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but, no; there’s none o’what you call common sense at home. Trouble is, while there’s some of us who’d partake of a little civil disobedience, there’s others of us who want the cats gone, and agree with Mr. Talbot about how they’re a nuisance and a sanitation issue, though we take care of ’em proper, and all of ’em have their shots and their records and we get ’em fixed soon’s it’s safe.”
    She shrugged, and jerked her head at me.
    “You wanna see ’em? C’mon with me.”
    I looked at Borgan.
    “You and Frenchy go on,” he said. “I’ll just sit over there by the operator’s shack and take the parking toll, if anybody comes in.”
    “Might be one or two yet,” Frenchy said, glancing at the sky. “’Preciate it. We won’t leave you long.”
    * * *
    Frenchy’s pace was strong, but not fast; it was easy to keep up with her while we walked toward what was left of the old Dummy Railroad terminal.
    “Been talkin’ to the cats, naturally,” she said. “Most want to stay—well, sure they do; the Camp’s their home. Some have relatives in Ocean Park . . . Saco . . . down to your own Beach, and they’re receptive to the idea of moving where they’re more welcome. So, there could be a compromise made. Trouble is, Mr. Talbot’s not a man to stint his principles—makes compromise a mite difficult. Joe and Walter—fishing men, they are—might be making some headway in educating him about the rats and the mice and suchlike vermin they might not have down Away in Phillydelfa.”
    “I think they have rats in Philadelphia,” I said, stepping over a length of old rail. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”
    “Did seem to make sense that there would be, it being a seaport.”
    She slanted a glance rich with mischief toward me. I raised an eyebrow, and she added, entirely straight-faced, “So I’m told.”
    “That’s pretty good,” I said.
    “All’s it wants is practice. Right ’round on the landside’s where it’s open. Got some protection from the sea winds, and privacy for their comin’ and goin’.”
    We came around the shed, and paused just short of entering. I sniffed, smelling fur and cedar and brine. It was dim, and I half-reached for the land, remembered my manners at the last second, and brought my hand up, palm cupped.
    The power coiled at the base of my spine wakened briefly, and a globe of light formed on my waiting palm, illuminating the murky inside with a soft yellow glow.
    “Nice trick,” Frenchy said.
    “Thanks. I’d hate to have to tell you how long it took me to learn it.”
    Inside the shed, green and amber eyes caught the light and reflected it back to me. I could make out maybe ten cats on various levels created by beams, corner shelves, and platforms—somebody had been busy making sure the place was habitable; on the floor were bowls of dry food and other bowls, full of water.
    “Is this all of them?” I asked.
    “ All runs to twenty-three,” Frenchy said. “Not everybody uses the place; they’ll kind of shift in and out as it pleases ’em. They’re cats , after all. No time cards or sign-out sheets for them.”
    “They’re feral?”
    “Some are—there’s about eight, nine that don’t tolerate people, and barely tolerate other cats. You’ll maybe catch sight of their shadows somewhere out on the town, or down the dock. The rest are pretty mellow; they’ve got no fear of human people—no respect, either,” she added, and it seemed like she was making a point to one of the cats inside the shed. “Four of ’em like people, fools that they are. Can prolly place them through the animal shelter, but that still leaves a nineteen-cat problem.” She moved a bony shoulder in a half shrug. “Back o’the envelope, call it a fifteen-cat problem, taken as a given that those with connections elsewhere’ll move on.”
    I nodded while I considered the cats inside the shed and they considered me. They were gray cats, mostly, some showing white feet or