The Cat's Pajamas

I carried him everywhere, and as often as possible I let him down to rest upon a tree branch. When it came time to go on again, he quailed when first I touched him and his face was terrible to see, in its own way.

“We are friends, aren’t we?” I asked, with concern.

“Yes, friends. What?” He seemed to hear me for the first time. “Of course. Friends. You’re a splendid race. This is a lovely city.”

We talked of art and beauty and time and rain and the city. He kept his eyes shut. He kept his eyes shut and then we got on beautifully. Then he became excited when we talked and he laughed and was happy and complimented me on my own wit and intelligence. Strangely, I recall now that I got on best with him when I looked at the sky and not at him. This is an odd thing to note. He with his eyes closed, talking of minds and history and old wars and problems, and myself replying quickly.

It was only when he opened his eyes that he became almost instantly remote. I felt sad at this. He seemed to feel sad too. For he closed his eyes quickly and talked on, and in a minute our old rapport was reestablished. His trembling vanished.

“Yes,” he said, eyes shut, “we are very good friends indeed.”

“I am happy to hear you say that,” I said.

I took him back to the ship. We bade each other good night, but he was trembling again and he went inside the ship and could not eat his evening meal. This I knew, for my mind was there. And I returned to my family, excited by a day intelligently spent, but colored by a sadness I had never known.

MY TALE IS almost at an end. The ship stayed with us another week. I saw the captain each day. We had wonderful times, talking, he with his face averted or his eyes closed. Our two worlds would get on well, he said. I agreed. All would be done in a great spirit of friendship. I toured various members of the crew through the city, but some became so stunned, for one reason or another, that I returned them, with apologies, in shock, to the spacecraft. All of them looked thinner than when they had landed. All had nightmares at night. The nightmares drifted to me, in a hot mist, very late, in darkness.

I record now a conversation I heard, by my mind, among the various members of that ship, on the last night. It is entirely by rote, with my incredible memory, that I set down these words, which mean nothing but may, someday, mean something to my descendants. Perhaps I am somewhat at disease. I feel a bit unhappy tonight for some reason. For there are still thoughts of death and terror in that ship below. I do not know what tomorrow will bring, surely I do not believe these creatures mean us harm. In spite of their thoughts, so tortured and in confusion. I put this conversation of theirs into tapestry, however, in the event that some unbelievable incident should occur. I shall hide the tapestry in a deep burial mound in the forest for posterity. The conversation went, then, like this:

“What’ll we do, Captain?”

“About them? About them?”

“The spiders, the spiders. What’ll we do?”

“I don’t know. God, I’ve tried to figure it. They’re friendly. They have fine minds. They are good. This is no evil plot of theirs. I’m positive that if we wanted to move in, use their minerals, sail their seas, fly in their sky, they would welcome us with love and charity.”

“We all agree

, Captain.”

“But when I think of bringing my wife and children—”

A shuddering.

“It would never work.”

“Never.”

Trembling, trembling.

“I can’t face going out again tomorrow. I can’t stand another day of being with those things.”

“When I was a boy, I remember, a barn, a spider—”

“Jesus!”

“But we’re men, aren’t we, strong men? Don’t we have any guts? What are we, cowards?”

“This isn’t reason. It’s instinct, aesthetics, call it what you will. Will you go out tomorrow and talk to the Big One, that big hairy one with the eight legs, so damned tall?”

“No!”

“The captain’s still in shock. None of us can eat. How would our children be, our wives, if we are this weak?”

“But they’re good. They’re kind. They’re generous, they’re everything we’ll never be. They love everyone and they love us. They offer us help. They bid us enter.”

“And enter we must, for many good reasons, commercial and otherwise.”