Roger Zelazny - A Museum Piece

And Smith sprang back in panic at what he thought he saw moving in the shadows. Cassius pulled free.

“You cannot do this!” cried Gloria, covering her face. “We are from the Greek Period!”

“When in Greece, do as the Romans do,” chuckled Cassius.

The odor of cats came to their nostrils.

“How could you—here…? A lion?” asked Smith.

“A form of hypnosis privy to the profession,” observed Cassius. “We keep the beast paralyzed most of the time. Have you not wondered why there has never been a theft from this museum? Oh, it has been tried, all right! We protect our interests.”

The lean, albino lion which generally slept beside the main entrance padded slowly from the shadows and growled—once, and loudly.

Smith pushed Gloria behind him as the cat began its stalking. He glanced towards the Forum, which proved to be vacant. A sound, like the flapping of wings by a flock of leather pigeons, diminished in the distance.

“We are alone,” noted Gloria.

“Run,” ordered Smith, “and I’ll try to delay him. Get out, if you can.”

“And desert you? Never, my dear! Together! Now, and always!”

“Gloria!”

“Jay Smith!”

At that moment the beast conceived the notion to launch into a spring, which it promptly did.

“Good-bye, my lovely.”

“Farewell. One kiss before dying, pray.”

The lion was high in the air, uttering healthy coughs, eyes greenly aglow.

“Very well.”

They embraced.

Moon hacked in the shape of cat, that palest of beasts hung overhead—hung high, hung menacingly, hung long…

It began to writhe and claw about wildly in that middle space between floor and ceiling for which architecture possesses no specific noun.

“Mm! Another kiss?”

“Why not? Life is sweet.”

A minute ran by on noiseless feet; another pursued it.

“I say, what’s holding up that lion?”

“I am,” answered the mobile. “You humans aren’t the only ones to seek umbrage amidst the relics of your dead past.”

The voice was thin, fragile, like that of a particularly busy Aeolian Harp.

“I do not wish to seem inquisitive,” said Smith, “but who are you?”

“I am an alien life form,” it tinkled back, digesting the lion. “My ship suffered an accident on the way to Arcturus. I soon discovered that my appearance was against me on your planet, except in the museums, where I am greatly admired. Being a member of a rather delicate and, if I do say it, somewhat narcissistic race—” He paused to belch daintily, and continued, “—I rather enjoy it here—‘among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder [belch], lost’”

“I see,” said Smith. “Thanks for eating the lion.”

“Don’t mention it—but it wasn’t wholly advisable. You see, I’m going to have to divide now. Can the other me go with you?”

“Of course. You saved our lives, and we’re going to need something to hang in the living room, when we have one.”

“Good.”

He divided, in a flurry of hemidemisemiquavers, and dropped to the floor beside them.

“Good-bye, me,” he called upward.

“Good-bye,” from above.

They walked proudly from the Modern, through the Greek, and past the Roman Period, with much hauteur and a wholly quiet dignity. Beaten Gladiator, Hecuba Lamenting, and Xena ex Machina no longer, they lifted the sleeping watchman’s key and walked out the door, down the stairs, and into the night, on youthful legs and drop-lines.