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“Listen,” said Kingman, licking his lips and glancing left and right. “This Soul Science business. How much longer is this gonna be? Cause I gotta tell you I’m sick and tired of the whole thing.”

“Um…” I said, slightly taken aback. Usually it’s we who consult Kingman about such matters, and now that the roles were suddenly reversed, it took me a little while to adjust to my new position.

“Listen,” Kingman said eagerly. “Ask Harriet. I mean, she’s got the inside track, right? She’s one of Sharif’s top cats, am I right? So she knows what’s what.”

“Yeah, I guess Harriet is pretty involved,” I agreed. “But frankly we’re not exactly on speaking terms right now.”

“Harriet doesn’t think Max has enough soul,” Dooley said. “And she doesn’t like it that he’s so fond of his dross.”

“Eh?” said Kingman, mystified. He turned to me for an explanation, so I decided to give him one.

“Harriet feels I’m not spiritual enough,” I said. “Too materialistic. I like my kibble and my naps and my creature comforts and she feels I should pay more attention to my soul.”

“Who cares about your soul!” Kingman cried. “Can you eat a soul? No, you can’t! So why should I care about a frickin’ soul! Look, this has all gone way too far. Do you know that Shanille disbanded cat choir? She feels that spending time singing is not conducive to our spiritual growth, and instead we should all spend more time at Soul Science. Can you believe it?”

I said I could. Shanille appeared to have been infested with the Soul Science bug as badly as Harriet, or even more. Frankly I wondered what Father Reilly had to say about this, as his cat had effectively joined the competition. Then again, since Father Reilly couldn’t talk to his cat the way Odelia could, he probably had no idea what she was up to.

“Look, we gotta fight back, you guys,” said Kingman. “And it’s not just me who’s saying this. Plenty of cats have come up to me this morning telling me the exact same thing. They want this nonsense to stop, and life to go back to normal.”

“I’m sure that in due course life will go back to normal,” I said. “This is just a whim, Kingman. Before long the fascination will wear off and Shanille will open cat choir for business once more.”

“I don’t buy that,” said Kingman, shaking his head. “I wish I could but I don’t. No, sir. I think we need to take steps through the proper channels to make this thing go away.”

“What do you suggest?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“I think we need to start a competing cult. One that’s focused on the stuff that really makes us happy: a nice meal, cat choir, the company of friends.” His eyes wandered to a couple of pretty felines passing by. They were giggling and batting their eyelashes. “The company of friends,” herepeated, then shook himself. “Well, that’s what I think.”

“And who do you suggest will lead this competing cult?” I asked, intrigued.

In response he directed a pointed look at his own human, Wilbur Vickery, who sat behind his checkout counter, languidly ringing up groceries for one of his customers.

Wilbur Vickery is one of those people who look like a fossil, in that they appear to have died quite some time ago, but through some medical miracle are still walking among us. He is gaunt and stooped, with raggedy white facial hair, but his rheumy eyes still shine with a holy fire—the fire to fleece his customers for all they are worth.

“You want Wilbur to start a new cult?” I asked.

“Sure, why not? People like Wilbur. They respect him. They listen to him.”

I doubted that.“But Wilbur is… old.”

Kingman cocked a whisker.“Careful, Max. That’s ageism. You gotta watch out for that kind of thing.”

“That’ll be thirty-nine ninety-nine,” said Wilbur in his croaky voice.

The customer rooted through her purse, then said, annoyedly,“Oh, shoot. Looks like I left my wallet at home. Can I pay you tomorrow?”

“Read the sign, lady!” Wilbur said, pointing a crooked finger at a sign behind him that read, ‘No Credit, No Way.’

‘But—”

“Read the sign!”

“He sure is a people person,” I said, though I very much doubted whether a cult founded by Wilbur would draw a large crowd.

Suddenly another customer burst into the store, a harried look on his face. It was none other than Father Reilly, who manages the local branch of the Catholic Church.

“Can I leave these with you, Wilbur?” he asked, and unearthed a stack of flyers from a canvas shoulder bag.

“What’s this?” asked Wilbur, none too friendly.

“Something I wrote last night,” said Father Reilly.

“’Stop worshiping false gods,’” Wilbur read. “’Stop Soul Science before it’s too late.’”

“We have to take action, Wilbur,” said Father Reilly. “These people are taking over our town, brainwashing the good citizens of Hampton Cove. They have to be stopped now.”

“I hear Vesta Muffin is one of ‘em,” said Wilbur, as he plucked his ratty white beard. I could see that the businessman in him was weighing his options: Vesta was a regular customer, and if he started boycotting Soul Science, she might start boycotting him.