If I don�t like this apartment, I can move away. I can find another one in another place. One with a prettier view of the dust. All I saw out the window today was rain and rain and rain. You�d think it would turn the dust to mud, but the dust is always dust. Gets everywhere, you have to be so careful.
There was an electrical storm, it short-circuited the building. My cat was on the TV set, she spasmed and broke. Television killed my cat. She�ll cost a fortune to fix. More than I have. I pick her up and fiddle with the control panel covering. Maybe if I just� The circuits are fried. I can see where the wires have melted. I shouldn�t have let her sit on the TV, poor Miss Kitty.
I thump the side of the TV, that always works. It doesn�t work.
I thump Miss Kitty and she purrs, slurs, fades to static. I shouldn�t have let her sit on the TV in an electrical storm. I thought this building had extra protection. I thought it wouldn�t come to this.
I pick up my cat, cradling the soft, still warm bundle against my chest. The smell of burnt electronics is on her fur and she hisses irritably, the claws of her left front paw extending and retracting in time with her simulated breathing. Poor Miss Kitty. I go out into the hall, I go to see if anyone else is in the apt just now. I hope they aren�t all at work. But surely they wouldn�t leave me here all alone. Alone in the world, everybody�s worst nightmare. Alone with the radioactive dust.
I close my eyes and listen for the sounds of Buster Friendly and his Friendly Friends, echoing through the building, louder than thought. There. Three doors down. That�ll be Mrs. Deckard. Mrs. Deckard is always home. I carry my cat to her door and ring the bell. It chirps cheerfully inside. Mr. Deckard likes things that are cheerful. He�s very nice, considering. He keeps the androids away, we�re all grateful. Murderous imaginary people. Not real. Should look up to people like Mr. Deckard. How many times have I said that to Miss Kitty? The earth may be mostly empty these days, but there�s no call for filling it up with androids. I wonder if the androids can survive the dust? Imagine if they could. They�d run the world in no time.
Mrs. Deckard still hasn�t answered the door. I press the doorbell again. She has Buster on fairly loud. Don�t we all? She probably didn�t hear it the first time, did she, Miss Kitty? No, I didn�t think so.
It�s empty here in the hallway. Such a desolate place. Maybe I should have stayed in my own apt. But that�s pretty dreary, too, full of broken things. I don�t want to be alone with the emptiness, nobody does. Without my cat, I�m alone. Mrs. Deckard won�t mind a visitor.
At last I hear footsteps, quiet, inside the Deckards� apt. They stop at the door, but the handle doesn�t turn, the door remains closed.
�Who is it?� Mrs Deckard calls shrilly through the door.
�Your neighbour,� I reply, �from down the hall.� I wonder if she remembers me? What happens if she doesn�t? Is there anyone else in the apt? Or just us two? If she doesn�t let me in, it�ll be as if I�m all alone here, as if I don�t exist, wiped out of memory, wiped out of the world. My knees feel weak. Maybe she won�t mind if I sit down here on her doorstep, with my cat, and listen to Buster Friendly through the walls. If I lean my head against the door, it�ll be like I�m in the next room, not out in the halls, alone.
I move to sit down, but the doorknob turns, the door opens a crack. Mrs. Deckard peers out at me, overcautious as always.
�Emily?� she asks. Her tone might be surprise, or possibly annoyance. It�s hard to tell with most of the door still between us. �What do you want?�
What do I want? I want my cat to get better. Poor Miss Kitty. Her paws have started doing that kneading thing cats do, legs moving up and down. When they do that on your knee it�s like a massage. But Miss Kitty�s legs wave in the air.
�My TV broke,� I say at last, and Mrs. Deckard�s face softens a little in sympathy. �Can I watch yours? Just for a little while?�
Mrs. Deckard nods slightly, and opens the door so Miss Kitty and I can come in. The room is neat, ordered, cheerful. Or maybe Buster Friendly and his guest just make it seem that way. I smile for Mrs. Deckard as I sit down on her couch, arranging my cat on my lap. Mrs. Deckard closes her door and turns to face me, but she doesn�t sit, and she isn�t watching Buster, who is discussing kipple again with Oscar Scruggs. I watch TV for a little while. The noise washes over us, constant chatter filling the world, as if, against all odds, there are still enough people on Earth to make a crowd.
�Is your cat all right?�
I rarely hear voices that don�t come from the television. Or at least from me. Mrs. Deckard�s voice startles me.
�She was sitting on the TV,� I explain.
�Maybe you should call a vet. She� doesn�t look well.�
She doesn�t look real. She�s not really my cat anymore. I hug her anyway, and pretend for all I�m worth.
�I don�t know a phone number for a vet,� I say. Or have the money for a vet. Maybe if I start skipping breakfast, I can afford to have the TV fixed. But pets are expensive. I learned that already.
Mrs. Deckard seems a little depressed. Maybe the storm shorted out her mood organ. No wonder she�s upset.
�May I� have a look?� she asks, finally sitting down next to me. I pass the cat to her, and she turns her this way and that, examining. Maybe she knows how to make my cat better. The control panel cover flaps sadly as she moves, and the wires dangle out, but at least there are no sparks.
�She likes having her chin scratched,� I tell Mrs. Deckard, but she doesn�t scratch Miss Kitty�s chin, just hands her back to me and stands again with a sigh so loud and sad that it hangs in the air and even Buster Friendly can�t dispel it.
�I�ll get you the phone number of the pet hospital Rick and I use,� she says, and leaves me alone in the room, though I�m not really alone, I still have my cat and Buster Friendly. It�s not the same as when Mrs. Deckard is in the room. She talks to me, and listens.
I stroke Miss Kitty�s fur. I listen to Buster. After a long, long moment, Mrs. Deckard returns with a piece of paper, the name and number of an animal hospital written on it in unnecessarily large, careful letters.
�Thanks,� I say.
She smiles, but it doesn�t seem real, somehow. I wonder if this is how androids smile, a movement of muscles, but with nothing behind them. Mrs. Deckard is only real when she�s frowning, you can see the desolation in her eyes, and it�s the realest thing on Earth.
�When was the last time you saw a doctor?� she asks wearily as she shows me out. I smile and shrug. She thinks I�ve degenerated. I�ve got to admit, I�ve been worrying about that lately. Haven�t been myself since the last time Miss Kitty got sick. Had to send her to the vet. Only her fur came back. Lovely fur. I cried for months. Shredded the phone number for that vet. Burnt the bits. But she was back in the end.
Ah well, for the moment I�m still human. I�m still real. No androids stealing my job. Right, Miss Kitty?
The blown fuse sizzles, and the edges of her fur around the control panel are beginning to smolder. Her paws have stopped moving, the claws outstretched, catching on my shirt, my skin, sharp enough to draw blood.
Right.
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