I had no ill feeling when Smithby married Cynthia Carmichael and went off with her on his honeymoon. No inner voice whispered its dire warning in my ear when it was rumored that Smithby was devoting his twelve months' leave to research of a strangely particular nature. Even as head of his department, how could I have known that Smithby was about to give birth to his Catboy?
His leave was about to end, mine was about to begin, and I left, intending to spend three delightful months in sunny Italy, devoting the remaining nine to exploring the treasures of the National Library of Scotland. But it wasn't to be. Barely a week after my arrival in Edinburgh, I received the letter.
Did I say "letter"? There was no letter in the ugly envelope that had followed me from northern Italy. It contained only a brief note, accompanied by a huge clipping from some tabloid.
I read the short message:
Dear Christopher:
Smithby has betrayed our tradition and our trust. Chaos reigns in his department. Three of us have already resigned.
WITHERSPOON
For a horrible moment I closed my eyes; and Smithby's face, a pale mask of modest erudition, appeared before me. Then, with trembling fingers, I opened the clipping.
Marital love drives the triumph of science!
A young professor from Bogwood earns his laurels with the first studies on the language of cats!
screamed the headlines, above a photograph of Smithby and his wife, each holding a big cat. I read, dumbfounded:
New Haven, August 5: For the first time in nearly a century, Boiswood University has captured the national attention with the publication of the work of Emerson Smithby, Professor of English Literature, on something that scientists regard as the most important discovery of our time: the language spoken by cats.
If we are to believe his wife, the blonde and curvaceous Cynthia Smithby, the young professor has broken down a barrier that until now seemed insurmountable: the barrier between man and the so-called lower animals.
Professor Smithby, for his part, said:
"Cats not only have a language, but their cultural complex shows no fundamental differences from ours. I began to suspect this when Mrs. Smithby and I were on our honeymoon; and she has helped me tirelessly, contributing her own cats to the research.
"Once we managed to convince them of the importance of the project, we made rapid progress. In less than two months, we were able to speak Catboy with some fluency."
Professor Smithby then revealed that he has already prepared a text for beginners: The Catboy, Its Fundamental Grammar, Pronunciation and General Usage.
However, he declined to comment on a rumor that, thanks to the efforts of Gregory Morton, a well-known cat lover and member of the Board of Governors of Bogwood University, the Cat Vocabulary will soon be enriched with some feline-specific curses. Due to the absence of Professor Christopher Flewkes, head of Dr. Smithby's department, we were unable to obtain his opinion.
I was stunned. Impossible to think coherently. Blind instinct told me that Bogwood was in danger… that Bogwood needed me… that I should take the first boat home.
Nothing could have prepared me for the reception Fate had arranged at the Faculty Club on the night of my arrival. Perhaps the bright light burning above the desk in the lobby blinded me upon entering; perhaps my own worries distracted me to the point of preventing me from seeing the cat. The truth is, I didn't realize its presence until its sudden meow informed the world that I had stepped on its tail.
A strange sight. The cat had fled, leaving me standing beside my suitcase, which had fallen on the floor. Behind the desk, a young Oriental man hired during my absence peered at me through a pair of those curious glasses known as "harlequins."
"Are you in the habit of stepping carelessly on guests?" he asked me with placid insolence. "If so, you can go back the way you came."
My heart skipped a beat.
"Listen," I replied, "I'm Dr. Flewkes… Christopher Flewkes."
The individual smiled.
-In that case, the stomp will be an accident. I've heard of you. You are Flewkes, I am you.
I thought:
"This man is crazy, of course."
And, out loud, I said:
-Really? Are you me?
Still smiling, the man shook his head gravely.
-It's not that. My name is... Beowulf. I discovered the name in an English novel.
"Okay," I said. "It's you. Is my room ready?"
You bowed politely.
"I'm here to study," he informed me. "At night, I'm an employee; during the day, I study Gatuno with some success. It's possible I'll get a degree in Gatuno..."
"Is my room ready?" I repeated in an irritated tone.
"Almost certainly, sir," you said. "I'll escort you in a moment. Now, I must offer my apologies to our guest..."
He approached the cat, which was in a corner, licking its injured appendage.
"Ee-owr-r," you said very politely. "Meow, meu, mr-ou."
The cat paid you no attention at all; and you, with a worried expression, quickly took a small volume from your pocket, consulted it, and repeated your original comment several times.
Finally, the animal raised its head.
"Meow," he said plaintively.
You bowed. Then you turned to me with a pleased air.
"You're forgiven; you're a very civilized cat. Now, let's go up to your room."
I nodded weakly. As we climbed the stairs, I saw that the hall was full of cats. Lying on the armchairs, on the rug, in front of the fire… Even on the mantelpiece, beneath the portrait of Ebenezer Bogwood.
I entered my room. You said goodnight and left. Tired, I sat up in bed… and as I did so, I saw the semester's Course Program on the nightstand. I fought the urge to pick it up… but I lost. I opened it, turned the pages, and saw:
Department of Feline Languages
Emerson Smithby, Ph.D., Director
There followed a list of courses: Gatuno 100 A (Elementary), Gatuno 212 (Philology), Gatuno 227 (Literature)… and other pertinent information, including the information that all teaching was carried out by Mr. and Mrs. Smithby.
Discouraged, I sobbed for Bogwood until dawn.
I didn't wake up until just before lunchtime, when the telephone rang to inform me that Witherspoon was waiting for me in the lobby; and despite my gloomy thoughts, I forced myself to get up and get dressed. Witherspoon's note had mentioned his resignation from the faculty; and now it occurred to me that perhaps I should join him in his tragic withdrawal from academia, that perhaps we had both been overtaken by the science of a new age. Finally, with my suit rumpled and my beard uncombed, I went downstairs to meet my colleague.
I entered the hall, and heard that familiar voice welcoming me, and saw that long, lanky figure rising from an armchair by the hearth.
"Bertrand!" I exclaimed, and a moment later we were locked in a hug.
I stared at him in astonishment. Was this the kind, melancholic Witherspoon I had known? His appearance remained as gray as ever. But I realized immediately that the old Witherspoon had vanished, giving way to a man of iron.
He seemed to read my thoughts. Leading me to an armchair, he swatted at a cat, chasing it away, so I could sit down.
"Cristopher," he said to me, in a very firm tone, "I have decided to continue in my position. The time has come to fight... And fight we shall!"
Hearing those words, my heart filled with black despair for our lost cause.
"How can we fight, Bertrand?" I exclaimed, gesturing to the feline population of the room.
Witherspoon sat next to me.
"Courage, Christopher! Those damned animals," he pointed at the cats, "are not to blame. Even Morton, despite his treachery, is nothing more than a tool. Our enemy is Smithby. We must destroy him by all means, noble or ignoble!"
His eyes blazed as he spoke those words. Then he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I've planned the strategy for our campaign," he murmured. "Do you want me to reveal it to you?"
"Of course," I said, leaning forward eagerly.
But Witherspoon didn't have a chance to answer. Suddenly, his gaze hardened. His eyes were fixed on the front door to the lobby, his fists clenched and his brow furrowed.
I hadn't noticed the people crossing the hall on their way to the dining room during our conversation. But now I looked around… and saw Smithby and Cynthia Smithby advancing, followed by Beowulf. A large black cat was perched on Mrs. Smithby's shoulders, a striking contrast to her golden hair. Another cat, a Siamese, was engaged in a pleasant tête-à-tête with Smithby, who was carrying it in her arms.
I heard Witherspoon whisper in my ear:
-Look at her! She looks like a cross between a cream puff and a Valkyrie.
The description, I must confess, surprised me. I later learned that Witheread had heard it from a student. But it wasn't entirely inaccurate. Cynthia Smithby was very tall: half a dozen inches taller than her husband; she resembled Herrick's Julie: a splendid figure, too imposing for modern taste, a very red little mouth, a tiny, rounded chin, a sweeping gaze...
She was the first to notice me. Immediately, a mischievous smile appeared on her lips, and she changed course. Head held high, she walked toward me.
I stood up straight, waiting for her with a stern, uncompromising expression. I knew Witherspoon was wrong. She was our enemy! The Lilith who had seduced a weak man, leading him astray from the path of sober scholarship! And I realized I shouldn't mince words, making my attitude clear from the outset.
With a delicious blush on her cheeks, Cynthia Smithby stopped in front of me.
"My dear Mr. Flewkes!" she cried, in her musical voice. "What a delightful surprise! I am so glad to see you among us again." She lowered her eyelashes with mock modesty. "And the same I say of Emerson, is it not, Emerson?"
Smithby blushed, changed a book he was carrying two or three times from hand to hand, and nodded with evident pleasure.
"A lot has happened since you left," Cynthia continued. "Wonderful things. Although... you'd better learn about them by attending Emerson's workshops."
I forced myself to look her straight in the eyes.
"Madam," I declared coldly, "I have dedicated half my life to the service of this institution and the defense of its austere ideals. I am ashamed to witness the sad decline of what was once a noble tradition. I will never compromise with this disloyalty!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the hurt expression on Smithby's face; I saw Beowulf You open his mouth stupidly. For a moment, too, Cynthia Smithby pursed her lips like a sensitive child rudely reprimanded. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
"Mr. Flewkes," he said, "I am truly glad you are taking that course." He turned to Smithby. "Here is just the challenge we needed, Emerson. Your genius will overcome this wall of classical conservatism. Our present project is destined for success. When we have positive and irrefutable proof, Mr. Flewkes will offer his apologies."
"Oh! Not me," said Smithby, looking at his wife with the eyes of a slaughtered sheep. "You, dear Cynthia. The credit will be yours. The world will know that you did it all!"
Beowulf chuckled.
"Then Flewkes will also investigate the Catboy." He looked at me through his harlequins. "I think I can help you. The Catboy's words are all monosyllabic, like Cantonese."
Cynthia Smithby smiled wickedly.
"Well, Beowulf," he said, "you must spend your time learning the Catboy better. You know you haven't passed any of the courses. Come, Emerson," he added, taking Smithby's arm. "Lunch is waiting for us. Mr. Flewkes, we are delighted to have met you. Meow!"
As the dining room door closed behind them, I slumped heavily back in my chair.
-My God, Bertrand! -I murmured-. He... he meowed at me.
"I think," Witherspoon said, "that he said goodbye to you in Catboy."
I ran my hand over my forehead, soaked in cold sweat.
-The evil genius isn't Smithby... It's her!
"Nonsense!" Witherspoon snarled. "It's just that Mrs. Smithby is a panther-woman… and you're just too impressionable."
I blushed.
-But… what is this about your new project?
"Some nonsense. What else could it be? Mrs. Smithby hasn't even completed higher education."
The argument was indisputable, of course. I calmed down a little.
"He's the culprit," Witherspoon continued. "Did you notice the book he was carrying? It's his latest work: Ballads of the Rooftops, Translated from the Original Catboy. He sings it to all his students, accompanying himself on a lute. I'm told his meowing is superb. And we have the extra course for lion tamers, which takes place in the evenings. He's brought some very strange people to Bogwood, I can tell you."
He paused briefly. Then he pointed an apocalyptic finger at the heavens.
"Are you surprised that I've taken desperate measures?" he asked. "Are you surprised that I've hired a private detective?"
-A… private… detective?
"Absolutely," Witherspoon said. "It's very good. I brought it from New York, where the most hardened criminals flee at the mere mention of his name."
I started to protest, but Witherspoon didn't let me interrupt him.
"I've arranged for you to meet him. We'll have lunch with him. Not here, but secretly... at an establishment called Jakey's Java Joint."
"But, Bertrand," I objected weakly, "how can that person help us? How?"
Witherspoon burst into a proud, triumphant laugh.
-Be patient, Christopher! You'll soon find out!
I remember very few details of that first encounter. Scruffy, unshaven men devouring strange food in dirty cubicles, foul language, horrible music coming from an automatic instrument… That's all I vaguely recall. On the other hand, my first, unfavorable impression of Luigi Hogan remains very clear in my mind. Small, squat, and surprisingly hairy, he didn't look or behave like a detective.
Witherspoon and I had turned up the collars of our coats and pulled down the brims of our hats to avoid recognition, but Hogan's sharp little eyes spotted us as soon as we entered, and the man came out to meet us. Witherspoon made the appropriate introductions and immediately began to conspire in low voices with the detective.
Hogan's diction was atrocious; his underworld slang was almost incomprehensible to me; he talked and laughed with his mouth full of a hot dog sandwich. Even if our encounter with Cynthia Smithby had left me in full possession of my faculties, I doubt I would have been able to catch more than occasional fragments of the conversation. I noticed Hogan address Witherspoon as "Chief." I heard him say that he had been attending Smithby's supplemental training for animal trainers. I heard him repeat the words Smithby had spoken at the opening of the training in question: If you absorb my teachings, you can easily walk into the cage of the fiercest lion and speak to him face to face…
Witherspoon's expression brightened at those words.
"So, face to face, huh?" he whispered. "Hogan, you've got to find a circus or a zoo where there's a good tiger, see? Hee hee! We'll challenge Smithby to go into the cage and talk to the tiger face to face. He can't refuse, see?"
"I understand, boss," Hogan nodded. "The reporters are going to enjoy it."
"Not just reporters, Hogan," Witherspoon murmured with a Machiavellian smile. "Not just reporters..."
As for the rest of what they discussed… well, Witherspoon gave me a rough rundown as we made our way back to campus through the dark alleyways. The idea of a Smithby-turned-hors-de-pas for a tiger was merely a detail. Hogan was to keep a constant watch on him until the professor committed some dangerous indiscretion, preferably of an amorous nature. Then he would procure some photographs that we could use to sink Smithby, to secure his immediate expulsion from Bogwood. As a last resort, Hogan would provide a lure: young Marilynne, a specialist in annihilating male inhibitions.
Normally, the ruthlessness of those methods would have shocked me deeply. But now, obsessed with the danger to Bogwood, I shared Witherspoon's ferocity and felt no qualms. I was worried about only one thing: Cynthia Smithby. In fact, she had no academic qualifications; the possibility of her making any new discoveries dangerous to us was very remote. Yet was it not possible that Smithby, after all, was merely a puppet pulled by a cunning and willful woman?
Hoping Hogan's work would bear fruit was no easy task. I was continually tormented by doubts and fears... while the situation went from bad to worse. Despite our bitter protests, the dreadful list was enriched with a short course in Feline Culture. The press, constantly keeping everything related to the Cat before the public eye, enthusiastically welcomed the appearance of Smithby's manuals for circus and zoo personnel: Basic Lioness, Basic Leopardess, Basic Pantheress, etc. And the columnists, meanwhile, commented on the rumored progress of Cynthia Smithby's project, the nature of which was kept secret. Apparently, it was a method for teaching Cates so easy that any child could learn it in a couple of hours. It would eliminate the need for babysitters and kindergarten teachers. And it would change the social and economic structure of the world.
We had our moments of euphoria. For example, when Hogan announced he had reached an agreement with the manager of a circus whose menagerie included a gloomy tiger, who had just sent a tamer to the next world. The manager wrote an open letter to the newspapers, challenging him to enter that tiger's cage and have a conversation with him. Witherspoon and I jumped for joy when we read the headlines. CAT PROFESSOR CHALLENGED TO TAME THE FIERCE KING OF THE JUNGLE.
But Smithby didn't fall into the trap. Conversing with any normal tiger, he announced, would be a pleasure. But this tiger was mentally ill.
"You need a feline psychiatrist," Smithby said. "After all, even though I speak English, I wouldn't try to reason with a madman armed to the teeth."
And the servile press praised him for his "common sense"!
Weeks passed, and our furtive encounters at Jakey's Java Joint brought increasingly discouraging reports. Every little detail of Smithby's life was known—and beyond reproach. Perversely, he insisted on behaving like a model husband. Even Marilynne, when we finally brought her from New York, displayed all her skills to no avail: Smithby was unassailable.
Strange as it may seem, the failure of Witherspoon's carefully laid plans did not dampen his enthusiasm; he refused to listen to my suggestion that we should fight Smithby on purely academic grounds. He insisted that we keep Hogan in our employ; and, when I protested, he threatened to hire some "bouncers" to "shut Smithby up."
Even when we learned that Smithby had complained about us to the Board of Trustees, even when we were summoned to appear before that severe tribunal, Witherspoon did not share my fears and discouragement.
"Oh, Christopher!" he cried, shaking his fist. "We must appear before the Council on Friday. That means we have three days! Believe me, something will happen so that we can stand before them all with our heads held high. We shall see Smithy rolling in the dust! The Catboy will have been nothing but a bad dream!"
How bitterly the mischievous gods play cat and mouse with men! On Friday morning, sunk in despair, I was walking toward the campus when, to my astonishment, a red taxi pulled up beside me with a squeal of brakes, and its door opened to admit an exultant Witherspoon, who took me by the arm.
"Victory is ours!" he shouted, pushing me toward the vehicle. "Hogan just called me! Smithby's fallen into the trap!" Before I could utter a single word, he pulled me into the taxi beside him and rapped on the partition. "Go ahead, Lee!" he shouted to the driver, and the vehicle shot forward.
I tried to coax Witherspoon into my head during our mad dash, but she simply answered all my questions with a sort of ecstatic "I told you so! I told you so!" When we arrived at our destination, a Chinese restaurant in the shopping district, she was as hungry as ever.
We got out of the taxi and entered the restaurant. An Asian man immediately greeted us, greeted Witherspoon by name, and led us to a small room he used as his private office. And there, from the very doorway, I gazed at a painting that took my breath away. In the center of the room stood a table and five chairs. Two of the chairs were empty. Two others were occupied by Luigi Hogan and a well-dressed, middle-aged Chinese man. On the fifth, Beowulf Usted, covering his face in shame with his hands, sat.
As soon as he saw us, Hogan spread his arms in a melodramatic gesture.
"It's all right, boys!" he declared. "The Catboy thing is a fake! Smithby is a fraud!"
Witherspoon uttered an exclamation of astonishment; Beowulf You let out a stifled sob.
"That's incredible!" I cried. "I saw with my own eyes how he talked to cats. And I heard the cats talk back to him. A regrettable fact, certainly, but one that can't be attributed to mere fraud. Explain yourself, Hogan!"
"It's very simple," said Hogan. "Shrimp!"
"Shrimp?" Witherspoon and I repeated at the same time.
Hogan shrugged and jerked his thumb at the Chinese gentleman sitting next to him.
The Chinese man smiled gravely.
"That's true," he said. "My name is Chester, and I'm Beowulf's uncle. I'm also the owner of The Pilgrim Fathers Fish Market."
He paused politely as we took the empty chairs.
"For some time now," he continued, "I have seen Professor Smithby come into my shop once a day, closely followed by Mr. Hogan. Professor Smithby would buy exactly ten cents' worth of shrimp, refuse to have them wrapped, and put them straight into his pocket. The incident intrigued me... and a couple of days ago I took the liberty of mentioning the matter to Mr. Hogan."
Hogan smirked.
"We compared our points of view," Chester continued. "When I learned of my strange client's personality, my interest increased. We Chinese have a great respect for learning, and my nephew's fondness for the Catboy has caused me many a headache. Mr. Hogan and I arrived at the only possible conclusion. We tested our theory with Hwang-ho, my own cat; and the results were indisputable. Hwang-ho, at the scent of shrimp, began to meow. So this morning we took Beowulf in on our own. Faced with the overwhelming evidence, he finally confessed everything."
Beowulf covered his ears with his hands, moaning softly.
"Yes," declared his uncle, "my nephew admitted that he had discovered Smithby's secret, that he meowed at the cats—and the cats meowed at the smell of shrimp. That is all."
"You mean all those people were pretending to understand the Catboy?" I exclaimed.
-Convinced that Professor Smithby understood perfectly, they dared not confess their ignorance.
I shook my head.
-I don't think any group of intelligent men and women...
"Come on, come on, Christopher," Witherspoon protested. "I've witnessed that phenomenon a dozen times in the Philosophy Department."
I was forced to admit that he was right.
Witherspoon stood up.
"We are very grateful to you, gentlemen, for having helped to expose that charlatan," he declared. "Now we can rid Bogwood of your presence." He looked at his watch. "It is eleven o'clock. In half an hour the Governing Council meets—and you have earned the right to share in our triumph, the triumph of true scholarship. Come! We shall annihilate the nefarious Smithby!"
He started toward the door, and we followed. My heart was soaring as we left the restaurant and got into Hogan's car.
The Board of Trustees was meeting in Cruett Hall, in the hall Ebenezer Bogwood had designated for that purpose. It is a large, oak-paneled room steeped in tradition. On its walls hang the stern portraits of those scholars who, through the generations, have occupied our presidential chair. And as I entered the hall, I thought of the pleasure their noble spirits would experience when Witherspoon and I put an end to the Catboy charade.
All my doubts had been dispelled. I felt no fear. I entered the room like a conqueror.
At the head of the table, stern and gray, sat Mr. Sylvester Furnwillie, Chairman of the Council. To his right was the Master of the University; to his left, the odious Gregory Morton was smoking a foul cigar. The other six officers occupied the side seats, three on each side. There were two more chairs, each for Smithby and his wife. Smithby was now standing. At the other end of the table sat an enormous cat, staring fixedly at Mr. Furnwillie with cold, green eyes.
Smithby, who had not noticed our presence, was saying:
-…consequently, we observe that the hsss-ss of the ancient Catboy gradually transformed into the fsss-tt of the modern Catboy. This demonstrates the accuracy of Grimalkin's Law…
"Ha!" Witherspoon exclaimed.
Smithby suddenly fell silent. All eyes turned toward us.
Mr. Furnwillie raised his glasses with a trembling hand.
"My dear friends!" he exclaimed. "You're a little late, aren't you? It's not in good taste to keep the Board of Directors waiting... Dr. Smithby has made serious accusations against you. Very serious, indeed. He claims that you've followed him everywhere, and that you've even hired a woman of ill repute to... ahem... seduce him. Tsk-tsk! We at Bogwood can't countenance such deeds, gentlemen. After all..."
He broke off. He had just noticed Hogan and the two Chinese. He frowned in disgust.
"Who are these individuals, Witherspoon? They can't be students... They have nothing to do with Bogwood's affairs. Are they relatives of yours?"
Witherspoon crossed his arms over his chest and, in a terrible voice, replied:
-They're the ruin of Smithby!
There was an excited murmur among the executives. Gregory Morton cursed Catboy.
Witherspoon silenced them with a disdainful look. Then he pointed at Smithby with his index finger.
"Yes, his downfall. We admitted his accusations, Flewkes and I. We hired Hogan to track him. We hired Marilynne. And we're proud of it, for our humble efforts have saved Bogwood from disrepute and disgrace."
He took a deep breath, like a god of war about to launch his decisive dart.
"Smithby!" he cried. "Smithby, your time has come! Hand in your resignation. Get the hell away from here. Don't ever breathe this hallowed air again. Beowulf has confessed his villainy, and we know all about it. We know about the shrimp, Smithby!"
He paused, amidst an impressive silence.
"Yes, the shrimps," he continued. "The shrimps Smithby puts in his pocket, gentlemen. The Catboy is a mockery and a fraud! No one can speak a word about the Catboy! The little animals meow... at the scent of the shrimps."
He paused again. We expected the earth to open beneath Smithby's feet, the heavens to fall on his head. And…
And nothing happened.
Puzzled, I looked around and saw the managers talking to each other in low voices and giving us strange looks. Mr. Sylvester Furnwillie was conferring with Gregory Morton. Smithby and Cynthia Smithby were exchanging smiles.
The cat, for its part, pretended to look nonchalantly through the window.
"What... what does this mean?" Witherspoon asked.
Mr. Furnwillie ignored him. He looked around. His face assumed an air of disgust. Turning to me, he said:
"Professor Flewkes, while I am deeply shocked by this absurd and vindictive accusation, I must confess that I am not surprised, coming from whom it comes. Witherspoon is not a Bogwood. But you… Tsk-tsk. I am sincerely disappointed. And you… well, you should be ashamed."
Wounded to the quick, I began to protest. But the president interrupted me.
"Professor Flewkes, we know about the shrimp too. Dr. Smithby carries them in his pocket the way other men carry cigars to give to their friends. Why shouldn't he? I carry them myself. You don't expect a cat to smoke cigars?"
"B-but... Beowulf..." I stuttered.
Smithby took the floor.
"I think I can explain that," he said, somewhat sadly. "Not long ago, and against my will, I was forced to tell poor Beowulf that he could no longer attend the courses. His inability to assimilate the Catboy was absolute. And I fear he's fabricated a story to justify himself."
Mr. Furnwillie thanked him for the explanation.
"That's all cleared up, Dr. Smithby. My only regret is that the incident has marred such a brilliant morning."
Behind me, I heard Chester's voice growling something in Cantonese. And I heard a gasp of pain from Beowulf, surely elicited by some jab from his uncle.
Mr. Furnwillie smiled.
"...when you've just added such a glorious leaf to Bogwood's laurels." Her smile disappeared. "Yes, Professor Flewkes, this morning, Dr. and Mrs. Smithby conclusively demonstrated to us the merits of the Catboy. We have had the opportunity to witness the magnificent results of Mrs. Smithby's project in the fields of teaching and research. The proof they have offered us is absolute, indisputable."
"You're lying!" Witherspoon howled, livid with rage, shaking from head to toe. "Don't try to tell me that illiterate woman taught you to speak Catboy! That's another fraud! And you're participating in it! I'll inform the press! Hogan and I will tell the whole truth!"
"Tsk-tsk!" said Mr. Furnwillie, frowning. "If you behave like that, you'll have to leave the room. I can't speak Cat, but Mr. Morton can, and—"
Witherspoon shouted:
"Come on, Hogan, Flewkes! Let's find the company of honest men!" He started toward the door, but before crossing the threshold he stopped and turned. "Furnwillie!" he roared, like a wounded lion. "Furnwillie, I resign!"
And he left. From the hallway, the echo of Hogan's stupid chuckle reached us.
I didn't have the strength to follow them. I stood before the Board of Directors, mute, my hopes of saving Bogwood reduced to ashes.
Mr. Furnwillie put his glasses on and took them off again.
"What a violent man!" he said. "Although Dr. and Mrs. Smithby pleaded with the Council not to take action against him, I'm afraid we'll have to accept his resignation."
"Absolutely!" growled Gregory Morton; and the other members of the Council nodded solemnly.
Mr. Furnwillie sighed.
"Well, this puts us before a rather painful task. I suppose we'll have to do something about Professor Flewkes..."
He looked at me, and all the Council members did the same. Even the cat stared at me.
I tried to save the remains of my dignity.
"Gentlemen," I said, "I'll spare you the trouble. I'll also look for a more breathable atmosphere."
Unexpectedly, Cynthia Smithby, uttering a little scream, jumped to her feet and ran towards me.
"Dear Dr. Flewkes!" she pleaded, taking my arm. "Don't resign! Emerson and I think highly of you and don't want you to go. Please stay!"
Unconsciously, I had dragged myself to the end of the table.
"Let us introduce you to a new world, where cats will finally take their rightful place, contributing to science, culture, and the arts. Believe me: the day will come when cats will vote, hold public office, and educate our young. Perhaps there will be more peace on earth under a parliament of men and cats!"
He pointed at the cat sitting on the table.
-Look at him! Please! It's Rabindranath, living proof!
I confronted her.
"Madam," I exclaimed sharply, "I'm no fool. You may deceive your pupils. You may deceive Mr. Furnwillie in his dotage. But you're not going to convince me that you can teach a language that doesn't exist!"
"Oh, please!" he implored. "Don't you understand... I'm going to introduce you to Rabindranath. I believe you have common interests. Rabindranath has begun translating "The Aspem Papers" into the Catboy. Dear Dr. Flewkes, won't you at least speak to him?"
Two tears flowed from her eyes like drops of dew. They didn't move me.
"Talk to him?" I pointed at the cat disdainfully. "Never! I'll never stoop to meowing."
And… ah, cruel gods!
Coldly, Rabindranath looked me up and down.
"Meow?" he said. "I don't think that's necessary."
END
