The cat continues. “If Mr. Fitch comes peacefully, he will save himself a lot of trouble.”

“Not going to happen, cat!” Mr. Fitch says. Then he reaches one arm over his head and grabs the cat by the scruff of his neck.

“Look, kid,” Mr. Fitch says in a calmer voice. “Who you gonna believe—me, an upstanding citizen of Delta Three, or this ratty ball of fur who must have scored a free ride in your dad’s taxi to get here?”

He dangles the cat in front of him.

I step closer to get a better look. It really IS the same cat! So it wasn’t my petting him that made Mr. Fitch sneeze the whole ride. It was because the cat was actually hiding IN the car with us!

“Unhand me, you brute!” the cat hollers, waving his paws in the air, claws extended. “You are under arrest for trying to sell secret documents to B.U.R.P., one of the universe’s biggest criminal organizations.”

“I am merely here on business,” Mr. Fitch says. “Then this creature jumped on me. Now be a good boy and go tell your father I am ready to leave. And this little stowaway will be staying behind this time!”

The cat hisses.

I look from one to the other. How am I supposed to know who to believe? Mr. Fitch may be bossy, but that doesn’t mean he’s a criminal. And he’s a grown-up, while the cat, well, he’s a cat!

Mr. Fitch sneezes. He tightens his grip on the cat, who whimpers.

“What’s it gonna be, kid?” Mr. Fitch asks in a low voice.

The cat whimpers again.

Mr. Fitch snarls.

I may not know what’s really going on, but I know you shouldn’t hold a cat like that. “Quick!” I tell the cat. “He’s allergic to you! Ruffle your fur or something.”

The cat flails his arms and legs and shimmies his body until dander and fur fly in all directions. Mr. Fitch tries to hold his breath. His face gets redder and redder until he finally has to take a breath. Then he has a massive, snot-filled sneezing fit and loosens his grip, and the cat squirms away.

“This animal doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Mr. Fitch says, backing away from the cat and holding up his briefcase like a shield. Peering over the top and breathing hard, he says, “There’s nothing in here but boring business stuff.”

Before my eyes, the cat’s tail hinges open right at the green line. A laser light shoots out and zaps a hole in the briefcase! Okay, cats on Earth DEFINITELY can’t do that.

Mr. Fitch yelps and drops his briefcase. It crashes to the ground and springs open. Documents marked TOP SECRET: PROPERTY OF THE ISF spill out all over the ground.

“He planted those there!” Mr. Fitch yells, stomping on them. “That cat is setting me up!”

The cat stands up on his hind legs, unzips a pocket hidden behind a patch of gray fur, and pulls out an official badge. He holds it up so I can see his picture with the words INTERGALACTIC SECURITY FORCE OFFICER printed below it.

Mr. Fitch tries to kick at the badge. The cat twists out of the way before the heavy foot can connect with his paw. Mr. Fitch winds up losing his balance and crashes to the alley floor.

The cat points a paw straight at Mr. Fitch, and a silver rope shoots out from between two claws.

“Oomph!” Mr. Fitch says as the rope tightens around his wrists and ankles. Then he has another sneezing fit.

The cat runs over to me, stands on two legs, and shakes my hand.

At that moment my father rounds the corner of the alley. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene. Then he smiles and shakes his head. “You know, Archie, if you wanted to get a cat this badly, you could have just asked.”

We all laugh. Well, not Mr. Fitch.