"Whoosh!" said Qwilleran. "Did you see that?"

On top of the cabinet Kao K'o Kung arranged himself in an imperious posture and watched the scene below with intelligent interest.

" A seven, foot leap is not unusual for a Siamese," said Mountclemens. "Cats have many gifts that are denied humans, and yet we tend to rate them by human standards. To understand a cat, you must realize that he has his own gifts, his own viewpoint, even his own morality. A cat's lack of speech does not make him a lower animal. Cats have a contempt of speech. Why should they talk when they can communicate without words? They manage very well among themselves, and they patiently try to make their thoughts known to humans. But in order to read a cat, you must be relaxed and receptive."

The critic's manner was serious and scholarly. "For the most part," he went on, "cats resort to pantomime when dealing with humans. Kao K'o Kung uses a code which is not difficult to learn. He scratches objects to call attention. He sniffs to indicate suspicion. He rubs against ankles when he wants service, and he shows his teeth to express disapproval. He also has a catly way of thumbing his nose."

"That I've got to see."

"Very simple. When a cat, who is a picture of grace and beauty, suddenly rolls over in a hideous posture, contorts his face, and scratches his ear, he is telling you, sir, to go to blazes!"

Mountclemens removed the soup plates and brought in a tureen of chicken in a dark and mysterious sauce. A piercing howl came from the top of the cabinet.

Qwilleran said, "You don't need an antenna to tune in that kind of message."

"The lack of an antenna in the human anatomy," said the critic, "impresses me as a vast oversight, a cosmic blunder. With some simple arrangement of feelers or whiskers, think what man might have achieved in communication and prognostication! What we call extrasensory perception is normal experience for a cat. He knows what you are thinking, what you are going to do, and where you have been. I would gladly trade one ear and one eye for a full set of cat's whiskers in good working condition."

Qwilleran put down his fork and wiped his moustache carefully with his napkin. "That's very interesting," he said. He coughed once or twice and then leaned toward his host. "Do you want to know something? I have a funny feeling about my moustache. I've never told this to anyone, but ever since I grew this set of lip whiskers I've had a weird idea that I'm more — more aware! Do you know what I mean?"

Mountclemens nodded encouragingly. "It's something I wouldn't want to get around at the Press Club," Qwilleran said.

Mountclemens agreed. "I seem to see things more clearly," said the newsman. Mountclemens understood.

"Sometimes I seem to sense what's going to happen, and I turn up in the right place at the right time. It's uncanny."

"Kao K'o,Kung does the same thing." A deep grumble came from the top of the cabinet, and the cat stood up, arched his back in a taut stretch, yawned widely, and jumped to the floor with a grunt and velvety thud.

"Watch this," said the critic. "In three or four minutes the doorbell will ring, and it will be the newspaper delivery. Right now the newsboy is riding his bicycle two blocks away, but Kao K'o Kung knows he's on his way here."

The cat walked across the living room to the hall and waited at the top of the stairs. In a few minutes the door, bell rang.

Mountclemens said to Qwilleran, "Would you be good enough to pick up the newspaper downstairs? He likes to read it while the news is fresh. Meanwhile, I will toss the salad."

The cat waited on the top stair with a dignified display of interest while the newsman walked down to retrieve the paper that had been tossed on the front porch.

"Lay the paper on the floor," Mountclemens instructed him, "and Kao K'o Kung will read the headlines."

The cat followed this procedure closely. His nose twitched with anticipation. His whiskers moved up and down twice. Then he lowered his head to the screamer head, which was printed in two, inch type, and touched each letter with his nose, tracing the words: DEBBAN RELLIK DAM.

Qwilleran said, "Does he always read backwards?"

"He reads from right to left," Mountclemens said. "By the way, I hope you like Caesar salad."

It was a man's salad, zesty and full of crunch. Then came a bittersweet chocolate dessert with a velvet texture, and Qwilleran felt miraculously in harmony with a world in which art critics could cook like French chefs and cats could read.

Later they had small cups of Turkish coffee in the living room, and Mountclemens said, "How are you enjoying your new milieu?"

"I'm meeting some interesting personalities."

"The artists in this city have more personality than talent, I regret to say."

"This Cal Halapay is a hard one to figure out."

"He is a charlatan," said Mountclemens. "His paintings belong in advertisements for shampoo. His wife is decorative, if she keeps her mouth shut, but unfortunately she finds this an impossible feat. He also has a houseboy or prot‚g‚ — or whatever the charitable term may be — who has the insolence to want a retrospective exhibition of his life's work at the age of twenty-one. Have you met any other representatives of this city's remarkable art life?"

"Earl Lambreth. He seems to be —»

"There is a pathetic case. No talent whatever, but he hopes to reach the stars on his wife's apron strings. His one and only achievement has been to marry an artist. How he managed to win such an attractive woman is be, yond my imagination."

"She's good, looking, all right," Qwilleran agreed.

"And an excellent artist, although she needs to clean up her palette. She has done some studies of Kao K'o Kung, capturing all his mystery, magic, perversity, independence, playfulness, savagery, and loyalty — in one pair of eyes."

"I met Mrs. Lambreth at the Turp and Chisel last weekend: There was a party —»

"Are those aging adolescents still dressing up in fancy costumes?"

"It was a Valentine party. They all represented great lovers. First prize went to a woman sculptor called Butchy Bolton. You know her?"

"Yes," said the critic, "and good taste prevents me from making any comment whatever. I suppose Madame Duxbury was also there, dripping with sables and Gainsboroughs."

Qwilleran got out his pipe and took a long time lighting it. Then Kao K'o Kung walked into the room from the direction of the kitchen and performed his afterdinner ritual for all to admire. In studious concentration he darted his long pink tongue over his face. Next he licked his right paw well and used it to wash his right ear. Then he changed paws and repeated the identical process on the left: one pass over the whiskers, one pass over the cheekbone, twice over the eye, once over the brow, once over the ear, once over the back of the head.

Mountclemens said to Qwilleran, "You may feel complimented. When a cat washes up in front of you, he is admitting you into his world…. Where are you planning to live?"

"I want to find a furnished apartment as soon as possible — anything to get sprung from that plastic-coated hotel."

"I have a vacancy downstairs," said Mountclemens. "Small but adequate — and furnished rather well. It has a gas fireplace and some of my second-best Impressionists. The rent would be insignificant. My chief interest is to have the place occupied."

"Sounds good," said Qwilleran from the depths of his lounge chair, with memories of Caesar salad and lobster bisque still soothing him.

"I travel a great deal, viewing exhibitions and serving on art juries, and in this dubious neighborhood it is a good idea to have signs of life in the front apartment downstairs."

"I'd like to have a look at it." "Regardless of rumors that I am a monster," said Mountclemens in his most agreeable tone, "you will not find me a bad landlord. Everyone hates a critic, you know, and I imagine the gossips have described me as a sort of cultivated Beelzebub with artistic pretensions. I have few friends and, thankfully, no relatives, with the exception of a sister in Milwaukee who refuses to disown me. I am somewhat of a recluse."