 THE CATAAAA
by A. E. Van Vogt
A Little Classic By One Of The Most Brilliant Science-Fiction Writers of Our 
Day. 
Several years ago this startling story appeared in a Los Angeles publication, 
FANTASY BOOK, and it immediately created o furor among the local stf faithful. 
With the resumption of MARVEL, we thought it should be brought to a larger 
audience, particularly since its author has meantime won recognition as one of 
America's most brilliant science-fiction writers. We think you'll agree that 
"The Cataaaa" is a masterpiece.
The cat turned and touched Silkey's face gently.



THE USUAL group was gathering in the bar. Cathy was already pretending she was 
far gone. Ted was busy putting on his stupid look. Myra giggled three times the 
way a musician tunes his instrument for the evening. Jones was talking to Gord 
in his positive fashion. Gord said "Glub!" every few seconds, just as if he was 
listening. And Morton tried to draw attention to himself by remaining aloof and 
intellectual looking far down in his chair.
No one noticed the slight, slim man sitting on a stool before the bar. The man 
kept glancing at the group; but just when he joined them, or who invited him, no 
one had any clear idea. Nor did it occur to anyone to tell him to go away.
The stranger said, "You were talking about the basic characteristics of human 
nature--"
Myra giggled, "Is that what we were talking about? I wondered."
The laughter that followed did not deter the newcomer.
"It so happens that I have had an experience which illustrates the point. It 
began one day when I was glancing through the newspaper, and I ran across a 
circus advertisement . . . "
At the top of the ad (he went on) was a large question mark followed by some 
equally large exclamation marks. Then:
WHAT IS IT?
IT'S THE CAT
COME AND SEE THE CAT
THE CAT WILL STARTLE YOU
THE CAT WILL AMAZE YOU
SEE THE CAT AT THE CIRCUS
FREAK SHOW
In smaller letters at the bottom of the ad was the information that the cat was 
being "shown under the personal direction of Silkey Travis."
Until that point I had been reading with a vague interest and curiosity. The 
name made me jump.
"Good lord!" I thought. "It's him. It's Silkey Travis on that card."
I hurried to my desk, and took out a card that had come in the mail two days 
before. At the time it had made no sense to me at all. The words written on the 
back in a fine script seemed pure gibberish, and the photograph on the front, 
though familiar, unlocked no real memory. It was of a man with a haunted look on 
his face, sitting in a small cage. I now recognized it as being a likeness of 
Silkey Travis, not as I had known him fifteen or so years before, but plumper, 
older, as he would be now.
I returned to my chair, and sat musing about the past.
Even in those days, his name had fitted Silkey Travis. At high school he 
organized the bathing beauty contest, and gave the first prize to his cousin and 
the second prize to the girl who was the teacher's pet of most of the teachers. 
The students' science exhibition, a collection of local lizards, snakes, insects 
and a few Indian artifacts was an annual affair, which brought a turnout of 
admiring parents. Invariably, it was Silkey who organized it. Plays, holiday 
shows and other paraphernalia of school pastimes felt the weight of his guiding 
hand and circus spirit.
After graduating from high school, I went on to State college to major in 
biology, and I lost sight of Silkey for seven years. Then I saw an item in one 
of the papers to the effect that local boy Silkey Travis was doing well in the 
big town, having just purchased a "piece" of a vaudeville show, and that he also 
owned a "piece" in a beach concession in New Jersey.
Again, there was silence. And now, here he was, no doubt "piece" owner of the 
circus freak show.
Having solved the mystery of the postcard, so it seemed to me, I felt amused and 
tolerant. I wondered if Silkey had sent the card to all his former school 
companions. I decided not to puzzle any more about the meaning of the words 
written on the back. The scheme behind them was all too obvious.
Sitting there, I had absolutely no intention of going to the circus. I went to 
bed at my usual hour, and woke up with a start some hours later to realize that 
I was not alone. The sensations that came to me as I lay there have been 
described by Johnson in his book on morbid fears.
I lived in a quiet neighborhood, and the silence was intense. Presently, I could 
hear the labored pounding of my heart. Poisons surged into my stomach; gas 
formed and leaked up to my mouth bringing a bitter taste. I had to fight to keep 
my breath steady.
And still I could see nothing. The dark fears ran their courses, and the first 
thought came that I must have had a nightmare. I began to feel ashamed of 
myself. I mumbled:
"Who's there?"
No answer.
I climbed out of bed, and turned on the light. The room was empty. But still I 
wasn't satisfied. I went out into the hall, then I examined the clothes closet 
and bathroom. Finally, dissatisfied, I tested the window fastenings--and it was 
there I received my shock. Painted on the outer side of the pane of one of the 
windows were the letters:
"The cat requests that you come to the circus."
I went back to bed so furious that I thought of having Silkey arrested. When I 
woke up in the morning the sign was gone from the window.
BY THE TIME breakfast was over, my temper of the night had cooled. I was even 
able to feel a pitying amusement at the desperate desire of Silkey to let his 
old acquaintances know what a big shot he was. Before starting off to my morning 
classes at State, I looked under my bedroom window. I found what looked like 
footprints, but they were not human, so I decided that Silkey must have taken 
care to leave no tracks of his own.
At class, just before noon, one of the students asked me whether there was any 
good explanation in biological science for freaks. I gave the usual explanation 
of variabilities, nutritional deficiences[sic], diseases, frustration of brain 
development affecting the shape of the body, and so on. I finished drily that 
for further information I would direct him to my old friend, Silkey Travis, 
director of freaks at the Pagley-Matterson circus.
The offhand remark caused a sensation. I was informed that a freak at this 
circus had prompted the original question. "A strange, cat-like creature," the 
student said in a hushed voice, "that examines you with the same interest that 
you examine it."
The bell rang at that moment, and I was spared the necessity of making a 
comment. I remember thinking, however, that people hadn't changed much. They 
were still primarily interested in eccentricity whereas, as a scientist, the 
processes of normalcy seemed to me far more fascinating.
I still had no intention of going to the circus. But on the way home that 
afternoon I put my hand in my breast pocket, and drew out the postcard with the 
photograph of Silkey on the front. I turned it over absently, and read again the 
message that was on it:
  "The interspatial problem of delivering mail involves enormous energy 
  problems, which effect time differentials. Accordingly,
  it is possible that this card will arrive before I know who you are. As a 
  precaution I am sending another one to the circus with your name and address 
  on it, and the two cards will go out together.
  "Do not worry too much about the method of delivery. I simply put an 
  instrument into a mail box. This precipitates the cards into the box on earth, 
  and they will then be picked up and delivered in the usual fashion. The 
  precipitator then dissolves.
  The photograph speaks for itself."
It didn't. Which is what began to irritate me again. I jammed the card back into 
my pocket, half-minded to phone up Silkey and ask him what the silly thing 
meant, if anything. I refrained, of course. It wasn't important enough.
When I got out of bed the next morning, the words, "The cat wants to talk to 
you!" were scrawled on the outside of the same window pane. They must have been 
there a long time. Because, even as I stared at them, they began to fade. By the 
time I finished breakfast they were gone.
I was disturbed now rather than angry. Such persistence on Silkey's part 
indicated neurotic overtones in his character. It was possible that I ought to 
go to his show, and so give him the petty victory that would lay his ghost, 
which had now haunted me two nights running. However, it was not till after 
lunch that a thought occurred to me that suddenly clinched my intention. I 
remembered Virginia.
For two years I had been professor of biology at State. It was an early ambition 
which, now that I had realized it, left me at a loose end for the first time in 
my life. Accordingly, for the first time in my rather drab existence the mating 
urge was upon me. Virginia was the girl, and, unfortunately, she regarded me as 
a cross between a fossil and a precision brain. I felt sure that the idea of 
marrying me had not yet occurred to her.
For some time it had seemed to me that if I could only convince her, without 
loss of dignity, that I was a romantic fellow she might be fooled into saying 
yes. What better method than to pretend that I still got excited over circuses, 
and, as a grand climax to the evening I would take her in to see Silkey Travis, 
and hope that my acquaintance with such a character would thrill her exotic 
soul.
The first hurdle was bridged when I called her up, and she agreed to go to the 
circus with me. I put the best possible face on for the preliminaries, riding 
the ferris wheel and such juvenilia. But the moment of the evening for me came 
when I suggested that we go and see the freaks being shown by my friend, Silkey 
Travis.
It really went over. Virginia stopped and looked at me almost accusingly.
"Philip," she said, "you're not trying to pretend that you know a person called 
Silkey? She drew a deep breath. "That I have to see."
Silkey came through beautifully. He was not in when we entered, but the ticket 
taker called into some rear compartment. And a minute later Silkey came charging 
into the main freak tent. He was plump with the plumpness of a well fed shark. 
His eyes were narrowed as if he had spent the past fifteen years calculating the 
best methods of using other people for his own advantage. He had none of the 
haunted look of the photograph, but there were ghosts in his face. Ghosts of 
greed and easy vices, ghosts of sharp dealing and ruthlessness. He was all that 
I had hoped for, and, best of all, he was pathetically glad to see me. His joy 
had the special quality of the lonely nomad who is at last looking longingly at 
the settled side of life. We both overdid the greeting a little but we were 
about equally pleased at each other's enthusiasm. The hellos and introductions 
over, Silkey grew condescending.
"Brick was in a while ago. Said you were teaching at State. Congrats. Always 
knew you had it in you.
I passed over that as quickly as possible. "How about showing us around, Silkey, 
and telling us about yourself?"
WE HAD already seen the fat woman and the human skeleton, but Silkey took us 
back and told us his life history with them. How he had found them, and helped 
them to their present fame. He was a little verbose, so on occasion I had to 
hurry him along. But finally we came to a small tent within the tent, over the 
closed canvas entrance of which was painted simply, "THE CAT". I had noticed it 
before, and the chatter of the barker who stood in front of it had already 
roused my curiosity:
"The cat . . . come in and see the cat. Folks, this is no ordinary event, but 
the thrill of a lifetime. Never before has such an animal as this been seen in a 
circus. A biological phenomenon that has amazed scientists all over the 
country... Folks, this is special. Tickets are twenty-five cents, but if you're 
not satisfied you can get your money back. That's right. That's what I said. You 
get your money back merely by stepping up and asking for it..."
And so on. However, his ballyhoo was not the most enticing angle. What began to 
titillate my nerves was the reaction of the people who went inside. They were 
allowed to enter in groups, and there must have been a guide inside, because his 
barely audible voice would mumble on for some minutes, and then it would rise to 
a hearable level, as he said, "And now, folks, I will draw aside the curtain and 
show you--the cat!"
The curtain must have been pulled with a single jerk, on a carefully timed 
basis. For the word, cat was scarcely out of his mouth, when the audience 
reaction would sound:
"Aaaaaa!"
Distinct, unmistakable exhalation of the breaths of a dozen startled people. 
There would follow an uncomfortable silence. Then, slowly the people would 
emerge and hurry to the outer exit. Not one, that I was aware of, asked for his 
money back.
There was a little embarrassment at the gate. Silkey started to mumble something 
about only owning part of the show, so he couldn't give passes. But I ended that 
by quickly purchasing the necessary tickets, and we went inside with the next 
group.
The animal that sat in an armchair on the dais was about five feet long and 
quite slender. It had a cat's head and vestiges of fur. It looked like an 
exaggerated version of the walkey-talkey animals in comic books.
At that point resemblance to normalcy ended.
It was alien. It was not a cat at all. I recognized that instantly. The 
structure was all wrong. It took me a moment to identify the radical variations.
The head! High foreheaded it was, and not low and receding. The face was smooth 
and almost hairless. It had character and strength, and intelligence. The body 
was well balanced on long, straight legs. The arms were smooth, ending in short 
but unmistakable fingers, surmounted by thin, sharp claws.
But it was the eyes that were really different. They looked normal enough, 
slightly slanted, properly lidded, about the same size as the eyes of human 
beings. But they danced. They shifted twice, even three times as swiftly as 
human eyes. Their balanced movement at such a high speed indicated vision that 
could read photographically reduced print across a room. What sharp, what 
incredibly sharp images that brain must see.
All this I saw within the space of a few seconds. Then the creature moved.
It stood up, not hurriedly, but casually, easily, and yawned and stretched. 
Finally, it took a step forward. Brief panic ensued among the women in the 
audience, that ended as the guide said quietly:
"It's all right, folks. He frequently comes down and looks us over. He's 
harmless.
The crowd stood its ground, as the cat came down the steps from the dais and 
approached me. The animal paused in front of me, and peered at me curiously. 
Then it reached gingerly forward, opened my coat, and examined the inside breast 
pocket.
It came up holding the postcard with the picture of Silkey on it. I had brought 
it along, intending to ask Silkey about it.
For a long moment the cat examined the card, and then it held it out to Silkey. 
Silkey looked at me.
"Okay?" he said.
I nodded. I had a feeling that I was witnessing a drama the motivations of which 
I did not understand. I realized that I was watching Silkey intently.
He looked at the picture on the card, and then started to hand it to me. Then he 
stopped. Jerkily, he pulled the card back, and stared at the photograph.
"For cripes sake," he gasped. "It's a picture of me."
There was no doubt about his surprise. It was so genuine that it startled me. I 
said:
"Didn't you send that to me? Didn't you write what's on the back there?"
Silkey did not answer immediately. He turned the card over and glared down at 
the writing. He began to shake his head.
"Doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Hmmm, it was mailed in Marstown. That's 
where we were three days last week."
He handed it back to me. "Never saw it before in my life. Funny."
His denial was convincing. I held the card in my hand, and looked questioningly 
at the cat. But it had already lost interest. As we stood there, watching, it 
turned and climbed back up to the dais, and slumped into a chair. It yawned. It 
closed its eyes.
And that's all that happened. We all left the tent, and Virginia and I said 
goodbye to Silkey. Later, on our way home, the episode seemed even more 
meaningless than when it had happened.
I don't know how long I had been asleep before I wakened. I turned over 
intending to go right back to sleep. And then I saw that my bedside light was 
burning. I sat up with a start.
The cat was sitting in a chair beside the bed, not more than three feet away.



THERE WAS silence. I couldn't have spoken at the beginning. Slowly, I sat up. 
Memory came of what the guide at the show had said... "Harmless!" But I didn't 
believe that anymore.
Three times now this beast had come here, twice to leave messages. I let my mind 
run over those messages, and I quailed " . . . The cat wants to talk to you!" 
Was it possible that this thing could talk.
The very inactivity of the animal finally gave me courage. I licked my lips and 
said:
"Can you talk?"
The cat stirred. It raised an arm in the unhurried fashion of somebody who does 
not want to cause alarm. It pointed at the night table beside my bed. I followed 
the pointing finger and saw that an instrument was standing under the lamp. The 
instrument spoke at me:
"I cannot emit human sounds with my own body, but as you can hear this is an 
excellent intermediary."
I have to confess that I jumped, that my mind scurried into a deep corner of my 
head--and only slowly came out again as the silence continued, and no attempt 
was made to harm me. I don't know why I should have assumed that its ability to 
speak through a mechanical device was a threat to me. But I had.
I suppose it was really a mental shrinking, my mind unwilling to accept the 
reality that was here. Before I could think clearly, the instrument on the table 
said:
"The problem of conveying thoughts through an electronic device depends on 
rhythmic utilization of brain energies."
The statement stirred me. I had read considerable on that subject, beginning 
with Professor Hans Berger's report on brain rhythms in 1929. The cat's 
statements didn't quite fit.
"Isn't the energy potential too small?" I asked. "And besides you have your eyes 
open. The rhythms are always interfered with when the eyes are open, and in fact 
such a large part of the cortex yields to the visual centers that no rhythm 
whatever is detectable at such times."
It didn't strike me then, but I think now that I actually distracted the animal 
from its purpose. "What measurements have been taken?" it asked. Even through 
the mind radio, it sounded interested.
"Photoelectric cells," I said, "have measured as much (or as little, which is 
really more accurate) as 50 microvolts of energy, mostly in the active regions 
of the brain. Do you know what a microvolt is?"
The creature nodded. It said after a moment, "I won't tell you what energy my 
brain develops. It would probably frighten you, but it isn't all intelligence. I 
am a student on a tour of the galaxy, what might be called a postgraduate tour. 
Now, we have certain rules--" It stopped. "You opened your mouth. Did you wish 
to say something?"
I felt dumb, overwhelmed. Then, weakly, "You said galaxy."
That is correct."
"B-but wouldn't that take years?" My brain was reaching out, striving to grasp, 
to understand.
"My tour will last about a thousand of your years," said the cat.
"You're immortal?"
"Oh, no."
"But--"
There I stopped. I couldn't go on. I sat there, blank-brained, while the 
creature went on:
"The rules of the fraternity of students require that we tell one person about 
ourselves before we leave the planet. And that we take with us a symbolical 
souvenir of the civilization of the beings on it. I'm curious to know what you 
would suggest as a souvenir of earth. It can be anything, so long as it tells at 
a glance the dominating character of the race."
The question calmed me. My brain stopped its alternation of mad whirling 
followed by blankness. I began to feel distinctly better. I shifted myself into 
a more comfortable position and stroked my jaw thoughtfully. I sincerely hoped 
that I was giving the impression that I was an intelligent person whose opinion 
would be worthwhile.
A sense of incredible complication began to seize on me. I had realized it 
before, but now, with an actual decision to make, it seemed to me that human 
beings were really immensely intricate creatures. How could anybody pick one 
facet of their nature, and say, "This is man!" Or "This represents man!" I said 
slowly:
"A work of art, science, or any useful article--you include those?"
"Anything."
My interest was now at its peak. My whole being accepted the wonderfulness of 
what had happened. It seemed tremendously important that the great race that 
could travel the breadth and length of the galaxy should have some true 
representation of man's civilization. It amazed me, when I finally thought of 
the answer, that it had taken me so long. But the moment it occurred to me, I 
knew I had it.
"Man," I said, "is primarily a religious animal. From times too remote to be a 
written record, he has needed a faith in something. Once, he believed almost 
entirely in animate gods like rivers, storms, plants, then his gods became 
invisible; now they are once more becoming animate. An economic system, 
science--whatever it will be, the dominating article of it will be that he 
worships it without regard to reason, in other words in a purely religious 
fashion.
I finished with a quiet satisfaction, "All you need is an image of a man in a 
durable metal, his head tilted back, his arms raised to the sky, a rapt 
expression on his face, and written on the base of the inscription, 'I 
believe'."
I saw that the creature was staring at me. "Very interesting," it said at last. 
"I think you are very close to it, but you haven't quite got the answer."
It stood up. "But now I want you to come with me."
"Eh?"
"Dress, please."
It was unemotionally said. The fear that had been held deep inside me for 
minutes came back like a fire that had reached a new cycle of energy.
I DROVE MY car. The cat sat beside me. The night was cool and refreshing, but 
dark. A fraction of a moon peered out occasionally from scurrying clouds, and 
there were glimpses of star filtered dark blue sky. The realization that, from 
somewhere up there, this creature had come down to our earth dimmed my 
tenseness. I ventured:
"Your people--have they progressed much further than we to the innermost meaning 
of truth?"
It sounded drab and precise, a pedagogical rather than a vitally alive question. 
I added quickly:
"I hope you won't mind answering a few questions."
Again it sounded inadequate. It seemed to me in an abrupt agony of despair that 
I was muffing the opportunity of the centuries. Silently, I cursed my 
professional training that made my every word sound as dry as dust.
"That card," I said. "You sent that?"
"Yes." The machine on the cat's lap spoke quietly but clearly.
"How did you know my address and my name?"
"I didn't."
Before I could say anything, the cat went on, "You will understand all that 
before the night's over."
"Oh!" The words held me for a second. I could feel the tightness crawling into 
my stomach. I had been trying not to think of what was going to happen before 
this night was over. ". . Questions?" I croaked. "Will you answer them?"
I parted my lips to start a machine gun patter of queries. And then, I closed 
them again. What did I want to know? The vast implications of that reply 
throttled my voice. Why, oh, why, are human beings so emotional at the great 
moments of their lives? I couldn't think, for what seemed an endless time. And 
when I finally spoke again, my first question was trite and not at all what I 
intended. I said:
"You came in a spaceship?"
The cat looked at one thoughtfully. "No," it replied slowly. "I use the energy 
in my brain."
"Eh! You came through space in your own body?"
"In a sense. One of these years human beings will make the initial discoveries 
about the rhythmic use of energy. It will be a dazzling moment for science."
"We have," I said, "already made certain discoveries about our nervous systems 
and rhythm."
"The end of that road," was the answer, "is control of the powers of nature. I 
will say more about that."
I was silent, but only briefly. The questions were bubbling now. "Is it 
possible," I asked, "to develop an atomic powered spaceship?"
"Not in the way you think," said the cat. "An atomic explosion cannot be 
confined except when it is drawn out in a series of timed frustrations. And that 
is an engineering problem, and has very little to do with creative physics."
"Life," I mumbled, "where did life come from?"
"Electronic accidents occurring in a suitable environment."
I had to stop there. I couldn't help it. "Electronic accidents. What do you 
mean?"
"The difference between an inorganic and an organic atom is the arrangement of 
the internal structure. The hydrocarbon compounds being the most easily affected 
under certain conditions are the most common form of life. But now that you have 
atomic energy you will discover that life can be created from any element or 
compound of elements. Be careful. The hydrocarbon is a weak life structure that 
could be easily overwhelmed in its present state of development."
I felt a chill. I could just picture the research that would be going on in 
government laboratories.
"You mean," I gulped, there are life forms that would be dangerous the moment 
they are created?"
Dangerous to man," said the cat. It pointed suddenly. "Turn up that street, and 
then through a side entrance into the circus grounds."
I had been wondering tensely where we were going. Strangely, it was a shock to 
realize the truth.
A few minutes later we entered the dark, silent tent of the freaks. And I knew 
that the final drama of the cat on earth was about to be enacted. A tiny light 
flickered in the shadows. It came nearer, and I saw that there was a man walking 
underneath it. It was too dark to recognize him, but the light grew stronger, 
and I saw that it had no source. And suddenly I recognized Silkey Travis. He was 
sound asleep. He came forward, and stood in front of the cat. He looked 
unnatural, forlorn, like a woman caught without her makeup on. One long 
trembling look I took at him, and then I stammered:
"What are you gong to do?"
The machine the cat carried did not reply immediately. The cat turned and stared 
at me thoughtfully, then it touched Silkey's face, gently, with one finger. 
Silkey's eyes opened, but he made no other reaction. I realized that one part of 
his consciousness had been made aware of what was happening. I whispered:
"Can he hear?"
The cat nodded.
"Can he think?"
The cat shook its head; and then it said:
"In your analysis of the basic nature of human beings you selected a symptom 
only. Man is religious because of a certain characteristic. I'll give you a 
clue. When an alien arrives on an inhabited planet, there is usually only one 
way that he can pass among the intelligent beings on that planet without being 
recognized for what he is. When you find that method, you have attained 
understanding of the fundamental character of the race."
It was hard for me to think. In the dim emptiness of the freak tent, the great 
silence of the circus grounds all around, what was happening seemed unnatural. I 
was not afraid of the cat. But there was a fear inside me, as strong as terror, 
as dark as night. I looked at the unmoving Silkey with all the lines of his 
years flabby on his face. And then I stared at the light that hovered above him. 
And finally I looked at the cat, and I said:
"Curiosity. You mean, man's curiosity. His interest in strange objects makes him 
accept them as natural when he sees them."
The cat said, "It seems incredible that you, an intelligent man, have never 
realized the one character of all human beings." It turned briskly, 
straightening. "But now, enough of this conversation. I have fulfilled the basic 
requirements of my domicile here. I have lived for a period without being 
suspected, and I have told one inhabitant that I have been here. It remains for 
me to send home a significant artifact of your civilization--and then I can be 
on my way . . . elsewhere."
I ventured, shakily, "Surely, the artifact isn't Silkey."
"We seldom," said the cat, "choose actual inhabitants of a planet, but when we 
do we give them a compensation designed to balance what we take away. In his 
case, virtual immortality."
I felt desperate, suddenly. Seconds only remained; and it wasn't that I had any 
emotion for Silkey. He stood there like a clod, and even though later he would 
remember, it didn't matter. It seemed to me that the cat had discovered some 
innate secret of human nature which I, as a biologist, must know.
"For God's sake," I said, "you haven't explained anything yet. What is this 
basic human characteristic. And what about the postcard you sent me. And--"
"You have all the clues." The creature started to turn away. "Your inability to 
comprehend is no concern of mine. We have a code, we students, that is all."
"But what," I asked desperately "shall I tell the world? Have you no message for 
humankind, something--"
The cat was looking at me again. "If you can possibly restrain yourself," it 
said, "don't tell anyone anything."
This time, when it moved away, it did not look back. I saw, with a start, that 
the mist of light above Silkey's head was expanding, growing. Brighter, vaster, 
it grew. It began to pulse with a gentle but unbroken rhythm. Inside its 
coalescing fire the cat and Silkey were dim forms, like shadows in a fire.
Abruptly, the shadows faded; and then the mist of light began to dim. Slowly, it 
sagged to the ground, and lay for minutes blurring into the darkness.
Of Silkey and the creature there was no sign.
THE GROUP sitting around the table in the bar was briefly silent. Finally, Gord 
said, "Glub!" and Jones said in a positive fashion:
"You solved the problem of the postcard, of course?"
The slim, professorish man nodded. "I think so. The reference in the card to 
time differentials is the clue. The card was sent after Silkey was put on 
exhibition in the school museum of the cat people, but because of time 
variations in transmission it arrived before I knew Silkey would be in town."
Morton came up out of the depths of his chair. "And what about this basic human 
characteristic, of which religion is merely an outward expression?"
The stranger made a gesture. "Silkey, exhibiting freaks, was really exhibiting 
himself. Religion is self-dramatization before a god. Self-love, narcissism--in 
our own little way we show ourselves off . . . and so a strange being could come 
into our midst unsuspected."
Cathy hiccoughed, and said, "The love interest is what I like. Did you marry 
Virginia? You are the professor of biology at State, aren't you?"
The other shook his head. "I was," he said. "I should have followed the cat's 
advice. But I felt it was important to tell other people what had happened. I 
was dismissed after three months, and I won't tell you what I'm doing now. But I 
must go on. The world must know about the weakness that makes us so vulnerable. 
Virginia? She married a pilot of big air firms. She fell for his line of 
self-dramatization."
He stood up. "Well, I guess I'll be on my way. I've got a lot of bars to visit 
tonight."
When he had gone, Ted paused momentarily in his evening's task of looking 
stupid. "There," he said, "is a guy who really has a line. Just imagine. He's 
going to tell that story about five times tonight. What a set-up for a fellow 
who wants to be the center of attention."
Myra giggled. Jones began to talk to Gord in his know-it-all fashion. Gord said, 
"Glub!" every few seconds, just as if he was listening. Cathy put her head on 
the table and snored drunkenly. And Morton sagged lower and lower in his chair.
