"Something like that, I guess," Phil said without conviction.
Dr. Romadka leaned toward him, resting an elbow on the curving desk. "If you had any idea of half the things people tell me across this desk, normal neurotic people I mean, you wouldn't be so much impressed by your own experience. There's a woman, for instance, who keeps seeing shimmery moon-spiders in dark corners. There's a man who is always getting glimpses of a girl dressed in skin-tight mink that covers her face, too. And there's another fellow who keeps waking up in the middle of the night with the absolute conviction that he's in bed with—no, I shouldn't tell you that one."
"But I actually seemed to see it," Phil persisted stubbornly. "It wasn't just a glimpse or shadows."
Dr. Romadka smiled. "How many people have seen flying saucers, Phil? Including astronomers and atomic scientists. How many people have seen Russian soldiers or Russian homing missiles nosing around their bedroom windows? And how many people thought they saw Roosevelt—and thought they walked and talked with him—the day of the Great Panic in Atom War Two? Besides all that, Phil, there were shadows: you said the polarizing window wasn't at maximum transparency. Also, you've been overdosing yourself with sleeping pills—you admit it—and they can do funny things. As for the hoofs, well, have you ever thought how high heels are really cruel little hoofs? Anyone who's seen ladies fight will confirm this. And the girl's hair-do, her suit splotched like a piebald horse, the remembered sound of the tap-dancing—don't you see how your unconscious could weave those things and a thousand more into an image that in your strained condition you were all too ready to accept?"
"I guess I do," Phil said finally, feeling considerable relief. Not for long, though.
"But there's one other thing," he said, sitting up suddenly. "The thing I thought I saw this afternoon. A lot more real than the satyrette even. I thought I was with it for an hour. Even touched it and fed it."
"What other thing?" the analyst asked gently, with just the hint of a tolerant laugh.
"The green cat," Phil said.
When the analyst didn't answer, Phil looked around. Dr. Anton Romadka was simply staring at him. The four scratches and the dried trickles of blood on his left cheek stood out much more sharply, as if he had grown pale.
"I said the green cat," Phil said.