Cat's Pajamas Read Free Page B

position as a bohemian hippie bum, looking after Bobby and living off the respectable income Valerie makes running two SoHo art galleries.
    His name was Rupert Klieg, and he was among the dozen or so patients who made me realize I’d never be good with insane people. I found Rupert’s rants alternately unnerving and boring. They sounded like something you’d read in a cheesy special-interest zine for psychotics. Paranoid Confessions. True Hallucinations. Rupert was especially obsessed with an organization called the Asaph Hall Society, named for the self-taught scientist who discovered Phobos and Deimos. All three members of the Asaph Hall Society were amateur astronomers and certifiable lunatics who’d dedicated themselves to monitoring the imminent invasion of planet Earth by the bellicose denizens of the Martian moons. Before Rupert told me his absurd fantasy, I didn’t even realize that Mars had moons, nor did I care. But now I do, God knows.
    The last I heard, they’d put Rupert Klieg away in the Lionel Frye Psychiatric Institute, Ninth Avenue near 58th. Valerie says I’m wasting my time, but I believe in my bones that the fate of Manhattan lies with that particular schizophrenic.
    AUGUST 10
    This morning a massive infantry assault by the Phobosians drove the Deimosians south to Times Square. When I heard that the Frye Institute was caught in the crossfire, I naturally feared the worst for Rupert. When I actually made the trek to Ninth and 58th, however, I discovered that the disintegrator beams, devastating in most regards, had missed the lower third of the building. I didn’t see any Martians, but the whole neighborhood resounded with their tweets and twitters.
    The morning’s upheavals had left the Institute’s staff in a state of extreme distraction. I had no difficulty sneaking into the lobby, stealing a dry-cell lantern, and conducting a room-by-room hunt.
    Rupert was in the basement ward, Room 16. The door stood ajar. I entered. He lay abed, grasping a toy plastic telescope about ten centimeters long. I couldn’t decide whether his keepers had been kind or cruel to allow him this trinket. It was nice that the poor demented astronomer had a telescope, but what good did it do him in a room with no windows?
    His face had become thinner, his body more gaunt, but otherwise he was the fundamentally beatific madman I remembered. “Thank you for the lantern, Dr. Onslo,” he said as I approached. He swatted at a naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling like a miniature punching bag. “It’s been pretty gloomy around here.”
    â€œCall me Steve. I never finished my internship.”
    â€œI’m not surprised, Dr. Onslo. You were a lousy therapist.”
    â€œLet me tell you why I’ve come.”
    â€œI know why you’ve come, and as Chairperson of the Databank Committee of the Asaph Hall Society, I can tell you everything you want to know about Phobos and Deimos.”
    â€œI’m especially interested in learning how your organization knew an invasion was imminent.”
    The corners of Rupert’s mouth lifted in a grotesque smile. He opened the drawer in his nightstand, removed a crinkled sheet of paper, and deposited it in my hands. “Mass: 1.08e16 kilograms,” he said as I studied the fact sheet, which had a cherry cough drop stuck to one corner. “Diameter: 22.2 kilometers. Mean density: 2.0 grams per cubic centimeter. Mean distance from Mars: 9,380 kilometers. Rotational period: 0.31910 days. Mean orbital velocity: 2.14 kilometers per second. Orbital eccentricity: 0.01. Orbital inclination: 1.0 degrees. Escape velocity: 0.0103 kilometers per second. Visual geometric albedo: 0.06. In short, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Phobos—”
    â€œFascinating,” I said evenly.
    â€œAs opposed to Deimos. Mass: 1.8e15 kilograms. Diameter: 12.6 kilometers. Mean density: 1.7 grams per cubic centimeter. Mean distance