Angleton turns back to his Memex. “Get out of here, boy, I’ve got a job to do. Call me if you need my help, but not until you’re in over your head.”

I stand up. “Be like that!” I vent. The Eater of Souls doesn’t dignify my tantrum with his attention. I leave.

• • •

IT IS ONLY AS I PUT MY HAND ON MY OFFICE DOOR’S HANDLE that I realize I’ve forgotten something, and I’m too late to cancel the arm movement that pushes down and shoves the door partway open before I complete it.

Someone—presumably Trish—has installed feline conveniences.

There is an object on the floor that resembles an animal carrier at first, except it’s got a plastic swing-door on the front. After a moment I realize it’s a covered litter tray. There are a couple of plastic bowls at the other side of the room, one containing water and the other half-full with dry brown kibble. It looks like breakfast cereal but smells revolting. Or maybe (a horrible thought) the smell’s coming from the litter tray. I head for my desk and see a receipt on my computer keyboard as I sit down—

“WAAAOW!”

An air raid siren goes off under my arse. I jackknife forward, and a bolt of black furry lightning hurtles out from under me and lands in the corner by the door, its back arched and tail fluffed out like a bog-brush. It gives me the evil eye as I hyperventilate, then slowly lower myself back down onto my chair seat.

“That’s all right, pay no attention to me, just make yourself at home,” I tell the self-propelled whoopee cushion, then audit the itemized receipt with a sinking heart. Judging from the bottom line, cats fall somewhere between a new Porsche and a used Lamborghini in running costs, and I’ve got a nasty suspicion that I’m not going to be able to expense this claim. I mean, I might be able to concoct an experimental protocol that involves hosting one all-black specimen of Felis catus in the lap of luxury before sacrificing it on a summoning grid—but I suspect that would annoy Trish, and one should always avoid pissing off the departmental secretary.

The potential sacrifice-to-be stares at me mistrustfully, then sits down and begins to wash its left hind leg, which it stretches out in front of it. I examine it from a safe distance. It’s a generic short-haired black cat, slightly tattered about the edges and a bit skinny. There’s a kink in its tail as if it was broken once. Gradually the blob of darkness works its tongue into the gaps between its claws, and I realize there’s something odd about its paw. Cats don’t have opposable thumbs, do they? Unless there’s some medical condition . . .