The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

First she ran upstairs to find a scarf for her hair. As she passed the door of the Gang’s suite, she heard Donald making his ridiculous noises and the cats replying with yowling and mewing. She put her hand on the doorknob, then decided not to embarrass her son by intruding.

When she returned a moment later, silk-scarved and cashmere-sweatered, Donald was leaving the suite, looking pleased with himself.

“Are you having fun, darling?” she asked.

“Whiskers was in there,” he replied. “He was climbing around the waterwheel, and he looked in the window. I let him in. He likes our cats a lot.”

“He likes them very much, darling. I hope you closed the window again. We don’t want the Gang to get out, do we?”

Blithely Mrs. Hopple went to the garage and slipped into the seat of the Ferrari. She pressed a button to lift the garage door and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. There was not even a cough from the motor and not even a shudder from the big door. She persevered. She used sheer willpower. Nothing happened.

The houseman had not returned with the Mercedes after taking the twins home, but there were three other cars. She climbed into the Rolls; it would not start. The Caddy was equally dead. So was the Jeep.

Something, she thought, is mysteriously wrong. The houseman would blame it on the KGB or acid rain.

Resolutely she marched back to the house and confronted her husband in his study, where he was locked in with computer, briefcase, and dictating machine. He listened to her incredible story, sighed, then went to inspect the situation, while Mrs. Hopple did a few deep-breathing exercises to restore her equanimity.

“Nothing wrong,” he said when he returned. “The cars start, and the doors open. I think you need a change of scene, sweetheart. We’ll go out to dinner tonight. Wear your new Saint Laurent, and we’ll go to the club. Suzette can give the boy his dinner.”

“We can’t, darling. We’re having strawberries Chantilly, and I promised Donald.”

So the Hopples stayed home and enjoyed an old-fashioned family evening. Dinner was served on the terrace, followed by croquet on the lawn and corn-popping over hot coals in the outdoor fireplace. Donald made no mention of Whiskers, and his parents made no inquiries.

Early Sunday morning, when the June sunrise and chattering birds were trying to rouse everyone at an abnormal hour, the telephone rang at Hopplewood Farm.

Mr. Hopple rose sleepily on an elbow and squinted at the digital clock radio. “Four-thirty! Who would call at this ungodly hour?”

Mrs. Hopple sat up in bed. “It’s five twenty-five by the old clock on the mantel. There’s been another power failure.”

Her husband cleared his throat and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Hi, Mr. Hopple. This is Bobbie Wynkopp. Sorry to call so early, but you told me—if I saw anything . . .”

“Yes, Bobbie. What is it?”

“That place in the meadow that was burned—how big was it?”

“Hmm . . . as well as I could estimate from the air . . . it was . . . about ten feet in diameter. A circular patch.”

“Well, there’s another one just like it.”

“What! Did you see any trespassing?” Mr. Hopple was fully awake now.

There was a pause. “Mr. Hopple, you’re not gonna believe this, but last night I woke up because my room was all lit up. I sleep in the attic, on the side near the meadow, you know. It was kind of a green light. I looked out the window . . . . You’re not gonna believe this, Mr. Hopple.”

“Go ahead, Bobbie—please.”

“Well, there was this aircraft coming down. Not like your kind of plane, Mr. Hopple. It was round, like a Frisbee. It came straight down—very slow, very quiet, you know. And it gave off a lot of light.”

“If you’re suggesting a flying saucer, Bobbie, I say you’ve been dreaming—or hallucinating.”

“I was wide awake, sir. I swear! And I don’t smoke. Ask anyone.”

“Go on, Bobbie.”

“The funny thing was . . . it was so small! Too small to carry a crew, you know, unless they happened to be like ten inches high. It landed, and there was some kind of activity around it. I couldn’t see exactly. There was a fog rising over the meadow. So I ran downstairs to get my dad’s binoculars. They were hard to find in the dark. The lights wouldn’t go on. We were blacked out, you know . . . . Are you still there, Mr. Hopple?”

“I’m listening. What about your parents? Did they see the aircraft?”

“No, but I wish they had. Then I wouldn’t sound like some kind of crazy. My mother works nights at the hospital, and when Dad goes to bed, he flakes right out.”

“What did you see with the binoculars?”

“I was too late. They were taking off. The thing rose straight up—very slow, you know. And when it got up there . . . ZIP! It disappeared. No kidding. I couldn’t sleep after that. When it got halfway daylight I went out to the meadow and had a look. The thing scorched a circle, about ten feet across. You can see for yourself. Maybe you should have it tested for radioactivity or something. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone near it, you know.”