Andre Norton: Catfantastic II

"Poor beggar. The wind's blown his lugs inside out," said Shepherd."

Feathers guffawed. "No Jack. That's just the way he is. Looks a bit jaunty with those ears, doesn't he? Doesn't need an R.A.F. cap to match the rest of him."

Feathers' fingers touched the collar as he stroked the cat. He remembered the nameplate and its upsetting message. He didn't want anyone else in the crew to see that. Quickly he slipped it round and started to undo the buckle, but the cat raised a paw to stop him. No claws, just a firm press of one black foot and a gaze into the eyes.

Luckily Jack Shepherd was occupied at the other end, doing a quick inspection to be sure they were using the correct gender when referring the animal.

"Definitely a little torn, all right," he announced, proud of his first venture into the veterinary field. "Got all the equipment intact, far as I can see."

Feathers, who had kept his hand on the collar, made a decision. "Jack, what do you make of this?" He showed Shepherd the bronze nameplate and the scorched spot on the cat's side. He saw the air controller flush, then go pale, just as he himself had done.

"H.M.S. Hood. Well, of all the queer happenings…" Shepherd sat down beside Feathers on the bunk. The cat walked onto the air controller's lap, stood on his thighs and tilted its head back, watching him expectantly.

"He doesn't want me to take his collar off. Pushes my hand away."

"If the sinking hadn't just been announced, I would have said that the collar was a prank," said Shepherd.

"Jack, no one's been at him since I hauled him over the rail, I swear. The only thing I can think of is that he belongs to the wife or child of someone on the Hood and he fell off a transport in rough weather." He looked at the cat. "But it just doesn't seem to fit."

Shepherd agreed. "They don't have room for pets on the transports. Look," he said, switching the subject. "Why don't you nip down to the galley and coax some tinned mackerel out of the cook while I look after Bomber?"

"What? You're already given him a name?"

"Well, we don't know what he was called aboard the Hood. There was no name on the tag and his markings do look like a bomber jacket."

Feathers grinned as he walked down the hallway on his errand. Bomber. It wasn't a bad name. And it was certainly appropriate for a cat aboard an aircraft carrier. When he returned to his cabin with the fish on a saucer, he heard Shepherd's voice querulously scolding the cat.

"That's the property of the Royal Navy, you ungrateful animal!"

Feathers stepped through, mackerel in hand. Bomber spotted it and made a dive for the plate as Feathers laid it on the floor. The pilot stared at the air controller, who rolled his eyes at the cat. "What's the matter?"

"I shouldn't have given him that name," Shepherd said. "I bet he thinks he's got to live up to it. He's perfumed your cabin like a bloody bug bomb."

Feathers took a sniff. The smell was redolent and well remembered from his childhood among his mother's feline household. "He's just staking out his territory. Obviously knows his way about a ship."

"Well, I'll think I'll be getting along," said Shepherd, making a hasty exit. "I'd keep the cabin door shut until he… ah, makes himself at home. Cheerio."

While Bomber was still preoccupied with the mackerel, Feathers made one more foray into the galley for an old baking tin and some newspapers. He fled under assault from the cook, who had grown indignant at such raids upon his territory. A ladle clanged against the wall behind Feathers as he made a quick exit, bearing pan and papers. Once he had regained his cabin, he shredded the papers, stuffed them in the pan, took the cat by the scruff and pointed his nose at the makeshift sandbox.

"You'd bloody well better use that, or you'll find yourself right back in the Atlantic," he growled, then pulled the slicker from his bunk and stretched out on top of the blanket. He noticed that Shepherd had, in his haste, forgotten his bottle of rum. He uncapped it, took a pull and lay back for some quiet thoughts.

After scruffling about in the shredded papers for a while, Bomber came over, leapt onto Feathers' chest and settled there, kneading with his paws and exhaling a faint odor of mackerel.

Feathers put one hand behind his head and dabbled in the cat's fur with the fingers of the other. "Where did you come from, eh? Are you really the Hood's ship's cat? If you are, I'll wager you'd like to be in on a scrap with the Bismarck."

Bomber's ears twitched back and his tail wagged briefly while his eyes slitted. In them, Feathers thought he saw the unmistakable glint of anger. He sighed, laid his head back, wondering if his imagination was getting the best of him.

The captain called the ship's company out on the flight deck for an announcement that Feathers expected. Force H was being sent north to join in the hunt for the German wolves that had destroyed the Hood. The two enemy ships now lay poised to prey on the transatlantic convoys that were the only resource keeping England in the war.

"Though what good we'll do is beyond me," whispered Shepherd, who had come up behind Feathers. "Flying outmoded Swordfish chicken coops with only one torpedo each. If we had some decent carrier-based aircraft…"

"Don't you count out the Stringbags yet," snapped the gunner Patterson, standing nearby. "Remember the ships we sunk at Taranto Harbor? Knocked out half the Italian fleet."

Feathers said nothing. Though he felt a fierce loyalty to his airplane, he knew Shepherd was right. The Fairey Swordfish torpedo biplane, while reliable, maneuverable and easy to fly, was no match for the guns and armor of enemy ships and aircraft. If any of the Swordfish saw service in the coming fight, it would be as a last-ditch attempt after all else had failed. And it would likely end in disaster.

There was nothing they could do about it in any case. Pilots and crew would have to sit out the hours drinking coffee, studying maps, and listening to reports on the wireless while Ark Royal and the rest of Force H churned their way north to join the hunt.

Feathers returned to his cabin. When he stepped in, he saw Bomber nosing about the corners of the cabin.

The little cat stopped, turned his gray hindquarters to the wall, and began a meaningful quivering of his tail.

"Oh, hell," growled Feathers, lunging forward to grab the offender, but he was too late. A misty aerosol formed in a cloud behind the cat's tail, Bomber's benediction to the wall. "One stinker on this ocean is enough, but I'm blessed with two. You and the bloody Bismarck."

But even as Feathers was drawing back his open hand for a slap at the cat, Bomber spun around, pointing his head at the wall. His fur bristled and rippled as if some unseen hand were stroking it backward. His head ducked, pointing his ears toward the bulkhead.

Undulations swept through Bomber's jacket, up his neck to his ears. The air around the cat grew electric with static. With a crackle, a hot white spark leaped from each eartip to the damp spot on the bulkhead.

Feathers jumped back so fast he nearly fell on his rump. "I've heard of a cathode," he muttered to himself. "But I never thought it would be attached to a cat!"

And then he stared even harder, for Bomber's show wasn't over yet. The spot on the whitewashed cabin wall started to smoke and glow, making Feathers wonder if it would ignite like petrol and burst into flame. But instead the bulkhead started to ripple, just as Bomber's fur had done. Rainbow-colored rings bloomed in the center, spreading outward. And the once-substantial metal bulkhead was somehow becoming hazy, transparent.

Feathers quickly snuck a glance at Shepherd's rum bottle to see how much he had actually consumed before falling asleep. It did not reassure him to see that the level had only dropped by a half-inch. So it wasn't spirits that were causing this. Not alcoholic ones, at any rate.