by Larry Niven
Table of Contents
MADNESS HAS ITS PLACE by Larry Niven Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
THE ASTEROID QUEEN by J.E. Pournelle & S.M. Stirling Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
INCONSTANT STAR by Poul Anderson Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
MAN-KZIN WARS III
Larry Niven
with
Poul Anderson,
J. E. Pournelle,
and
S. M. Stirling
Man-Kzin Wars III
Larry Niven
Those war-crazed fur-balls from the planet Kzin just won’t give up, even though the canny pseudo-pacifists from Planet Earth cut through the Kzinti like a laser through catmeat (once the humans rediscovered old technologies and old instincts that never quite bred out). The ferocious Kzinti never seemed to be able to come up with a more complicated strategy than “Scream and Leap.”
But after three hard-fought wars, a few of the powerful pussycats have learned from their foes. Now, they are ready, and all that stands between freedom and a feline-filled universe is the human race. Good luck, monkey-boys.
MAN-KZIN WARS III
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Larry Niven
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
260 Fifth Avenue
New York, N.Y. 10001
ISBN: 0-671-72008-2
eISBN: 978-1-62579-636-3
Cover art by Steve Hickman
First printing, August 1990
Distributed by
SIMON & SCHUSTER
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. 10020
Printed in the United States of America
Electronic Version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
MADNESS HAS ITS PLACE
Larry Niven
Copyright © 1990 by Larry Niven
Chapter I
A lucky few of us know the good days before they’re gone.
I remember my eighties. My job kept me in shape, and gave me enough variety to keep my mind occupied. My love life was imperfect but interesting. Modern medicine makes the old fairy tales look insipid; I almost never worried about my health.
Those were the good days, and I knew them. I could remember worse.
I can remember when my memory was better too. That’s what this file is for. I keep it updated for that reason, and also to maintain my sense of purpose.
* * *
The Monobloc had been a singles bar since the 2320s.
In the ’30s I’d been a regular. I’d found Charlotte there. We held our wedding reception at the Monobloc, then dropped out for twenty-eight years. My first marriage, hers too, both in our forties. After the children grew up and moved away, after Charlotte left me too, I came back.
The place was much changed.
I remembered a couple of hundred bottles in the hologram bar display. Now the display was twice as large and seemed more realistic—better equipment, maybe—but only a score of bottles in the middle were liquors. The rest were flavored or carbonated water, high-energy drinks, electrolytes, a thousand kinds of tea; food to match, raw vegetables and fruits kept fresh by high-tech means, arrayed with low-cholesterol dips; bran in every conceivable form short of injections.
The Monobloc had swallowed its neighbors. It was bigger, with curtained alcoves, and a small gym upstairs for working out or for dating.
Herbert and Tina Schroeder still owned the place. Their marriage had been open in the ’30s. They’d aged since. So had their clientele. Some of us had married or drifted away or died of alcoholism; but word of mouth and the Velvet Net had maintained a continuous tradition. Twenty-eight years later they looked better than ever . . . wrinkled, of course, but lean and muscular, both ready for the Gray Olympics. Tina let me know before I could ask: she and Herb were lockstepped now.
To me it was like coming home.
* * *
For the next twelve years the Monobloc was an intermittent part of my life.
I would find a lady, or she would find me, and we’d drop out. Or we’d visit the Monobloc and sometimes trade partners; and one evening we’d go together and leave separately. I was not evading marriage. Every woman I found worth knowing, ultimately seemed to want to know someone else.
I was nearly bald even then. Thick white hair covered my arms and legs and torso, as if my head hairs had migrated. Twelve years of running construction robots had turned me burly. From time to time some muscular lady would look me over and claim me. I had no trouble finding company.
But company never stayed. Had I become dull? The notion struck me as funny.
* * *
I had settled myself alone at a table for two, early on a Thursday evening in 2375. The Monobloc was half empty. The earlies were all keeping one eye on the door when Anton Brillov came in.
Anton was shorter than me, and much narrower, with a face like an axe. I hadn’t seen him in thirteen years. Still, I’d mentioned the Monobloc once or twice; he must have remembered.
I semaphored my arms. Anton squinted, then came over, exaggeratedly cautious until he saw who it was.
“Jack Strather!”
“Hi, Anton. So you decided to try the place?”
“Yah.” He sat. “You look good.” He looked a moment longer and said, “Relaxed. Placid. How’s Charlotte?”
“Left me after I retired. Just under a year after. There was too much of me around and I . . . maybe I was too placid? Anyway. How are you?”
“Fine.”
Twitchy. Anton looked twitchy. I was amused. “Still with the Holy Office?”
“Only citizens call it that, Jack.”
“I’m a citizen. Still gives me a kick. How’s your chemistry?”
Anton knew what I meant and didn’t pretend otherwise. “I’m okay. I’m down.”
“Kid, you’re looking over both shoulders at once.”
Anton managed a credible laugh. “I’m not the kid any more. I’m a weekly.”
The ARM had made me a weekly at forty-eight. They couldn’t turn me loose at the end of the day any more, because my body chemistry couldn’t shift fast enough. So they kept me in the ARM building Monday through Thursday, and gave me all of Thursday afternoon to shed the schitz madness. Twenty years of that and I was even less flexible, so they retired me.
I said, “You do have to remember. When you’re in the ARM building, you’re a paranoid schizophrenic. You have to be able to file that when you’re outside.”
“Hah. How can anyone—”
“You get used to the schitz. After I quit, the difference was amazing. No fears, no tension, no
ambition.”
“No Charlotte?”
“Well . . . I turned boring. And what are you doing here?”
Anton looked around him. “Much the same thing you are, I guess. Jack, am I the youngest one here?”
“Maybe.” I looked around, double-checking. A woman was distracting me, though I could see only her back and a flash of a laughing profile. Her back was slender and strong, and a thick white braid ran down her spine, centered, two and a half feet of clean, thick white hair. She was in animated conversation with a blond companion of Anton’s age plus a few.
But they were at a table for two: they weren’t inviting company. I forced my attention back. “We’re gray singles, Anton. The young ones tend to get the message quick. We’re slower than we used to be. We date. You want to order?”
Alcohol wasn’t popular here. Anton must have noticed, but he ordered guava juice and vodka and drank as if he needed it. This looked worse than Thursday jitters. I let him half finish, then said, “Assuming you can tell me—”
“I don’t know anything.”
“I know the feeling. What should you know?”
A tension eased behind Anton’s eyes. “There was a message from the Angel’s Pencil.”
“Pencil . . . oh.” My mental reflexes had slowed down. The Angel’s Pencil had departed twenty years ago for . . . was it Epsilon Eridani? “Come on, kid, it’ll be in the boob cubes before you have quite finished speaking. Anything from deep space is public property.”
“Hah! No. It’s restricted. I haven’t seen it myself. Only a reference, and it must be more than ten years old.”
That was peculiar. And if the Belt stations hadn’t spread the news through the solar system, that was peculiar. No wonder Anton was antsy. ARMs react that way to puzzles.
Anton seemed to jerk himself back to here and now, back to the gray singles regime. “Am I cramping your style?”
“No problem. Nobody hurries in the Monobloc. If you see someone you like—” My fingers danced over lighted symbols on the rim of the table. “This gets you a map. Locate where she’s sitting, put the cursor on it. That gets you a display . . . hmm.”
I’d set the cursor on the white-haired lady. I liked the readout. “Phoebe Garrison, seventy-nine, eleven or twelve years older than you. Straight. Won a Second in the Gray Jumps last year . . . that’s the America’s Skiing Matches for seventy and over. She could kick your tail if you don’t watch your manners. It says she’s smarter than we are, too.
“Point is, she can check you out the same way. Or me. And she probably found this place through the Velvet Net, which is the computer network for unlocked lifestyles.”
“So. Two males sitting together—”
“Anyone who thinks we’re bent can check if she cares enough. Bends don’t come to the Monobloc anyway. But if we want company, we should move to a bigger table.”
We did that. I caught Phoebe Garrison’s companion’s eye. They played with their table controls, discussed, and presently wandered over.
Dinner turned into a carouse. Alcohol was involved, but we’d left the Monobloc by then. When we split up, Anton was with Michiko. I went home with Phoebe.
* * *
Phoebe had fine legs, as I’d anticipated, though both knees were teflon and plastic. Her face was lovely even in morning sunlight. Wrinkled, of course. She was two weeks short of eighty and wincing in anticipation. She ate with a cross-country skier’s appetite. We told of our lives as we ate.
She’d come to Santa Maria to visit her oldest grandson. In her youth she’d done critical work in nanoengineering. The Board had allowed her four children. (I’d known I was outclassed.) All were married, scattered across the Earth, and so were the grandkids.
My two sons had emigrated to the Belt while still in their twenties. I’d visited them once during an investigation, trip paid for by the United Nations—
“You were an ARM? Really? How interesting! Tell me a story . . . if you can.”
“That’s the problem, all right.”
The interesting tales were all classified. The ARM suppresses dangerous technology. What the ARM buries is supposed to stay buried. I remembered a kind of time compressor, and a field that would catalyze combustion, both centuries old. Both were first used for murder. If turned loose or rediscovered, either would generate more interesting tales yet.
I said, “I don’t know anything current. They bounced me out when I got too old. Now I run construction robots at various spaceports.”
“Interesting?”
“Mostly placid.” She wanted a story? Okay. The ARM enforced more than the killer-tech laws, and some of those tales I could tell.
“We don’t get many mother hunts these days. This one was wished on us by the Belt—” And I told her of a lunie who’s sired two clones. One he’d raised on the Moon and one he’d left in the Saturn Conserve. He’d moved to Earth, where one clone is any normal citizen’s entire birthright. When we found him he was arranging to culture a third clone . . .
* * *
I dreamed a bloody dream.
It was one of those: I was able to take control, to defeat what had attacked me. In the black of an early Sunday morning the shreds of the dream dissolved before I could touch them; but the sensations remained. I felt strong, balanced, powerful, victorious.
It took me a few minutes to become suspicious of this particular flavor of wonderful, but I’d had practice. I eased out from under Phoebe’s arm and leg and out of bed. I lurched into the medical alcove, linked myself up and fell asleep on the table.
Phoebe found me there in the morning. She asked, “Couldn’t that wait till after breakfast?”
“I’ve got four years on you and I’m going for infinity. So I’m careful,” I told her. It wasn’t quite a lie . . . and she didn’t quite believe me either.
* * *
On Monday Phoebe went off to let her eldest grandson show her the local museums. I went back to work.
In Death Valley a semicircle of twenty lasers points at an axial array of mirrors. Tracks run across the desert to a platform that looks like strands of spun caramel. Every hour or so a spacecraft trundles along the tracks, poses above the mirrors, and rises into the sky on a blinding, searing pillar of light.
Here was where I and three companions and twenty-eight robots worked between emergencies. Emergencies were common enough. From time to time Glenn and Skii and ten or twenty machines had to be shipped off to Outback Field or Baikonur, while I held the fort at Death Valley Field.
All of the equipment was old. The original mirrors had all been slaved to one system, and those had been replaced again and again. Newer mirrors were independently mounted and had their own computers, but even these were up to fifty years old and losing their flexibility. The lasers had to be replaced somewhat more often. Nothing was ready to fall apart, quite.
But the mirrors have to adjust their shapes to match distorting air currents all the way up to vacuum, because the distortions themselves must focus the drive beam. A laser at 99.3% efficiency is keeping too much energy, getting too hot. At 99.1% something would melt, lost power would blow the laser into shrapnel, and a cargo would not reach orbit.
My team had been replacing mirrors and lasers long before I came on the scene. This circuit was nearly complete. We had already reconfigured some robots to begin replacing track.
The robots worked alone while we entertained ourselves in the monitor room. If the robots ran into anything unfamiliar, they stopped and beeped. Then a story or songfest or poker game would stop just as abruptly.
Usually the beep meant that the robot had found an acute angle, an uneven surface, a surface not strong enough to bear a loaded robot, a bend in a pipe, a pipe where it shouldn’t be . . . a geometrical problem. The robots couldn’t navigate just anywhere. Sometimes we’d have to unload it and move the load to a cart, by hand. Sometimes we had to pick it up with a crane and move it or turn it. Lots of it was muscle work.
Phoebe joined
me for dinner Thursday evening.
She’d whipped her grandson at laser tag. They’d gone through the museum at Edward AFB. They’d skied . . . he needed to get serious about that, and maybe get some surgery too . . .
I listened and smiled and presently tried to tell her about my work. She nodded; her eyes glazed. I tried to tell her how good it was, how restful, after all those years in the ARM.
The ARM: that got her interest back. Stet. I told her about the Henry Program.
I’d been saving that. It was an embezzling system good enough to ruin the economy. It made Zachariah Henry rich. He might have stayed rich if he’d quit in time . . . and if his system hadn’t been so good, so dangerous, he might have ended in prison. Instead . . . well, let his tongue whisper secrets to the ears in the organ banks.
I could speak of it because they’d changed the system. I didn’t say that it had happened twenty years before I joined the ARM. But I was still running out of declassified stories. I told her, “If a lot of people know something can be done, somebody’ll do it. We can suppress it and suppress it again—”
She pounced. “Like what?”
“Like . . . well, the usual example is the first cold fusion system. They did it with palladium and platinum, but half a dozen other metals work. And organic superconductors: the patents listed a wrong ingredient. Various grad students tried it wrong and still got it. If there’s a way to do it, there’s probably a lot of ways.”
“That was before there was an ARM. Would you have suppressed superconductors?”
“No. What for?”
“Or cold fusion?”
“No.”
“Cold fusion releases neutrons,” she said. “Sheath the generator with spent uranium, what do you get?”
“Plutonium, I think. So?”
