Man-Kzin Wars 25th Anniversary Edition

by Larry Niven

  They managed to stop themselves against the walls. “Hi, jaywalker,” said Sue.

  “Hi, Sue. Where you headed?”

  “Radio room. You?”

  “I thought I’d check the drive systems again. Not that we’re likely to need the drive, but it can’t hurt to be certain.”

  “You’d go twitchy without something to do, wouldn’t you?” She cocked her head to one side, as always when she had questions. “Steve, when are you going to rotate us again? I can’t seem to get used to falling.”

  But she looked like she’d been born falling, he thought. Her small, slender form was meant for flying; gravity should never have touched her. “When I’m sure we won’t need the drive. We might as well stay ready ‘til then. Because I’m hoping you’ll change back to a skirt.”

  She laughed, pleased. “Then you can turn it off. I’m not changing, and we won’t be moving. Abel says the other ship did two hundred gee when it matched courses with us. How many can the Angel’s Pencil do?”

  Steve looked awed. “Just point zero five. And I was thinking of chasing them! Well, maybe we can be the ones to open communications. I just came from the radio room, by the way. Ann can’t get anything.”

  “Too bad.”

  “We’ll just have to wait.”

  “Steve, you’re always so impatient. Do Belters always move at a run? Come here.” She took a handhold and pulled him over to one of the thick windows which lined the forward side of the corridor. “There they are,” she said, pointing out.

  The star was both duller and larger than those around it. Among points which glowed arc-lamp blue-white with the Doppler shift, the alien ship showed as a dull red disk.

  “I looked at it through the telescope,” said Steve. “There are lumps and ridges all over it. And there’s a circle of green dots and commas painted on one side. Looked like writing.”

  “How long have we been waiting to meet them? Five hundred thousand years? Well, there they are. Relax. They won’t go away.” Sue gazed out the window, her whole attention on the dull red circle, her gleaming jet hair floating out around her head. “The first aliens. I wonder what they’ll be like.”

  “It’s anyone’s guess. They must be pretty strong to take punishment like that, unless they have some kind of acceleration shield, but free fall doesn’t bother them either. That ship isn’t designed to spin.” He was staring intently, out at the stars, his big form characteristically motionless, his expression somber. Abruptly he said, “Sue, I’m worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Suppose they’re hostile?”

  “Hostile?” She tasted the unfamiliar word, decided she didn’t like it.

  “After all, we know nothing about them. Suppose they want to fight? We’d—”

  She gasped. Steve flinched before the horror in her face. “What—what put that idea in your head?”

  “I’m sorry I shocked you, Sue.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, but why? Did—shh.”

  Jim Davis had come into view. The Angel’s Pencil had left Earth when he was twenty-seven; now he was a slightly paunchy thirty-eight, the oldest man on board, an amiable man with abnormally long, delicate fingers. His grandfather, with the same hands, had been a world-famous surgeon. Nowadays surgery was normally done by autodocs, and the arachnodactyls were to Davis merely an affliction. He bounced by, walking on magnetic sandals, looking like a comedian as he bobbed about the magnetic plates. “Hi, group,” he called as he went by.

  “Hello, Jim.” Sue’s voice was strained. She waited until he was out of sight before she spoke again.

  Hoarsely she whispered, “Did you fight in the Belt?” She didn’t really believe it; it was merely the worst thing she could think of.

  Vehemently Steve snapped, “No!” Then, reluctantly, he added, “But it did happen occasionally.” Quickly he tried to explain. “The trouble was that all the doctors, including the psychists, were at the big bases, like Ceres. It was the only way they could help the people who needed them—be where the miners could find them. But all the danger was out in the rocks.

  “You noticed a habit of mine once. I never make gestures. All Belters have that trait. It’s because on a small mining ship you could hit something waving your arms around. Something like the airlock button.”

  “Sometimes it’s almost eerie. You don’t move for minutes at a time.”

  “There’s always tension out in the rocks. Sometimes a miner would see too much danger and boredom and frustration, too much cramping inside and too much room outside, and he wouldn’t get to a psychist in time. He’d pick a fight in a bar. I saw it happen once. The guy was using his hands like mallets.”

  Steve had been looking far into the past. Now he turned back to Sue. She looked white and sick, like a novice nurse standing up to her first really bad case. His ears began to turn red. “Sorry,” he said miserably.

  She felt like running; she was as embarrassed as he was. Instead she said, and tried to mean it, “It doesn’t matter. So you think the people in the other ship might want to, uh, make war?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you have history-of-Earth courses?”

  He smiled ruefully. “No, I couldn’t qualify. Sometimes I wonder how many people do.”

  “About one in twelve.”

  “That’s not many.”

  “People in general have trouble assimilating the facts of life about their ancestors. You probably know that there used to be wars before—hmmm—three hundred years ago, but do you know what war is? Can you visualize one? Can you see a fusion electric point deliberately built to explode in the middle of the city? Do you know what a concentration camp is? A limited action? You probably think murder ended with war. Well, it didn’t. The last murder occurred in twenty-one something, just a hundred and sixty years ago.

  “Anyone who says human nature can’t be changed is out of his head. To make it stick, he’s got to define human nature—and he can’t. Three things gave us our present peaceful civilization, and each one was a technological change.” Sue’s voice had taken on a dry, remote lecture-hall tone, like the voice on a teacher tape. “One was the development of psychistry beyond the alchemist stage. Another was the full development of land for food production. The third was the Fertility Restriction Laws and the annual contraceptive shots. They gave us room to breathe. Maybe Belt mining and the stellar colonies had something to do with it, too; they gave us an inanimate enemy. Even the historians argue about that one.

  “Here’s the delicate point I’m trying to nail down.” Sue rapped on the window. “Look at that spacecraft. It has enough power to move it around like a mail missile and enough fuel to move it up to our point eight light—right?”

  “Right.”

  “—with plenty of power left for maneuvering. It’s a better ship than ours. If they’ve had time to learn how to build a ship like that, they’ve had time to build up their own versions of psychistry, modern food production, contraception, economic theory, everything they need to abolish war. See?”

  Steve had to smile at her earnestness. “Sure, Sue, it makes sense. But that guy in the bar came from our culture, and he was hostile enough. If we can’t understand how he thinks, how can we guess about the mind of something whose very chemical makeup we can’t guess at yet?”

  “It’s sentient. It builds tools.”

  “Right.”

  “And if Jim hears you talking like this, you’ll be in psychistry treatment.”

  “That’s the best argument you’ve given me,” Steve grinned, and stroked her under the ear with two fingertips. He felt her go suddenly stiff, saw the pain in her face; and at the same time his own pain struck, a real tiger of a headache, as if his brain were trying to swell beyond his skull.

  “I’ve got them, sir,” the Telepath said blurrily. “Ask me anything.”

  The Captain hurried, knowing that the Telepath couldn’t stand this for long. “How do they power their ship?”

  �
�It’s a light-pressure drive powered by incomplete hydrogen fusion. They use an electromagnetic ramscoop to get their own hydrogen from space.”

  “Clever . . . Can they get away from us?”

  “No. Their drive is on idle, ready to go, but it won’t help them. It’s pitifully weak.”

  “What kind of weapons do they have?”

  The Telepath remained silent for a long time. The others waited patiently for his answer. There was sound in the control dome, but it was the kind of sound one learns not to hear: the whine of heavy current, the muted purr of voices from below, the strange sound like continuously ripping cloth which come from the gravity motors.

  “None at all, sir.” The Kzin’s voice became clearer; his hypnotic relaxation was broken by muscle twitches. He twisted as if in a nightmare. “Nothing aboard ship, not even a knife or a club. Wait, they’ve got cooking knives. But that’s all they use them for. They don’t fight.”

  “They don’t fight?”

  “No, sir. They don’t expect us to fight, either. The idea has occurred to three of them, and each has dismissed it from his mind.”

  “But why?” the Captain asked, knowing the question was irrelevant, unable to hold it back.

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s a science they use, or a religion. I don’t understand,” the Telepath whimpered. “I don’t understand at all.”

  Which must be tough on him, the Captain thought. Completely alien thoughts . . . “What are they doing now?”

  “Waiting for us to talk to them. They tried to talk to us, and they think we must be trying just as hard.”

  “But why?—never mind, it’s not important. Can they be killed by heat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Break contact.”

  The Telepath shook his head violently. He looked like he’d been in a washing machine. The Captain touched a sensitized surface and bellowed, “Weapons Officer!”

  “Here.”

  “Use the inductors on the enemy ship.”

  “But, sir! They’re so slow! What if the alien attacks?”

  “Don’t argue with me, you—” Snarling, the Captain delivered an impassioned monologue on the virtues of unquestioning obedience. When he switched off, the Alien Technologies Officer was back at the viewer and the Telepath had gone to sleep.

  The Captain purred happily, wishing that they were all this easy.

  When the occupants had been killed by heat he would take the ship. He could tell everything he needed to know about their planet by examining their life-support system. He could locate it by tracing the ship’s trajectory. Probably they hadn’t even taken evasive action!

  If they came from a Kzin-like world it would become a Kzin world. And he, as Conquest Leader, would command one percent of its wealth for the rest of his life! Truly, the future looked rich. No longer would he be called by his profession. He would bear a name . . .

  “Incidental information,” said the A-T Officer. “The ship was generating one and twelve sixty-fourth gee before it stopped rotating.”

  “Little heavy,” the Captain mused. “Might be too much air, but it should be easy to Kzinform it. A-T, we find the strangest life forms. Remember the Chunquen?”

  “Both sexes were sentient. They fought constantly.”

  “And that funny religion on Altair One. They thought they could travel in time.”

  “Yes, sir. When we landed the infantry they were all gone.”

  “They must have all committed suicide with disintegrators. But why? They knew we only wanted slaves. And I’m still trying to figure out how they got rid of the disintegrators afterward.”

  “Some beings,” said the A-T Officer, “will do anything to keep their beliefs.”

  Eleven years beyond Pluto, eight years from her destination, the fourth colony ship to We Made It fell between the stars. Before her the stars were green-white and blue-white, blazing points against nascent black. Behind they were sparse, dying red embers. To the sides the constellations were strangely flattened. The universe was shorter than it had been.

  For awhile Jim Davis was very busy. Everyone, including himself, had a throbbing blinding headache. To each patient, Dr. Davis handed a tiny pink pill from the dispenser slot of the huge autodoc which covered the back wall of the infirmary. They milled outside the door waiting for the pills to take effect, looking like a full-fledged mob in the narrow corridor; and then someone thought it would be a good idea to go to the lounge, and everyone followed him. It was an unusually silent mob. Nobody felt like talking while the pain was with them. Even the sound of magnetic sandals was lost in the plastic pile rug.

  Steve saw Jim Davis behind him. “Hey, Doc,” he called softly. “How long before the pain stops?”

  “Mine’s gone away. You got your pills a little after I did, right?”

  “Right. Thanks, Doc.”

  They didn’t take pain well, these people. They were unused to it.

  In single file they walked or floated into the lounge. Low-pitched conversations started. People took couches, using the sticky plastic strips on their falling jumpers. Others stood or floated near walls. The lounge was big enough to hold them all in comfort.

  Steve wriggled near the ceiling, trying to pull on his sandals.

  “I hope they don’t try that again,” he heard Sue say. “It hurt.”

  “Try what?” Someone Steve didn’t recognize, half-listening as he was.

  “Whatever they tried. Telepathy, perhaps.”

  “No. I don’t believe in telepathy. Could they have set up ultrasonic vibrations in the walls?”

  Steve had his sandals on. He left the magnets turned off.

  “. . . a cold beer. Do you realize we’ll never taste beer again?” Jim Davis’ voice.

  “I miss waterskiing.” Ann Harrison sounded wistful. “The feel of a pusher unit shoving into the small of your back, the water beating against your feet, the sun . . .”

  Steve pushed himself toward them. “Taboo subject,” he called.

  “We’re on it anyway,” Jim boomed cheerfully. “Unless you’d rather talk about the alien, which everyone else is doing. I’d rather drop it for the moment. What’s your greatest regret at leaving Earth?”

  “Only that I didn’t stay long enough to really see it.”

  “Oh, of course.” Jim suddenly remembered the drinking bulb in his hand. He drank from it, hospitality passed it to Steve.

  “This waiting makes me restless,” said Steve. “What are they likely to try next? Shake the ship in Morse code?”

  Jim smiled. “Maybe they won’t try anything next. They may give up and leave.”

  “Oh, I hope not!” said Ann.

  “Would that be so bad?”

  Steve had a start. What was Jim thinking?

  “Of course!” Ann protested. “We’ve got to find out what they’re like! And think of what they can teach us, Jim!”

  When conversation got controversial it was good manners to change the subject. “Say,” said Steve, “I happened to notice the wall was warm when I pushed off. Is that good or bad?”

  “That’s funny. It should be cold, if anything,” said Jim. “There’s nothing out there but starlight. Except—” A most peculiar expression flitted across his face. He drew his feet up and touched the magnetic soles with his fingertips.

  “Eeeee! Jim! Jim!”

  Steve tried to whirl around and got nowhere. That was Sue! He switched on his shoes, thumped to the floor, and went to help.

  Sue was surrounded by bewildered people. They split to let Jim Davis through, and he tried to lead her out of the lounge. He looked frightened. Sue was moaning and thrashing, paying no attention to his efforts.

  Steve pushed through to her. “All the metal is heating up,” Davis shouted. “We’ve got to get her hearing aid out.”

  “Infirmary,” Sue shouted.

  Four of them took Sue down the hall to the infirmary. She was still crying and struggling feebly when they got her in, but Jim was there ahead
of them with a spray hypo. He used it and she went to sleep.

  The four watched anxiously as Jim went to work. The autodoc would have taken precious time for diagnosis. Jim operated by hand. He was able to do a fast job, for the tiny instrument was buried just below the skin behind her ear. Still, the scalpel must have burned his fingers before he was done. Steve could feel the growing warmth against the soles of his feet.

  Did the aliens know what they were doing?

  Did it matter? The ship was being attacked. His ship.

  Steve slipped into the corridor and ran for the control room. Running on magnetic soles, he looked like a terrified penguin, but he moved fast. He knew he might be making a terrible mistake; the aliens might be trying desperately to reach the Angel’s Pencil; he would never know. They had to be stopped before everyone was roasted.

  The shoes burned his feet. He whimpered with the pain, but otherwise ignored it. The air burned in his mouth and throat. Even his teeth were hot.

  He had to wrap his shirt around his hands to open the control-room door. The pain in his feet was unbearable; he tore off his sandals and swam to the control board. He kept his shirt over his hands to work the controls. A twist of a large white knob turned the drive on full, and he slipped into the pilot seat before the gentle light pressure could build up.

  He turned to the rear-view telescope. It was aimed at the solar system, for the drive could be used for messages at this distance. He set it for short range and began to turn the ship.

  The enemy ship glowed in the high infrared.

  “It will take longer to heat the crew-carrying section,” reported the Alien Technologies Officer. “They’ll have temperature control there.”

  “That’s all right. When you think they should all be dead, wake up the Telepath and have him check.” The Captain continued to brush his fur, killing time. “You know, if they hadn’t been so completely helpless I wouldn’t have tried this slow method. I’d have cut the ring free of the motor section first. Maybe I should have done that anyway. Safer.”

  The A-T Officer wanted all the credit he could get. “Sir, they couldn’t have any big weapons. There isn’t room. With a reaction drive, the motor and the fuel tanks take up most of the available space.”