"Say something? Must got wrong word," Dytie interposed quickly, brushing the matter aside. But she was very much interested in Morton Opperly and insisted on Phil telling her a great deal about the famous scientist. "He smart man," she said with conviction. "Very much like meet." "I'll try to manage it sometime," Phil said and told how the green cat had been captured by Dora Pannes. Dytie shook her head solemnly. "Some people got very hard hearts," she said. "Don like pussycat all." Phil quickly rounded off his story with an account of how the fake green cat in the alley had scratched him. Dytie got up and came over and touched his hands tenderly. "Poor Phil," she said, then summarized: "So we know who have pussycat, but not where?" "That's right," Phil said quickly, "and that where is a tough one, because Billig's hiding from the FBL." And he got up rapidly, trying not to make it obvious that he wanted to put a few feet between them. Dytie's fingers were soft and gentle enough, but there was something about her touch and her close presence that set him shivering. Conceivably, it was her odor, which wasn't strong or even unpleasant, just completely unfamiliar. She looked after him rather wistfully, but did not try to follow. He faced her across the room. "Well, that's my story, Dytie," he said a bit breathlessly. "And now I want to ask my questions. Just what kind of a cat have you got, that Fun Incorporated could hope to bribe the federal government with it? Is it a mutant with telepathic powers and able to control emotions? Is it a throwback, or maybe deliberately bred back to an otherwise extinct animal? Is it some cockeyed triumph of Soviet genetics, working along lines our scientists don't accept? Damn it, is it even some sort of Egyptian god, like Sacheverell thinks? It's your turn to talk, Dytie." But instead of answering him, she merely smiled and said, "'Scuse me, Phil, but that long story yours really long. Be right back." He expected her to walk out the window and wondered what he'd do. But she merely went into the bathroom and shut the door. He paced around, unbearably keyed up, lifting small objects and putting them down again. Nervously he turned on the radio, sight and sound, though he didn't look at it and didn't understand a word of what the inane sports gossipist was loudly yapping about the feats, follies and frivolities of the muscle stars. Then on his next circuit of the room, he happened to tread hard as he passed the radio, and something went wrong with it, so that the sound sank to a very low mumble and he was once more alone in his agitation. So much so that he jumped when he heard a small noise behind him. The hall door had opened. Mitzie Romadka was standing just outside, looking both adolescent and weary in faded blue sweater and slacks. A lock of her long, dark hair trailed in front of her ear. She fixed on Phil an unhappy, defiant stare.