Larry Niven’s Man-Kzin Wars - XII

by Larry Niven

  “So he brought the hemp with him?” Telepath remarked.

  “No, Wunderlanders have grown it for cheap cordage for a long time,” Gay said. “It’s pretty strong, for a natural fiber. And it makes wonderful toys.” She looked at Richard suddenly.

  “Shebee,” he agreed, not catching on yet. Gay stood and started to examine the dispenser settings. Telepath began chuckling. “What have I missed?” Richard said, and got it. “Oh.” Then he began laughing too.

  “This may just get us into the control room,” she said, and tapped switches.

  After the dispenser had worked for a minute or so, Telepath said, “First Engineer is sneaking up the corridor outside.”

  “Do tell,” said Gay. She stopped the dispenser, took out what it had made so far, and handed it to Richard before restarting. “Care to do the honors?”

  “Sure.” Richard unlocked, opened the door manually, tossed out the fist-sized fuzzy ball of twine, and sealed the door again.

  They waited.

  Shortly there was a thump from the wall.

  It was followed, after a pause, by several more in quick succession. An intermittent series of further thumps moved off down the corridor over the next couple of minutes. All three listeners kept as quiet as possible. At one point Gay shifted her head as if to speak, but Telepath softly placed a fingertip against her lips. Then he took it away, gave her a sidelong look, and, while Gay tried desperately to keep her helpless laughter silent, wiped his perfectly dry finger repeatedly on his fur.

  By and by Telepath said, “He’s out of earshot.”

  “What was that about?” Richard said, pointing at Telepath’s hand.

  Gay was still shaking, and made as if to grab something with her mouth. Telepath said, “She had a sudden urge to nibble on my finger. I believe the term is contact high. I think I had better block you two out for the duration; there appears to be feedback.”

  Richard finally figured out something that had been bothering him on a subliminal level, and found he couldn’t think of a courteous way to bring it up: Telepath was talking a lot more clearly.

  “I’m less self-conscious,” Telepath said. “And I can detect the way you use your own vocal apparatus. I think perhaps sthondat lymph may not be an amplifier at all, but a tranquilizer—my mind is wandering. We will need Slaverexpert.”

  “We will?” Richard said.

  “I cannot fly a ship.”

  “He can?” said Richard, just as Gay said, “Can’t you read the others?”

  “He can. I can read the others readily, if all I want to do is chase my tuft. First Engineer is currently the most rational of them.”

  “Oh great,” Richard said. “Telepath, Slaverexpert must have gotten the biggest dose of all!”

  “He can control his biological responses.”

  “I thought you couldn’t read his mind.”

  “I can’t. But nobody will duel with him.”

  That was indicative, all right. Modern kzinti wouldn’t fight unless they had a chance of winning. “Okay, how do we get to him?”

  “We need to isolate the others. Charrgh-Captain first, so I only have to change the security codes once.” Telepath stopped talking, and suddenly his ears waggled as he turned to look at Gay. “I think that could work,” he said.

  The procession started with a short figure in a pressure suit, followed by a larger figure in a similar suit, followed by a smallish kzin whose tail was generously decorated with silver ribbons tied into bows. A bell was tied to the tuft. In one hand the lead figure carried an object like a drumhead, with miniature cymbals set into the rim. This was shaken continuously except when it was struck with the other hand.

  The procession set out from the observers’ quarters. Progress was slow, as there were evidently rules concerning the length and rhythm of the paces taken: They were short, and often a step or two went backward. A good deal of noisemaking was clearly required as well. No fewer than five kzinti gave the group immediate and undivided attention on the trip to the bridge. Fourth Trooper seemed to consider joining in as they passed, but was distracted by a fragment falling off his chunk of vegetable.

  Telepath buzzed for entrance, and they paraded in a little circle while awaiting a reply. It was not prompt. “I do not believe we’re going through a shipful of Heroes in a conga line,” Richard said over the suit radio.

  “Then where do you believe you are?” Telepath said interestedly.

  Ignoring Gay’s sudden laughter, Richard mused, “I suppose I could be in a tank with that ARM general doing synthetic-perception experiments on me.”

  Gay said, still laughing, “Why would the ARM do that?”

  “Why not?”

  The hatch opened before Gay could think of a reply, and she banged her tambourine and marched through.

  They stopped performing once the hatch was shut again, but Charrgh-Captain looked at them for a long time before speaking. Finally he said, “Why were you doing that?”

  “To avoid attention, sir,” Richard said through the suit speaker.

  One of the advantages of dealing with almost anyone of any intelligent species is that when you say something that makes no sense to him, he comes up with his own explanation. As expected, Charrgh-Captain thought this over, gave a brief snort of what he supposed to be comprehension, and said, “What do you want? I’m very busy.”

  This was manifestly true. Charrgh-Captain had apparently been alone on the bridge. That is, there did not appear to be room for another kzin underneath the incredible quantity of shredded packing foam covering every available surface there, said surfaces including the top of the kzin’s head.

  “Noble Sir,” Telepath said, “we came seeking your wisdom to counsel us in a matter of grave importance to the security of this vessel and success of the mission.”

  Charrgh-Captain’s manner underwent a shift, and he said formally, “What is the trouble?”

  “What is the proper procedure for addressing a very superior officer said to be severely intoxicated?” Telepath asked humbly.

  Charrgh-Captain thought for a moment. Then he suddenly bristled all over and roared at an astonishing volume, “Who says I’m drunk?”

  “He went in there,” Gay said quickly, pointing to the Captain’s Battle Quarters.

  The senior kzin’s scream was not translatable. He leapt through the hatchway without touching sides or deck, and Telepath hit the wall next to it an instant later and tapped out a security override on the keypad. “Nine to go,” he said.

  “I cannot begin to imagine what he’s going to say about this,” Richard said.

  “I can hear him. Would you like me to tell you?” said Telepath.

  “No,” Richard and Gay said in unison.

  The next target was supposed to be Weapons Officer, but Fourth Trooper wasn’t far from the bridge when they came out, so they formed up again and circled him until he joined in. They congaed down to his quarters, went in, Richard said, “Oops!” and dropped a ball of twine, and the three of them congaed back out and sealed the door.

  Weapons Officer was in his quarters already, inspecting the dispenser. Telepath reported, “He’s checking the tattoo settings.”

  “Fine,” said Gay. “Lock up.”

  “I feel I should interrupt him. He’s not so bad as some.”

  “If he wants a tattoo that’s his decision,” Richard said.

  “He’s looking at pictures of butterflies,” Telepath said.

  The two humans thought about what life would be like for a kzin with butterflies on his ears or tail or both. They looked at each other.

  “No,” said Telepath.

  “I’ll go, I’m smaller and female and not a threat,” said Gay.

  Telepath curled his ears partway and said, “You must not improvise anything. Just once through, doing one thing. Please.”

  “All right.”

  Weapons Officer was contemplating images of the monarch and viceroy butterflies. The viceroy was decidedly more refin
ed, less baroque. On the other hand, the monarch was no good to eat, which was a matter of personal dignity.

  He was somewhat distracted by the sudden opening of the door of his quarters. He had stunner and wtsai out at once, but the human—the smaller one—who ran in never came near him; she just ran around the entryway twice, shouting, “Bats! Bats! Bats!” and waving her hands overhead until she ran out again.

  Well, this was the kind of thing you had to expect from hunters who cremate their prey. He went over to the door, made sure it was locked, and went back to his screen, shaking his head. Bats. What were bats?

  He looked them up.

  In the corridor, Richard and Telepath were about equally worried. They tried to pass the time with talk, but it was no distraction:

  “I have sometimes wondered what having a sapient mate would be like,” Telepath remarked. “Traveling with you I have learned a great deal.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “I am not sure I can answer that yet.”

  Gay came out and flung her hands about as if chasing something away from her, then stopped and looked at the door in some surprise.

  “Weapons Officer just locked his door,” Telepath said as Gay was entering the security code.

  Richard had to be given a little shake to keep him from hysterics.

  There had to be a better way.

  There was.

  Somewhat, anyway.

  Second Flyer was amusing himself, tying knots in his pressure suit and watching them untie themselves, when he was distracted by the sound of a tiny bell. He looked around to see a little fuzzy knot of something bouncing along, jingling as it moved. He turned his body slowly, and pounced—and it jumped out of reach! This did not deter him, nor even slow him: He kept after it, bounding off walls at corners, until he had cornered it in his quarters.

  Then he ate it.

  One by one, Second Engineer, First Trooper, Third Trooper, and First Engineer had much the same experience.

  After the first couple of times, Richard had gotten the knack of switching off the camera in a twine-wrapped medical-exploration robot before it disappeared down a kzin’s incredibly toothy maw, but he was still pretty ragged. “You want to bathe?” said Telepath. “Or eat a potato? That calms humans.”

  “It does?” Richard said.

  “Well, humans who have run out of potatoes are supposed to be very excitable, so I’m assuming the complement.”

  “I can do the next one,” Gay offered again, and again Richard shook his head.

  “It won’t work on the others anyway,” Telepath said. “First Flyer likes Intelligence novels and would assume a trick, and Second Trooper has adopted concealment.”

  “I keep thinking of that old joke about the Herrenmann who decided to import some tigers,” Richard said weakly. “A zoologist who’d just come from Plateau wanted to be paid for advising him about the habits of big cats.”

  “What do mountaineers know about big cats?” Telepath wondered.

  “I guess he’d read a lot. He advised the Herrenmann to have his people wear little bells on their clothing when dealing with any big cat, so it would hear them approach and not be startled into attacking, and to carry pepper spray in case the cat became hostile. All cats should react pretty much the same way. A few weeks later the Herrenmann sent him back a message that said they’d tried the advice, and the zoologist’s information on big cats was incomplete: The droppings of tigers, for example, smelled like ammonia and were smooth, while the droppings of kzinti smelled like pepper and had little bells in them.”

  The question of whether they were being routinely read was settled at once: Telepath literally fell down laughing.

  After they’d watched him roll around for a while, Richard said, “It’s all very well for you. You haven’t been getting the bell’s-eye view.”

  “We should be able to get the smell out of the ship now,” Gay said encouragingly.

  That turned out not to be the case.

  Not entirely, anyway. The ship’s design considered the possibility of boarding, and gas, so the walls were highly resistant to adsorption of volatiles; but a single molecule can be enough to trigger a conditioned response without actually being perceived on a conscious level.

  All of which went a long way to explain why, even after all detectable roots had been spaced and the corridors had been through basic decontamination, Telepath kept having sudden fits of the earwiggles.

  At least Richard didn’t need to wear a pressure suit to keep from getting ill.

  And Telepath could function.

  First Flyer was gradually getting the idea that something was wrong. The bridge was empty—aside from what looked like a kzintosh’s first unsupervised experience with packing foam—and the controls were locked, and nobody else seemed to be around. He was headed blearily back to his quarters to do a remote systems check when he saw Telepath rolling down the corridor.

  Telepath was hanging on to a huge hairy sphere, about a third his own volume, and acting like he was trying to gut it.

  Aliens!

  First Flyer screamed and leapt, wtsai plunging into the sphere in sure, swift strokes.

  After fifteen stabs there was still no blood.

  Telepath was staring at him over the edge of the sphere. His ears were spread very wide, in a position of astonishment.

  The sphere appeared to be wound from some kind of stiff cellulose-based cord.

  Incensed, First Flyer knotted his ears.

  Telepath immediately leapt to his feet and came to attention.

  First Flyer stood, looked at Telepath, looked at the huge toy Telepath had made for himself, and growled, “Go to your quarters.”

  “Sir!” said Telepath, and leapt away down the corridor.

  The hairy thing had loose strands sticking out all over it now.

  It did look like fun.

  When he got near his own quarters with it he noticed the humans leaning against a wall. Their bodies were together, faces touching. Probably checking one another for parasites or something. They took no notice as he dragged the thing in and sealed the door.

  Richard got to the keypad first. “Just one now,” he said.

  “We can ignore Second Trooper,” said Telepath from three feet away, causing them both to leap into the air. He stared at them for a moment, then reached up and actually held onto his ears as he continued, “He’ll be staying out of the way.”

  “Slaverexpert, then,” Gay said, breathing hard.

  “Are you tired?” said Telepath.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” He thought. “Good diversion.”

  As they got to Slaverexpert’s quarters, Richard said, “We shouldn’t stand close to him.”

  “Good idea,” said Telepath. “We can move all his stuff onto lower shelves, too.”

  Richard stopped in his tracks as he tried to figure that out. “How would that make it safer to wake him up?” he finally asked.

  “Oh. I thought you wanted him to think the drug had made him taller.”

  Richard shook his head, said nothing, and walked on.

  As he passed, Telepath said mildly, “That wasn’t called for.”

  Slaverexpert heard movement and opened his eyes to see Telepath. “You again,” he said in Hero. “I told you to let me sleep.”

  “That was three days ago,” said Telepath.

  “Oh.” Slaverexpert considered. “Then I really am this hungry.” He established a coherent pattern of behavior, rolled off his fooch, scooped the fabric into the recycler, and punched for something not too drippy and a gallon of lager. Then he noticed the humans. “Good day, Richard and Gay Guthlac,” he said in Interworld. “On reflection I believe the polymer roots we found should not be admitted into general use.”

  After perhaps half a minute watching two humans lean against one another laughing insanely, Slaverexpert turned to Telepath and said, “I gather there have been developments.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “De
scribe—are you hungry?”

  “In fact, I am.”

  “Will those two be safe in the corridor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Push them out the door and key something for yourself.”

  “Thank you,” said Telepath, surprised. He got the Guthlacs out, and turned back just as Slaverexpert’s haunch and mug came out. “I wonder why humans call it a dial,” he said as he made his selection. “Like an instrument dial.”

  “Some historical reference involving mating, religion, or money,” Slaverexpert said, and took a healthy bite.

  “Involving how?”

  “Who knows? But practically every odd thing humans do does. Tell me what’s been happening.”

  Telepath began to do so, pausing only to get his own meat and hot milk when they came out, and to say, “This is better than Charrgh-Captain’s dispenser makes!”

  Obviously he’d monitored others at meals, and who could blame him? “Yes, it was custom-made,” Slaverexpert said. “I’ve kept it with me ever since. How did you know I could fly a ship? Oh, of course, Charrgh-Captain knows it. Tell me the rest after you’ve eaten.”

  Telepath devoured his food gratefully. As they were cleaning their faces he said quietly, “My thanks for the honor.”

  “My regrets for its lateness. My duties kept me from doing anything that might draw undue attention, such as treating a telepath with respect for a difficult job reliably done.”

  “You’re a Patriarch’s Eye?” Telepath blurted, then said, embarrassed, “I did not speak.”

  Slaverexpert spread his ears amiably and said, “A traditionalist, I see. Rather than ‘I heard nothing,’ the proper reply in this case would be, ‘There is no shame.’ I was never an Eye. I used to train them for the Speakers-to-Animals, but I gave it up because my better students could never tell me what they did. The best one simply disappeared. Maddening. I began studying Slavers instead. I was very disappointed not to be on the Wallaby expedition, but at the time I had obligations-of-duty.” The term he used indicated a significant degree of responsibility to underlings who trusted him with their future prosperity, and a kzin who would neglect that would eat grass. “If we are done, we should join the humans and see to the ship. You may then tell—ftah. At your earliest convenience I would like to hear the rest of what has happened.”