He looked around. This room was individualistically decorated, she must have done it herself, in reds and blues and a couple of delicate Chinese paintings. Her books ran toward poetry, drama, and art; but one shelf held the popular works of Gamow, Russell, Ley, and company. There was a medium-fi and a lot of good records.
Taffimai Metallumai levitated up onto his lap, gave him a sleepy turquoise look, and ordered him to scratch her beneath the chin. She was pure hard muscle under the virginal fur; she must weigh twice as much as any peasant cat her size.
Kintyre took his attention from the corner where a small worktable held an unfinished papier-maché mask. Corinna was coming back in. "That was quick," he said, rising.
"Oh, don't! You're catted! Oh, dear!"
He looked at his gashed thumb. Tipsy told him in a few well chosen words that he had no business upsetting her without warning.
Corinna's eyes were green distress. "People never do believe my warning," she said, "and then Snow Leopard j.g. makes a lunch off them and—Can I tell you how sorry I am?"
"Occupational hazard if you like cats," Kintyre answered. "And I do. We might put on some stickum, just for appearances."
She regarded him closely. "I believe you mean that," she said. "Thank you." She led him to the bathroom. The route gave him a glimpse of her kitchen and a crammed shelf of herbs and spices.
"Instead of going out," he said as he repaired the damage, "I could probably get a better dinner here."
"Why, I hadn't prepared anything, but—"