Cats Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut

Author:Kurt Vonnegut [Vonnegut, Kurt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-05-10T01:39:36+00:00

United States has asked me to be his personal representative at ceremonies tomorrow,

to cast a wreath, the gift of the American people to the people of San Lorenzo, on

the sea."

"The people of San Lorenzo thank you and your President and the generous

people of the United States of America for their thoughtfulness," said "Papa." "We

would be honored if you would cast the wreath into the sea during the engagement

party tomorrow."

"The honor is mine."

"Papa" commanded us all to honor him with our presence at the wreath

ceremony and engagement party next day. We were to appear at his palace at noon.

"What children these two will have!" "Papa" said, inviting us to stare at

Frank and Mona. "What blood! What beauty!"

The pain hit him again.

He again closed his eyes to huddle himself around that pain.

He waited for it to pass, but it did not pass.

Still in agony, he turned away from us, faced the crowd and the microphone.

He tried to gesture at the crowd, failed. He tried to say something to the crowd,

failed.

And then the words came out. "Go home," he cried strangling. "Go home!"

The crowd scattered like leaves.

"Papa" faced us again, still grotesque in pain. . . .

And then he collapsed.

The Strongest Thing There Is 66

He wasn't dead.

But he certainly looked dead; except that now and then, in the midst of all

that seeming death, he would give a shivering twitch.

Page 54

Vonnegut, Kurt - Cats Cradle v1.0

Frank protested loudly that "Papa" wasn't dead, that he _couldn't_ be dead.

He was frantic. "'Papa'! You can't die! You can't!"

Frank loosened "Papa's" collar and blouse, rubbed his wrists. "Give him air!

Give 'Papa' air!"

The fighter-plane pilots came running over to help us. One had sense enough

to go for the airport ambulance.

The band and the color guard, which had received no orders, remained at

quivering attention.

I looked for Mona, found that she was still serene and had withdrawn to the

rail of the reviewing stand. Death, if there was going to be death, did not alarm

her.

Standing next to her was a pilot. He was not looking at her, but he had a

perspiring radiance that I attributed to his being so near to her.

"Papa" now regained something like consciousness. With a hand that flapped

like a captured bird, he pointed at Frank. "You . . ." he said.

We all fell silent, in order to hear his words.

His lips moved, but we could hear nothing but bubbling sounds.

Somebody had what looked like a wonderful idea then--what looks like a

hideous idea in retrospect. Someone--a pilot, I think--took the microphone from its

mount and held it by "Papa's" bubbling lips in order to amplify his words.

So death rattles and all sorts of spastic yodels bounced off the new

buildings.

And then came words.

"You," he said to Frank hoarsely, "you--Franklin Hoenikker--you will be the

next President of San Lorenzo. Science--you have science. Science is the strongest

thing there is.

"Science," said "Papa." "Ice." He rolled his yellow eyes, and he passed out

again.

I looked at Mona.

Her expression was unchanged.

The pilot next to her, however, had his features composed in the catatonic,

orgiastic rigidity of one receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor.

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