Catopolis. Part 17

Sophocles thought about this. Something about the plan nagged at him. In some way it didn't feel quite right, but all the pieces were there. It could work.

"It's a decent idea," he conceded. "But how will we let them know? Do you have their phone numbers?"

Mr. Snuggles laughed.

"We don't need to call them. Remember how I said the internet can connect people together?"

Not waiting for an answer Mr. Snuggles tapped the keyboard a few more times. The screen changed, revealing a page with a series of dated entries t.i.tled "Mr. Snugg's Place." Sophocles narrowed his eyes and stared at the screen.

"What is it?"

"It's my blog. We're going to take Ehgleman's Newsstand into the blogosphere!"

Sophocles stared at Mr. Snuggles.

"You do realize that I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about," he said.

Mr. Snuggles sighed. "A blog is sort of like an online diary. You post entries and can talk about anything that interests you."

"I'm not seeing the point."

"Other people can read the blog and post their own comments, and if they like what you wrote and have a blog of their own, they can connect their blog to your story."

"A web of sorts, I see. But why would anyone want to read the ramblings of a rank amateur? No offense, of course."

"Well, first, they aren't all amateurs. Authors, politicians, all sorts of people have blogs. What's more, and I think you'll be especially interested in this, bloggers have started breaking news stories the major outlets didn't even know about. With a blog, anyone can be a reporter."

Sophocles mulled it over. It was like the small press papers they carried on the big circular rack back at Ehgleman's, the papers published in garages and old warehouses by the members of fringe groups or fans of esoteric topics. Still, Sophocles had his doubts.

"This is all well and good, but how will anyone find what you've written? I mean just because you publish an article doesn't mean anyone will read it."

"Fortunately, I've got that covered," Mr. Snuggles said.

Again, he tapped away furiously, alternating between the keys and the smooth plastic square. A moment later, a list, of what Sophocles a.s.sumed were blogs, appeared on the screen.

"These are the blogs of other cats, all friends of mine."

"What? You mean there are more cats writing blogs?"

"Oh, yeah, hundreds, thousands maybe. Who knows? On the internet everyone is anonymous. Almost anything you find there could have been created by a cat."

Sophocles looked at the computer, dumbfounded. He felt as if someone had taken his entire world, turned it inside out, and handed it back to him.

"So all I have to do," said Mr. Snuggles, "is email the other cats and let them know what I'm trying to accomplish. They'll link to the story and we'll start building momentum. We help each other out like this all the time."

He turned to Sophocles.

"Now what I need from you is help writing this story. If anyone who knows how to write news, Sophocles, it's you. We'll save your newsstand yet!"

Sophocles just stared at the screen, taking in the dozens of names in the list.

"I need a computer," he said.

Over the next few weeks, Mr. Snuggles kept Sophocles posted about the progress on their campaign. It wasn't necessary. Within a few days of the blogs. .h.i.tting the web, strange new people started filtering in to the newsstand.

Some were young people with little handheld computers, like the device the man outside the window had used.

"Oh, my G.o.d," they would gasp. "Can you believe this place? This is awesome. It's like something out of a movie!"

Others were older, hair steely colored, wearing sensible shoes and worn sweaters.

"My father and I used to come to a newsstand just like this when I was a boy," they'd say. "He'd buy a Times, some pipe tobacco, and, if I was good, a comic book for me."

And more than one of them came in with cats held in their arms or in special travel totes they opened when they were inside the door. As their owners explored the store, the cats came over to talk to Sophocles.

"We think it's really great what you're doing here," they told him. "The humans don't always appreciate their history, so it's up to us to preserve it."

Sophocles simply nodded, unsure what to say and unused to so much company after years of living alone in the newsstand with Herbert.

The most important change, however, was that people bought things again: newspapers, cigarettes, maps of the city, penny candy, comic books, magazines. The little bell of the cash register rang over and over, a wonderful music to the swirling dance of life the newsstand had become.

After visiting Ehgleman's, many people drifted next door to the diner, an old greasy spoon in as much trouble financially as the newsstand had been. The boost in customers helped it as well. At one point, the diner's owner, an older woman with a long nose who always smelled of bacon grease, came in to talk to Herbert. The two of them marveled at their unexpected success, wondering at what had changed.

Beaming at their good fortune, they laughed and chatted, eventually becoming good friends and spending many of their evenings together. All the while, Sophocles sat comfortably on his cus.h.i.+on in the window, filled with warm feelings. He and Mr. Snuggles had not only saved the newsstand and the diner, but in the process they had brought some extra happiness into Herbert's and Long Nose Lady's lives.

At one point, Herbert felt that with some of his profits he ought to remodel. Mr. Snuggles nearly panicked, and he made it very clear to Sophocles that remodeling was out of the question. People didn't want a s.h.i.+ny new newsstand. They wanted cla.s.sic urban grime. It took a fair amount of effort, but Sophocles managed to erase messages from the contractor, lose paperwork, and otherwise interfere with the process. Finally, Herbert gave up on the idea as more trouble than it was worth.

The high point for Sophocles came when the city's major paper ran a story in the Lifestyles section about Ehgleman's, outlining its history and proclaiming it one of the city's "pulp gems of a disappearing cla.s.sic urban landscape." Sophocles was even featured in one of the photos. The most satisfying part for Sophocles, however, was that he got to read it right there in the paper, in strong black ink on yellow-white newsprint.

Sophocles did get a computer. A few carefully placed technology articles caught Herbert's attention and put the idea into his head to buy one. Herbert used it twice and promptly gave up on it. At night, while Herbert was at home, Sophocles learned its arcane secrets. After a month of effort, he proudly opened "Sopho's Stories," a blog about the news and newspapers where he wrote short essays about the state of journalism and the news media in the modern world.

And yet, despite the now solid financial position of the newsstand, something still bothered Sophocles. For a long time it nagged at him, often in the depths of the night, just out of reach and tickling the back of his mind. Then one evening, while Mr. Snuggles was visiting, it came to him.

They were sitting together on the desk behind the counter, going over Sophocles' latest story on the computer.

"I think I finally figured it out," Sophocles said.

"What's that?"

"That thing. The thing that's bothered me from the beginning."

Mr. Snuggles maneuvered the mouse to click the back b.u.t.ton on the computer. The home page for "Sopho's Stories" came up on the screen.

"I'll bite. What is it?"

"We saved the store, and that's important, but we saved it by turning it into a novelty."

"And is that so bad? I mean, isn't saving the store enough? Wasn't that what you wanted?"

"No," Sophocles said, lowering his head. "What I wanted, what I truly wanted, was for things to be the same as they were. I wanted people to care about those little black words on the page. I wanted them to pick up that newspaper, to feel the newsprint, smell the ink, and know that they held the world in their hands, the combined knowledge of sharp, creative minds, working together to bring the truth to the people.

"But I know the truth, now. We saved the newsstand, but we can't save the magic those little black printed words represent. We can't save newspapers."

Mr. Snuggles sat back on his haunches and gave a little chuckle. Sophocles whipped his head around and glared at him.

"Why do you do that? Why do you always laugh at me when I'm feeling the worst?"

Mr. Snuggles shook his head and said, "Sopho, my friend, you are one of the smartest, wisest creatures I know, and yet sometimes you remain blind to the most obvious things."

"What are you talking about?"

Mr. Snuggles scrolled to the bottom of the "Sopho's Stories" page and clicked on a blue link labeled "web stats." A series of bar graphs appeared on the screen.

"According to this," Mr. Snuggles said, "around 10,000 people, or cats maybe, you can't tell, have read your last article over the past two days. That's 10,000 people whose lives you've touched, people whom you've opened doors for, and with whom you've shared wisdom and understanding they might never have discovered on their own."

Sophocles glared. "I'm well aware of the stats, and while I'm pleased people are interested, I don't see your point."

"Sophocles, it isn't the paper that holds the magic. It's the words. It's words that give the paper the magic you love, words that saved your store, and words that will preserve that magic for those who come after us."

Mr. Snuggles rose and padded over to a newspaper setting next to the computer. He swiped at it with his paw, rustling the pages.

"Without the words, this paper is nothing but a piece of flattened tree. It doesn't matter whether the words are printed on paper, appear on a computer screen, or, I don't know, get zapped straight into your head. It is, and always will be, the words that hold the magic.

"What you love isn't dying, Sophocles. Just the trees those words get printed on."

Sophocles never forgot their conversation. Through joyous occasions, like the birth of Mr. Snuggles' and Evette's kittens the next year, and sad, as when Herbert pa.s.sed on two years later, that simple conversation stayed with Sophocles and gave him hope.

It was three years after Herbert pa.s.sed away that Sophocles died. He was 21 by then, and Herbert's son, who had taken over the shop, found Sophocles curled up on his cus.h.i.+on in the picture window, seeming for all the world like he was sleeping.

Mr. Snuggles realized something was wrong when there was nothing new posted on Sopho's Stories that next evening. Others noticed as well, and soon emails and comments were blooming throughout the internet, as admirers of the journalism blog wondered what had happened.

When a second night came with no new posts, Mr. Snuggles knew. He raced over to the newsstand, hurrying down the alley, fearing the worst. When he arrived, the bathroom window was closed, so he crept around to the front of the store.

A little light sat in the front window. It hadn't been there before, and it shone on Sophocles' cus.h.i.+on. Where the old cat should have been sleeping, there was a framed picture of him in his youth, serious and sitting atop a stack of newspapers. The London Times, Mr. Snuggles noticed. Beside the picture lay a handwritten note.

"Goodbye, old friend. Take good care of Dad."

Mr. Snuggles posted the news on "Mr. Snugg's Place" as soon as he returned home. The word traveled quickly, and within hours a memorial to Sophocles the blogger appeared on a popular social networking site. A few humans tried to puzzle out the mystery of who the respected news commentator called Sophocles was, but every lead came up short.

Cats, of course, knew.

It wasn't until three days later that Mr. Snuggles found it. He'd missed the message at first-it had been eaten by his voracious spam filter. It was a single email from , with the subject "To My Friend." The date and time stamp showed that it had reached his mailbox at 3:00 AM on the day that Sophocles had pa.s.sed on.

For awhile, Mr. Snuggles just stared at it, unsure if he even wanted to read it. Finally, he worked up the courage to open it, and inside he found two simple, magic words.

"Thank you"

BURNING BRIGHT.

by Elaine Cunningham.

Mhari had seen smallcats before but seldom in the wild-if indeed the city's streets and rooftops and small scattered gardens could be so named. Other than the yellow tom the Woman had thoughtfully provided to relieve Mhari of the heat and madness of her first season, she had seen none close at hand. Yet here were three of them-small, short-legged creatures, with tails too long and heads too large for their barrel-shaped bodies-staring fixedly at her from their perches in the talltree just outside Mhari's home habitat.

The nearest one-a gray-striped tom-thrust his nose close to the strong wire mesh. His whiskers twitched as he tasted her scent. "What are you?" he asked bluntly.

That was rude by Mhari's standards, but she knew little of the ways of smallcats. She rose and padded across her climbing gym's top platform to close the distance between them. "I am a Serval cat," she said politely, turning in profile so they could see the distinctive black bars running the length of her graceful neck, the neat black spots that marked the rest of her long, tawny body. "Daughter of Jahared, a freeborn Serval, out of Ahmriel. I am of Ahmriel's third litter, and I bear Papers, a thing the humans seem to value. My name is Mhari. And you?"

If the tom heard her question, he gave no sign. He glanced toward a gray female. "Told you so. African wild cat. Not much of a runner, but agile. Likes to swim."

The third and largest of Mhari's visitors switched his plumed tail in annoyance. He was rather grand, as his kind went, with long black fur that made him look plump and complacent. The white on his face and throat and belly made him resemble the Man who gave Mhari's Woman sparkling gifts and sometimes took her away for the evening. For that reason alone, Mhari was inclined to dislike him.

"Please forgive Frank's abrupt manner of speaking," the tuxedo-clad tom said in a surprisingly cordial tone. "It is his way; he means no offense. I am called Smithwicks, and this is Minx."

"Frank and I tend to take our names seriously," observed the gray queen archly, lifting her hindquarters in a suggestive manner.

Mhari had seen minks before and could perceive no reason for the smallcat's boast. She turned to the dapper tom. "To what do I owe this visit? It must be a matter of some importance to bring three of you to this part of the city."

"Maybe I live around here," Minx said defensively. "Since you're not a male, maybe you just didn't notice me. And, hey-like the saying goes, all cats are gray in the dark."

The Serval did not point out the obvious fallacy in this saying, nor did she observe that the smallcats in this neighborhood, with its fine old trees and walled gardens, were elegant creatures who wore jeweled collars and were seldom seen in the company of common tomcats.

Smithwicks gave the gray female a quelling stare. "It is... complicated. A matter of some delicacy, one requiring expertise we hope you might possess-"

"We need you to go to the zoo and talk to a tiger," Frank broke in.

A frisson of alarm rippled done Mhari's spine. She knew that word, zoo. One of the freeborn Serval on the Arizona ranch, her birthplace, had been kept in a zoo for a time following his capture. He claimed the cats were kept in cages of metal and gla.s.s, larger perhaps than the elegant habitat Mhari's Woman provided for her but without the privacy Mhari enjoyed. Humans pa.s.sed by endlessly, noisy crowds of them, chattering and staring-but never a human a Serval could call her own.

Mhari had no use for humans in general, but she and her Woman shared a bond. There were pleasant evenings at home together, a jeweled leash and harness so that they might take lovely strolls, warm afternoons spent swimming and diving in Mhari's stone-lined pool, car rides, weekend trips to a woodland cottage or a seaside house. The Woman talked to her in English and Italian, and Mhari responded in Domestic and Serval. The Woman was highly intelligent; at times, she almost seemed to grasp Mhari's responses. What Mhari had was not freedom, not exactly, but it was not an unpleasant life.

In the zoo, there was only captivity.

"The greatcats can't talk to you?" she said hesitantly.

"Can't or won't," said Frank. "It's much the same thing."

Smithwick narrowed his eyes at the striped tom. "In brief, here is the problem: we cats have been tracking a human, a killer."

This puzzled Mhari. Humans were predators and could not be faulted for following their nature. Still, there were ways and ways. She often sprawled on the white settee beside the Woman, listening to the talking box. The Woman was fond of something called Law and Order. It was a wonder to Mhari that humans survived at all, so endlessly and inventively did they kill one another.

"The humans police their own, do they not?"

"Not if they're just killing cats," Minx said spitefully, "unless, of course, the cat has Papers. Or unless we cats make them care." She met Mhari's eyes with a challenging stare. "But you wouldn't know about that, would you? I mean, your daddy being 'freeborn' and all..."

"That will do, Minx," Smithwicks snapped. "We followed this human as far as the zoo and saw him throw a gun into the moat by the tiger habitat. Perhaps the tiger will have noticed something about the man that may help us find him. If not, Frank's human is a police detective; he can discover what human handled the gun. Again, your expertise is required-we need you to retrieve it from the moat."