Cat, Mouse

by Brian C. Coad

Illustration by Alan M. Clark

Three decades back, an Eastern girl who called herself Autumn Leaf, blew West. She crashed in a hippie pad with Mister Richguy.

Mister Richguy was good to her. She became his old lady. Together, they went into the pot business.

Soon they had beaucoup spare change.

Their phone bills were awful high. They invested spare change in college courses and learned how to build an electronic thing to route calls so they did not have to pay the phone company.

That was the, so to speak, embryo of the AI that later became the Ghost Cat.

Their business got too big to carry in their heads. They invested in computer courses and upgraded the AI. It developed into a Ghost Cat fetus, and soon had their business running smoothly. They got it into hacking.

Programmed by Autumn Leaf and Mister Richguy, the AI worked out ways to transfer, without getting caught, electronic cash floating around from banks and such, into their own account. This was safer than selling pot, which they quit doing. The AI became a Ghost Cat kitten.

Autumn Leaf and Mister Richguy learned all about financial networks and international finance. They programmed their AI to surf, or, more accurately, to prowl, the networks. Semi-autonomous, it was instructed to look for, say, a coming devaluation of the Polish zloty (or Paraguayan guarani), or, say, based on the price of tin, to anticipate a fall (rise) in the Bolivian stock market. It prowled with a big wad of electronic cash, which it could invest in such events, and make a profit. It was soon maturing into a full-grown Ghost Cat.

When Autumn Leaf and Mister Richguy owned several million dollars, they got bored. By then, all the business they did was legal and risk free, and the zest had gone out of it. Making money had become nothing more than a game of pushing counters around. They turned all that stuff over to the AI. The only constraint they put on it was to forbid it to do anything illegal except in a dire emergency.

The AI was now a full-grown Ghost Cat but for one thing: it had no body to download into when it was not working. It could not get out of its owners’ equipment, and cyberspace.

Long past hippie times, Autumn Leaf was still into feelings, growth, human potential, and such. With time to spare, she thought long and hard about their AI. She decided its growth would be stunted, it could never achieve its full potential, unless it had somewhere to get out of the nets, roam around freely, smell the roses, and sense the power of flowers.

She designed a cat’s body for the AI to download into, and persuaded Mister Richguy to help her build it. It had pure white fur. She programmed a lot of humanness into it.

She did not give it a name.

Autumn Leaf and Mister Richguy lived in a big house on a hill overlooking the ocean. Below was another house. A Mother Lady came to live there, with a dozen children. In its cat’s body, the AI observed their arrival. Cautiously it investigated them. When it had decided they were not dangerous, it decided to visit the Mother Lady.

In the side door of the Mother Lady’s house, there was a small flap cut, for cats to come and go. Her children were in the garden. The Al/cat crept up to the flap in the side door. It went inside, and searched for the Mother Lady.

It found her in the kitchen, peeling apples for a pie. Purring quietly, it went close and rubbed against her legs. She picked it up, stroked it. “Where you from, you beautiful puss?” she said. “I call you Ghost Cat, ’cos you suddenly appear out of nowhere.”

That was how he got his name. Once he had a name, he never thought of himself as “it” any more, only as “he.”

He could not tell the Mother Lady where he was from. He was not equipped for speech. She took him out to the garden and introduced him to the children. Soon, the pleasantest, most relaxing thing he ever did was to sit on her patio in the sunshine, watching the children at play.

The Mother Lady put a padded basket for him to sit in on the patio.

On a prowl of the nets, the Ghost Cat collected his month’s tax liability, a routine chore. That month he had done a lot of business. There was a great deal of money owed to the IRS.

He ran hard copy of the tax liability. Mister Richguy examined it. He usually had the same attitude to taxes as to other counters, but this time the amount due was so enormous, he became quite angry. “Your damn animal has screwed up,” he told Autumn Leaf, at the same launching a kick at the Ghost Cat.

Fortunately the Ghost Cat, who was plugged into the nets by paws, tail, nose, and ears, saw the kick coming, managed to release himself, and was on Autumn Leafs lap before it landed where he had been.

Autumn Leaf’s lap was safe but uncomfortable. Even so long after the Summer of Love, she was still into beads and macrame, which dug into him and abraded his fur.

Autumn Leaf chucked him under the chin. “What’s, like, the trouble?” she asked Mister Richguy.

“The damn cat’s in cahoots with the IRS to rob us blind,” said Mister Richguy.

“That’s not so, is it, puss?” She stroked the Ghost Cat. “Besides, it don’t matter anyway. Money’s only, like, counters.”

“Sure, sure,” said Mister Richguy, “but I still hate to see any more than has to be sent off to Washington to support politicians. Cat can’t do better, he’s in for reprogramming, or maybe getting his neck wrung.”

Autumn Leaf touched her lips to the Ghost Cat. “Maybe you better, like, stay out of the Old Man’s way for a while,” she said. She carried him to the front door, opened it, and put him outside.

Tail swishing, fur fluffed out, he trudged down the hill to the Mother Lady’s place.

He found the Mother Lady in her rocker on the patio, watching the children in the garden. She sensed his mood immediately. “You in some tantrum, you old Ghost Cat,” she said, the moment she saw him.

The Ghost Cat poked his tail straight up and strutted about the patio to show her how right she was.

“Easy, easy,” said the Mother Lady. “Why you not sit in you basket, watch the children? You feel better.”

The Ghost Cat flashed his eyes at the Mother Lady. In the background he could hear the children’s voices, shrill and silvery in the Sun-drenched air. She tapped on his basket and made the curious noises with which she sometimes invited his obedience. He eyed her again, then slowly climbed into the basket. “Who you mad at, anyway?” the Mother Lady asked.

If he could have spoken, he would have said the accursed tax man, the tax laws, and my Master in the house on the hill. As he could not speak, he had to be content with a growl.

The Mother Lady’s attention wandered away from him, down the garden to the children, beyond them, and out over the ocean. Out there, a great ship puffed towards the horizon.

The Ghost Cat felt ignored. He checked the children.

The Mother Lady’s children were waifs and strays. Whenever she ran across a waifed or strayed child, she brought it home. Just then, there were six boys and six girls.

At the bottom of the garden, where the early morning dew had converted freshly turned soil into thick mud, the boys—two each, white, black, and Asian—were studying its properties. The Ghost Cat, beginning to settle down, marveled at the way they studied the properties of things, and learned about them.

The girls, nearer him on the lawn, were playing ballerina. Music was provided by the Vietnamese girl, who owned a flute. The rest teetered and tottered on tiptoe around her. They giggled a lot.

Bees buzzed in the blossoming hedge of forsythia along one side of the garden. Gradually the Ghost Cat’s growl dissolved into a purr.

He blinked drowsily in the sunshine.

Daniel, the taller black boy, scooped up a handful of mud and kneaded it. The Ghost Cat guessed he planned a controlled experiment, throwing it at another boy to observe how it splattered.

Something wriggled in Daniel’s mud. He stopped kneading to see what it was. It was a long, pink worm. He liberated it from the mud and held it high, like a trophy, stretched between two hands. The other boys crowded around to see it.

Now, thought the Ghost Cat, having studied the properties of mud, they will go on to study the properties of worms.

“Ain’t never in all the world been a worm big as this one,” said Daniel.

“ ’S only a baby compared to what my aunt has back in Iowa,” said the fair-haired white boy.

“Maybe a baby, but he scare the pants off of you!” Daniel shoved the worm in the fair boy’s face. The boy dodged away So did Daniel’s next victim, the little Cambodian.

Daniel chased the others all over the garden, but failed to catch any of them.

The Ghost Cat watched and purred louder.

Daniel went after the girls. They quit being ballerinas, screamed, and scattered.

“Stop you teasing, Daniel,” yelled the Mother Lady. “You put that worm right back in the earth where he belong!”

Daniel shuffled a bit on the lawn, then returned to the muddy place and put the worm on the damp earth. With the other boys, he watched it wriggle out of sight.

The Vietnamese girl smoothed her dress. She put the flute to her lips again, and resumed playing.

The other girls resumed their toe-tip teeter totters. They giggled some more.

In a little while, the Mother Lady grew restless. She kept looking at her watch. Presently she stood up, gazed out over the ocean. The great ship was hull down on the horizon. “ Bye, ol’ ship, goin’ Singapore, Hong Kong, some such place,” she said. “Wish you’d take me with you!”

She looked at her watch again, and went into the house.

The Ghost Cat went to the side door of the house and went inside too, through the little cat flap. It bothered him deeply that the Mother Lady would want to be on a ship, carried away from the children. He found her in her living room. The TV was on, some sort of current affairs thing about simplified tax laws, but he took not much notice of it. He knew more than he wanted to know about tax laws. What he did notice was that the Mother Lady’s eyes were teary, and she was dabbing them with a white handkerchief.

He forced her to notice him. In body language, he asked what was troubling her.

“Taxes,” she told him.

She went on mumbling to herself, “Ain’t it always the same? You work like a little engine, get a house for the children, everything fine. Then big old taxman come. He say you owe, puts lien on salary, you not have money left to pay the rent.” She switched off the TV. “Old program here don’ tell me nothin’ that help.”

She picked up the Ghost Cat, held him at arm’s length in front of her. “You look some fierce, old Ghost Cat. Don’t do no good. Ain’t nothin’ you can do. Rent not paid, me and the children be gone I don’ know where.”

I bet there is something I can do, thought the Ghost Cat. He leapt out of her hands, over to the cat flap, through it, and straight up the hill to his own place.

In his own place, the Ghost Cat immediately plugged himself into the nets. Everybody’s problem is out on the nets somewhere. He searched for the Mother Lady’s.

It was soon found. The Mother Lady worked nights for the telephone company. That was how she paid her bills, fed the children, and paid rent. She had sent in her tax forms in April, just like everyone else. All her money went on the children, but she never kept records to itemize, so she only took standard deductions.

The tax man wrote her saying she owed three thousand dollars.

She wrote the tax man saying she had no money. She had spent it all on the children, so couldn’t she be excused?

Only, wrote the tax man, if she could produce a set of books showing, item by item, what she had spent.

Can’t do no such thing, she wrote back.

Well, then, said the tax man’s next letter, we will have to put a lien on your salary.

He had put on the lien. The telephone company had done what they could to hold back as little money as possible, but next month, as the Mother Lady knew, her salary would be too small to cover the rent.

The Ghost Cat immediately went stalking the responsible tax man.

He was soon found. His name was Ed “Muscles” Grimond. His personnel file held many commendations for the efficiency with which he recovered delinquent taxes.

Unpleasant individual though he must be, the Ghost Cat had to meet him. He burrowed electronically into the man’s computer. Looking out through its screen from inside, he saw a small individual who looked much like a mouse.

Numbers scrolled on the man’s screen, and his eyes gleamed as he surveyed his day’s victories over the taxpayers.

Parts of the Ghost Cat went in various directions to do background checks on Ed “Muscles” Grimond. One part came back with a school kid piece about his first day in Washington High. Another new kid, taking a hard look at him, tried to give him the name of “Mouse.” Before others followed suit, Ed said, if they had to call him something, it had better be the proper Latin term, “Mus musculus,” not the commonplace “Mouse.”

Another kid, observing his puny physique, corrupted “Mus Musculus” to “Muscles.”

From there on, he was Ed “Muscles” Grimond, and all the kids had a good laugh.

Another part of the Ghost Cat came back with details filed in the computer of Ed’s psychiatrist. The record said he was terrified of cats. He was also afflicted with the fantasy that, somewhere in cyberspace, there existed a blind-ended mousehole, into which, if the real world became too much for him, he could withdraw and be safe.

While the Ghost Cat absorbed this information, Ed “Muscles” frowned and stopped scrolling. He had come to the social security number of the Mother Lady. “Blasted woman,” he mumbled.

Apparently the telephone company was not withholding as much money from her salary as it should have done.

The Ghost Cat angrily swished his electronic tail and thought how he hated taxes and tax men.

There was one way to show Ed what he felt.

Behind the man’s computer screen, he created a monstrous virtual cat. He had the cat leap out of the screen at the man.

Ed “Muscles” Grimond squawked loudly and withdrew into his cyberspace mousehole.

The Ghost Cat let the virtual beast sit on Ed’s desk for a while, towering over his inert form as it ominously cleaned its paws.

Presendy he deleted the beast.

He set off on a tour of the IRS files. Wherever he found a reference to the Mother Lady’s tax problems, he deleted that.

He toured the telephone company’s files.

Wherever there was any reference to the tax man’s lien, he deleted that.

While he was about it, he gave the Mother Lady a raise.

He went home.

Only when he was unplugging himself did it occur to him to wonder if he had done anything illegal.

He had not, he told himself, because he could not. He was programmed absolutely not to.

Of course, there was that dire emergency clause.

Maybe this had been a dire emergency.

Anyway, he felt good, and not to worry.

He went outside and down the hill to the Mother Lady’s house.

The Mother Lady was back on the patio again, rocking in the sunshine. The children were happy in the garden.

Using every ounce of body language he possessed, he assured the Mother Lady that, from here on, everything, everything, would be all right.

Content

Cat, Mouse
by Brian C. Coad