Felidae - Special U.S. Edition

of them, they booted them out; animals that starved in plain sight of well-nourished human beings; animals that were murdered brutally so that coats or handbags could be tailored from their fur; animals that were cooked alive by human beings who regarded this as the acme of culinary art; animals that collapsed under the burdens they had to carry day after day; animals who peered out of narrow cages at grimacing human faces their whole lives, or performed idiotic tricks foreign to their species; animals who became homosexual, raped, or were raped, masturbated compulsively, mutilated themselves, devoured their own children, murdered their own kind, became apathetic and depressed, and ultimately committed suicide because they sat in a prison with the romantic-sounding name of "zoo," a place where they were observed and observed and observed until they did these terrible things out of desperation; animals that woke up to find themselves robbed overnight of their natural environment because the human race needed more and more natural resources … Admittedly, there were those like Pascal who were privileged, who lived paradisiacal lives in conditions created by human beings. But this knowledge was small comfort to me in view of the global tragedy. The only thing that gave me courage was the illusory hope that human beings, some distant day in the future, would remember the dust-covered contract they had concluded with us in primeval times and then broke in the most ignominious manner. Then, at last, they would see the error of their ways and ask for our forgiveness. Naturally nothing would ever be as good as what could and should have been. Nevertheless we were willing to forgive, would accept, would not ask for indemnification for all the tears we had shed because of them. It was the dream of a fool, yet I wanted to continue to dream this dream until the end of my life, because I was firmly convinced that dreams, and only dreams, would be able to triumph over the sordid truth.

Pascal gradually stirred from his sleep. When he recognized me, his old eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"Francis! This is certainly a surprise. Why didn't you let Bluebeard tell me you were coming?"

"There wasn't any time for that. A great many important things have happened since the last time we met, Pascal. Things that are linked with the murders and that should speed up solving them. I need your help, particularly the help of your plaything."

"Oh? Well, I'm glad to hear this, of course. But wouldn't you like to have a bite to eat before you begin to tell me your story? Ziebold, my master, has prepared fresh heart."

"No thanks. I'm not hungry right now. Besides, I don't want to waste any time. I want to get everything I know taken care of as soon as possible. My unaided powers of deduction are no longer sufficient to disentangle this muddle of secrets, half-truths, and deceptions, and so we two superbrains are going to have to join forces. I really wanted to get over here this morning already, but something unexpected turned up."

Pascal smiled with amusement, probably able to tell by my smell what had in fact turned up.

"Thanks very much for the compliment of calling the decaying apparatus in my skull 'super.' But the only thing that is still super about me is my capacity for sleep, which is becoming more and more like death. There's a bright side, however, even to this. I probably won't notice the transition from the one kind of sleep to the other. But I do hope that I can help you a little anyway. So tell me all about it, my friend."

I rattled away like a machine gun, relating to him all the events that had taken place since our first encounter. How I had seen with my own eyes that Felicity had died, how I had returned home in shock and found the journal in the cellar that same night. What atrocities the journal had divulged, and what grave consequences they had had up to the present. Then the attack of Kong's army and how we had all stumbled upon Solitaire's corpse. How Jesaja, the good Guardian of the Dead, had popped up suddenly only to push open new doors disclosing new horrors. I told him about the so-called temple and its inhabitants who had been decorated with flowers, and to round off the story, about the mysterious Prophet who supposedly was responsible for the ongoing massacre. Then I set forth to him my numerous theories and assumptions, for the sake of fairness even taking care not to conceal their respective logical snags and contradictions. During my talk, Pascal's expression changed again and again: his face displayed dismay, surprise, and bafflement, and his agitation increased minute by minute. I concluded my talk by describing my sexual exploit that morning and its bewitching heroine as well as relating Bluebeard's views on the new race that had appeared in the neighborhood. Pascal's answer to this flood of information was a very long silence that seemed to last an eternity. It was a justifiable pause, for he had to think through all these unbelievable events before he could speak.

"Hmmm ..." came from him at last, and I was thankful to him for breaking the spell of the unsettling silence.

"I have been living in these parts for ages, Francis, and haven't even registered a fraction of all the terrible things you found out about in such an incredibly short time. I must confess that I'm a bit old now and no longer very quick on my legs, but your discoveries are so unbelievable that I simply should have known about their existence."

"Well, luck aided me more than once," I said, to play down his praise a little.

"That may be, but I'm the one who has the local reputation of being not only a know-it-all, but also a trustworthy confidant. Now, however, it turns out that in reality I'm only the former."

"What astonishes me," I