THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

“Curtain time !” an usher was shouting to the crowd milling about the barnyard. There was no curtain in the theater, and there were no backs on the seats. Bleachers, providing good sight lines, filled one end of the barn, while an elevated stage occupied the other. Although the set was sketchy, the audience could imagine a fashionable country house with a terrace off to the right.

The lights dimmed; the haunting electronic sounds faded; and the play began - with headstrong characters insisting that UFOs were figments of the imagination. Meanwhile, a spaceship was landing in a rose garden offstage with green lights spilling onstage. Enter: a Visitor from outer space, almost seven feet tall. The audience howled as they recognized their favorite actor. He wore a Civil War uniform and sideburns and explained to the earthlings that he had miscalculated and landed in the wrong century. It was a challenging role for Derek, who was in almost every scene of the play.

During intermission, when the audience was glad to leave the bleachers for a few minutes, Qwilleran listened to their comments:

Elizabeth Hart: “Isn’t he talented? He does everything well.”

Lyle Compton: “Will that guy ever stop growing?”

Arch Riker: “This play puts UFOs where they belong: in a comic strip.”

Junior Goodwinter: “I hear tickets are sold out for three weekends.”

Obviously Derek was stealing the show. All his groupies were there, overreacting to every line. After the last act, and after the last tumultuous applause had shivered the timbers of the old barn, it was a joyful crowd that poured out to the barnyard.

Junior grabbed Qwilleran’s arm. “How about lunch tomorrow and some shoptalk? I have some ideas to bounce around.”

“You come to Mooseville, and I’ll buy,” Qwilleran said. “I have a two o’clock appointment in Fishport. We’ll go to Owen’s Place and see Derek in a different role.”

Then he found Arch waiting for Mildred. He was standing near an arrow that pointed to the portable facilities behind the barn. Qwilleran said, “Apart from the hard seats, how did you like the show?”

“I hope it’s not going to stir up a lot more UFO fever! People have brainwashed themselves, and my wife is one of the nuts.”

“Well, I listen to their conversation politely,” Qwilleran said, “but I don’t buy it, of course.”

“I’ve stopped being polite. Enough is enough! Toulouse sits staring into space, the way cats do, and Mildred insists he’s watching for Visitors… here she comes now.”

“Sorry to keep you both waiting,” she said. “There was a long line. Qwill, would you like to stop at our place for a snack?”

“Thanks, but I want to go home and grapple with my review while the show’s fresh in my mind.”

“We’re parked half a mile away,” Arch said. “Where are you parked?”

“Behind the barn. Reviewer’s privilege.”

“Lucky dog! I run the paper, and I have to walk half a mile!”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Qwilleran said. “You write the review, and I’ll drive you to your car.”

It was no deal.

What Qwilleran missed most about newspaper life Down Below was the interminable shoptalk - in the office, at the watercooler, in the lunchroom, at the Press Club. So he looked forward to his Saturday luncheon with the managing editor. Junior, for his part, probably welcomed an exchange of ideas with a journalist who was also a friend - and the financial backer of the newspaper in a round-about way.

Qwilleran arrived in the parking lot of Owen’s Place just as Junior was stepping out of his car. They went in together.

“Wow! Some class!” Junior exclaimed as Derek greeted them.

“Good show last night,” Qwilleran said. “You hit exactly the right blend of absurdity and convincing reality.”

When they were seated, Junior said to Qwilleran, “Do you think the play will kick off any UFO hysteria in Mooseville? You know how they are around here. We don’t want to attract any attention from the TV networks or major dailies Down Below. They’re quick to pounce on bizarre stories about simple country folk like us. But that’s not why Arch has vetoed stories about mysterious lights in the sky. It’s a personal phobia.”

“What about you, Junior?”

“I have no strong beliefs, one way or the other, but I maintain that the reaction of beach residents is news, and we should report it - plus a sidebar quoting the Pentagon and other official sources, as the other side of the story.”

The drinks were served - one red spritzer and one Squunk water - and Qwilleran raised his glass in a toast. “To sanity, if there’s any left!”

“What’s your next column, Qwill?”

“A thousand words on the diary of Lisa Compton’s great-grandmother. Mark Twain came through here on a lecture tour in the late nineteenth century, and she had a crush on him. They never met, but she fell for his moustache.”

“Sounds like hot stuff for a family newspaper,” Junior said drily.

“There was one interesting fact: Strange objects in the sky were being reported prior to the 1900s, thought to be from the spirit world… Have you looked at the menu, Junior? We’d better order.”