Cat's Pajamas Read Online Free PDF

lunatics out the door.
    There were probably only a handful of taxis still functioning in New York—most of them had run out of gas, and their owners couldn’t refuel because the pumps worked on electricity—but somehow we managed to nab one at the corner of Houston and Forsyth. The driver, a Russian emigre named Vladimir, was not surprised to learn we had no cash, all the ATM’s being dormant, and he agreed to claim his fare in groceries. He piloted us north along First Avenue, running straight through fifty-seven defunct traffic signals, and left us off at the Queensboro Bridge. I gave him two cans of chicken noodle soup and a single-serving box of Frosted Flakes.
    The Martian force-field dome had divided Roosevelt Island right down the middle, but luckily Annie Porlock had moored her houseboat on the Manhattan side. “Houseboat” isn’t the right word, for the thing was neither a house nor a boat but a decrepit two-room shack sitting atop a half-submerged barge called the Folly to Be Wise. Evidently the hull was leaking. If Annie’s residence sunk any lower, I thought as we entered the shack, the East River would soon be lapping at her ankles.
    A ruddy, zaftig, silver-haired woman in her mid-fifties lay dozing in a wicker chair, her lap occupied by a book about Buddhism and a large calico cat. Her harpsichord rose against the far wall, beside a lamp table holding a large bottle of orange capsules the size of jellybeans. Our footfalls woke her. Recognizing Rupert, Annie let loose a whoop of delight. The cat bailed out. She stood up.
    â€œMelvin Haskin?” said Annie, sashaying across the room. “Is that really you? They let you out?”
    Annie extended her right hand. Melvin kissed it.
    â€œTaa-daa!” shouted Rupert, stepping out from behind Melvin’s bulky frame. His pressed his mouth against Annie’s cheek.
    â€œRupert Klieg—they sprang you too!” said Annie. “If I knew you were coming, I’d have baked a fruitcake.”
    â€œThe First Annual Reunion of the Asaph Hall Society will now come to order,” said Melvin, chuckling.
    â€œHave you heard about the Martians?” said Rupert.
    Annie’s eyes widened grotesquely, offering a brief intimation of the derangement that lay behind. “They’ve landed? Really? You can’t be serious!”
    â€œCross my heart,” said Rupert. “Even as we speak, the Phobes and the Deems are thrashing out their differences in Times Square.”
    â€œJust as we predicted,” said Annie. Turning from Rupert, she fixed her frowning gaze on me. “I guess that’ll show you doubting Thomases…”
    Rupert introduced me as “Dr. Onslo, the first in a long line of distinguished psychiatrists who tried to help me before hyperlithium came on the market,” and I didn’t bother to contradict him. Instead I explained the situation to Annie, emphasizing Melvin’s recent deductions concerning Martian dialectics. She was astonished to learn that the Deimosians and the Phobosians were occupying Manhattan in direct consequence of the old materialism-supernaturalism dispute, and equally astonished to learn that, in contrast to most human minds, the Martian psyche was hardwired to favor rational discourse over pleasurable opinion.
    â€œThat must be the strangest evolutionary adaptation ever,” said Annie.
    â€œCertainly the strangest we know about,” said Melvin.
    â€œCan you help us?” I asked.
    Approaching her harpsichord, Annie sat on her swiveling stool and rested her hands on the keyboard. “This looks like a harpsichord, but it’s really an interplanetary communication device. I’ve spent the last three years recalibrating the jacks, upgrading the plectrums, and adjusting the strings.”
    Her fingers glided across the keys. A jumble of notes leaped forth, so weird and discordant they made Schönberg sound