie commanded. “Tell us the invasion plans.”

“No invasion,” Gilgamesh whined. “Lemme down. No fair drugging me.”

“Are you from Procyon?” Freddie asked him.

“Are you from Killarney?” the cat sang, rather drunkenly. “Studied old radio broadcasts, sorry. Sure, from Procyon. Tried to act like a cat but couldn’t get the hang of it. Never can remember what to do with my tail.”

“What are you doing on Earth?” Freddie demanded.

“Chasing a runaway,” the cat mumbled. “Antisocial renegade, classified for work camps. Jumped bail and ran. Tracked him to Earth, but he’s been passing as a native.”

“As a human being?” Alyson cried.

“As a cat. It’s George. Cute li’l George, soft and lazy, lies in the sun all day. Irresponsible behavior. Antisocial. Never gets anything done. Got to bring him back, put him in a work camp.”

“Wait a minute,” Freddie broke in. “You mean you came to Earth to find an escaped prisoner? And George is it? You mean you’re a cop?”

“Peace officer,” Gilgamesh protested, trying to sit up straight. “Law and order. Loyalty to the egg and arisian pie. Only George did escape, so I had to track him down. I always get my amoeba.”

Alyson’s brother dazedly punched his intercom button. “Miss Blanchard, you’d better cancel the rest of my appointments,” he said dully.

“But you can’t take George away from me!” Alyson cried. “He’s my cat!”

“Just a third-class amoeba,” Gilgamesh sniffed. “Hard to control, though. More trouble than he’s worth.”

“Then leave him here!” Alyson said. “If he’s a fugitive, he’s safe with me! I’ll give him sanctuary. I’ll sign parole papers for him. I’ll be responsible—”

Gilgamesh eyed her blearily. “Do you know what you’re saying, lady?”

“Of course I know what I’m saying! George is my cat, and I love him—I guess you wouldn’t know what that means. George stays with me, no matter what. You go away. Go back to your star.”

“Listen, Alyson, maybe you should think about this …” Freddie began.

“Shaddup, kid,” said Gilgamesh. “I’ll tell you, George was never anything to us but a headache. Won’t work, just wants to lie around looking decorative. If you want him, lady, you got him.”

There was a silence. Freddie noticed that Alyson’s brother seemed to be giggling softly to himself.

After long moments, Alyson asked, “Don’t I have to sign something?”

“Nah, lady,” said Gilgamesh. “We’re not barbarians. I’ve got your voice recorded in my head. George is all yours, and good riddance. He was a blot on the proud record of the Procyon Co-Prosperity Sphere.” Gilgamesh got to his feet and marched rigidly to the window of the office. He turned and eyed them greenly.

“Listen, you tell George one thing for me. Tell him he’s dumb lucky he happened to hide out as a cat. He can be lazy and decorative here, but I just want you to know one thing: there’s no such thing as a decorative amoeba. An amoeba works, or out he goes!”

Gilgamesh disappeared out the window.

On the way back to Alyson’s house, Freddie did his best to contain himself, but as they approached her door, he broke their silence. “I told you so, Alyson.”

“Told me what?” Alyson opened the door and led him up the stairs to her room.

“That the cat was an alien. A shape-changer, a spy hiding out here on Earth.”

“Pooh,” she said. “You thought he was from Arcturus. Do you know how far Arcturus is from Procyon?”

They went into her room. “Very far?” Freddie asked.

“Oh, boy!” Alyson said. “Very far!” She shook her head disgustedly.

George was lying in the middle of the bed, surrounded by schoolbooks. He opened one eye as the two of them tramped into the room, then closed it again and contented himself with a soft purr.

Alyson sat on the side of the bed and rubbed George’s belly. “Sweet George,” she said. “Beautiful little pussycat.”

“Listen, Alyson,” said Freddie, “maybe you ought to think about George a little bit. I mean, you’re responsible for him now—

“He’s my cat,” Alyson said firmly.

“Yeah, well, sort of,” Freddie said. “Not really, of course, because really he’s an alien shape-changing amoeba from Procyon. And worse than that, remember what Gilgamesh said, he’s a runaway. He’s a dropout from interstellar society. Who knows, maybe he even uses drugs!”

Alyson rested a level gaze on Freddie, a patient, forgiving look. “Freddie,” she said softly, “some of us are born cats, and some of us achieve catness.”

“What?”

“Well, look, if you were an amoeba from Procyon and you went sent off to the work camps, wouldn’t you rather come to Earth and be a cat and lie around all day sunning yourself and getting scratched behind the ears? I mean, it just makes sense. It proves George is sane!”

“It proves he’s lazy,” Freddie muttered.

George opened his eyes just a slit and looked at Freddie—a look of contented wonder. Then he closed his eyes again and began to purr.