by Larry Niven
“Charrgh-Captain,” said the puppeteer—its pronunciation of the kzinti Name was as perfect as its contralto Interworld—“has assured us that he is aware of human requirements and comforts. You will have your own cabin and kitchen.”
“I don’t suppose the job includes having bombs implanted in us in case the box turns out to hold something really dangerous?” asked Richard.
“Good heavens! How do you get such terrible ideas?” said the puppeteer convincingly.
“Working with ARMs. They’ll be doing a full scan on us, huh?” he asked the general.
The puppeteer looked itself in the eyes. The general said nothing, and pointedly looked at Gay.
“How big is this stasis box?” asked Gay, very politely.
“Large, but much smaller than the last one you investigated. Too small for there to be anything, ah, comparable inside.—I don’t think the kzinti really mind that either.—It’s quite a long trip, but not so long that you’ll have to go into coldsleep again. Twenty-five light-years. A matter of about eighty days each way, counting in STL acceleration and deceleration time. The actual retrieval and opening of the box shouldn’t take long.”
“And the pay will be?”
The general named a figure.
“That’s hard to refuse,” said Richard. “We could always do with more capital.”
“Yes, I’d heard you’d taken up farming. But land’s still cheap on Wunderland, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but machines aren’t. Farming needs sophisticated robotics to be competitive. Well, we’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long,” said the general. “Others would jump at the chance—making a name for themselves, a big hatful of stars in the bank.”
“Do tell. How many others are there in this unruly mob of volunteers? Within a factor of two, say?”
“Humans are brave,” said the puppeteer. “And curious. Many would jump at the opportunity.”
“But you wouldn’t? You don’t feel like going yourself, by any chance?” Richard asked innocently. If he had not known the puppeteer’s heads contained no brains, its brain—an extremely large one—being located under a reinforced bony hump between its shoulders, he might have sworn a look of horror crossed the vapid faces. Certainly the creature flinched, and seemed to stop itself going into a crouch only with a great effort of will.
Richard felt a faint stab of guilt. Teasing a puppeteer about danger was too easy to be any achievement. Still, if the puppeteers were extremely averse to risking their own necks, they seemed to have few qualms about having others risk theirs. He waved a hand in apology and reassurance. This puppeteer had, by the standards of its kind, done a very brave thing by walking abroad on Wunderland at all, even if this was only a hologram of it. It would have to be barking mad, of course, which would make so much courage easier for it. All sane puppeteers had fled Known Space long before.
“There weren’t many qualified volunteers,” the general said, oblivious to the exchange; an ARM’s usual ration of empathy would be deemed a shortage if the same amount were detected in a brick.
“It does seem like a pretty narrow window of qualification,” Richard observed. “Smart enough to do a good job, but dumb enough to agree to it?”
The puppeteer looked itself in the eyes again, and the general said brusquely, “The expedition leaves from Kzin-aga. There’s a commercial flight there leaving in three days.”
The puppeteer added hopefully, “You may also expect salvage fees for anything our distribution network may safely market.”
“As I said, we’ll think about it.”
When they had privacy again, Gay shoved him in the shoulder. “How come I had to be the respectable one?” she said, laughing.
“Because I’m no good at it?” Richard suggested.
“Standard procedure will be followed,” said Charrgh-Captain. “There is a telepath with us. The instant the box is opened he must probe it. Should it contain live Slavers, experience suggests it will take them at least a few moments to orient themselves. In those moments Telepath must detect them and we must destroy them.
“Your cabin!” he announced, flinging open a kzin-scale door with a grand gesture. “Spacious enough, I take it? It is of course Hero-sized!”
“Thank you,” said Gay. Charrgh-Captain had obviously devoted some thought to making it not uncomfortable. Even the light was brighter and bluer than the kzinti used for themselves, and the cabin somewhat warmer than kzinti liked. Kzinti, though masters of gravity control, officially eschewed the decadent human luxury of sleeping plates, but a Hero-sized bunk made more than a double bed for humans. The monsters which Heroes battled and bloodily slew in the bulkhead pictures were not human or even simian—quite a rare piece of cultural sensitivity for kzinti interior decor. Marks on the bulkhead, however, suggested some less-tactful decorations might have been recently removed. There was also a versatile human-type kitchen/recycler and a library, part of the basic-maintenance human autodoc.
“The kzin is a generous host,” said Richard.
“I had some of your personnel from the embassy to advise.” Charrgh-Captain’s ears twitched, corresponding to a slightly mischievous smile. “Apart from my previous experiences of you and other humans. You will note I am returning you the compliment of providing a lockable door. Unfortunately, in preparing your comfort there was no time to alter the sanitary facilities to human scale. You will have to sit and balance carefully, I think, if you do not want to fall backwards and down into the waste turbines. And here is a facility for water to immerse yourself—a sho-urr.”
“You have done us proud.” And had your little joke. But things could be a lot worse.
“We are companions,” said Charrgh-Captain. “In a companionship sealed by bonds that will not be broken lightly. In any case, this is a large ship, with a small crew. We all like what you call elbow room, and here we can be generous with living space.”
Yes, thought Richard, you kzinti always build ships larger than you need—as though you just might want them for something else one day. I’m sure this one is a lot more intricately subdivided than a simple trader needs to be, too. And lots of mountings and installations for very high-energy signaling devices, just in case your message laser fails, of course. Aloud he said: “How small a crew, Honored Charrgh-Captain?”
“Myself, a weapons officer who is second-in-command, two flyer/watchkeepers, a Slaverexpert, two engineers, four troopers, and the telepath.”
Twelve kzinti. If it comes to a fight over the stasis box, we wouldn’t stand much chance against that lot. I don’t suppose we’re here to fight for the stasis box, though. We’re really only here taking the role of canaries in ancient submarines or coal mines. As long as we live, things are okay. If the kzinti don’t let us return to make a full report, humanity will assume the box contained a major weapon of the Slavers, and will hit the kzinti worlds with everything it’s got.
“Leave your things here for the moment,” said Charrgh-Captain. The commonplace, domestic phrases of hospitality sounded strange from a nine-foot-tall felinoid with dagger fangs. “You are officially part of the crew and should familiarize yourselves with the ship.”
He escorted them through it from end to end. It turned out to be a refitted warship—most kzinti vessels were, not too surprisingly; a ship built entirely out of hardpoints doesn’t tend to wear out very soon. The puppeteers were still running a few General Products outlets, to help with moving expenses, but aside from a yacht for the Patriarch, for the publicity, they weren’t providing the kzinti with invulnerable hulls. (Which was a pity; one would have been nice now, under the circumstances.) Still, there were a lot of awfully tough merchant ships out there lately.
Slowly, the kzinti were becoming integrated into the great web of interstellar trade and commerce. Slowly, some kzinti were taking to the business and mercantile life and coming to appreciate the rewards it brought. At first they put a good face on it by saying to one another that it was a
temporary expedient, until more Heroic times returned; but as time went on, and sons grew up in family businesses, this claim was made less often.
Humans (with puppeteer advice, when that wasn’t absurdly naïve) had gradually initiated them into a system of rewards, rituals, stories, respect, and honors for successful merchants. There was a Kzinti Chamber of Commerce now, with the Patriarch’s ninth son as Honorary President, and several wholly or partially kzinti chapters of Rotary Interstellar—though the Rotarians’ cherished ritual of the Sergeant-at-Arms levying small fines upon members before dinner, for charitable purposes, had been dropped in the kzinti chapters, as it had occasionally led to death duels.
This ship, Cunning Stalker, was officially a merchant vessel, seconded to the science-and-research branch of the new Kzinti Mercantile College. (Kzinti of the old school, who had not read Adam Smith’s writing on trade’s mutual advantages for both parties, still called it “House-to-Learn-Plundering-from-Animals-by-Stealth.”) Cunning Stalker was built in the classical kzinti hemisphere-and-cone pattern, though with three drives—a traditional kzinti gravity-planer, a human-derived hydrogen-fusion reaction drive, and of course a hyperdrive. The first two had long been obsolete for interstellar travel, but were still essential within a star’s singularity, and had other uses. The hugely oversized power plants of the Red Age were now banned by treaty, so that gravity effects were no longer used for casual convenience—like, as an alternative to reaching for things—but lesser motors throughout the ship did allow for a variety of useful effects, including whatever was comfortable at the moment.
The aft part of the ship contained several cargo holds, whose partitioning could be altered. Richard wondered briefly if it might have been a slave transport; it was just barely old enough. There was a control center well forward. The engineers had sleeping cabins near the engine spaces, the rest of the personnel about the control center. There were many empty cabins and other spaces, some of these suggestive to a trained eye. As Charrgh-Captain had said, there was plenty of room.
Sometimes in the wars, humans, who, one way or another, found themselves sharing ships with kzinti, had managed to elude or ambush those kzinti by climbing through ducting too narrow for the great felinoids to enter. Richard noticed, not without wry amusement, that Cunning Stalker appeared to have been refitted with memories of this in mind. Any ducting too small to admit a kzin was either also too small to admit a human, or else covered with very tough gratings.
Overall, it contained few surprises for the humans, though much of the machinery and instrumentation was quite alien to them. Both Richard and Gay had long ago absorbed the standard layout of various classes of kzinti ships through imprinting, as part of their reserve officer training, but those designs were from the Red Age, pre-hyperdrive, when transit times were measured in decades; back then, any innovation meant newly arrived personnel would require complete retraining. Nowadays changes could be implemented Empire-wide in months, with the result that the Guthlacs found the latest kzinti designs just short of baffling. The control center was downright intimidating, with three kzinti busy at instrument consoles whose combined complexity was worthy of a hospital doc. The ports had not yet been opaqued for the transition to hyperspace, and Kzinhome’s primary was a vast red ball filling the sky to one side as they skimmed it. (Slingshot maneuvers were thrifty if there was no hurry, and of course kzinti were up on all the gravity business.)
There too was Telepath, smaller, bowed, skittering nervously about, not daring yet to sleep. Beside the tigerish magnificence of Charrgh-Captain, and after the tall, strong, normal-looking Wunderkzin telepaths Richard and Gay knew at home on Wunderland, the twitchy, doomed, neurotic creature was an awful sight. Looking at him, they understood afresh why so many telepath POWs had aided humanity; and why so many other telepaths, stranded in the Centauri System after its liberation in the first great war, had been so eager to throw in their lot with humanity, with its milder, less-destructive drugs, and to take human names and loyalties.
Richard and Gay were used to non-humans, particularly kzinti—on Wunderland there were Wunderkzin they thought of as companions and friends. But these were not Wunderkzin. The Guthlacs’ nerves were on edge in the ruddy orange light, hulking tigerish forms around them.
The last time they had flown with Charrgh-Captain, he had been the attached observer, and their crew had been two other humans and a Wunderkzin. Now they felt their minority status with painful nervous tension. It was not improved by the knowledge that even nontelepathic kzinti could sense emotions, so that their companions were certainly aware of how the humans felt. Even Earth canines could smell fear, and to kzinti it could be an intoxicant. It was a relief to thank Charrgh-Captain for the tour and close their cabin door behind them.
“This bed is something!” Gay commented, bouncing on it. “And the covers are real fabric! I was half-afraid they’d be human skin or something.”
Richard bounced onto the bed beside her. Was the gravity here less? It was something the kzinti could arrange easily enough, but he had not anticipated such thoughtfulness. Gay grabbed him and wound her arms around him.
“I do feel a bit nervous here,” she said, “and I think I need some comforting.”
“You want to make love now?”
“Yes. Don’t you? I think we’d better give this bed a test flight.” She grabbed him and pulled him down.
I feel sorry for those who need new partners all the time, Richard thought afterward as they lay in each other’s arms, dreamy and contented, thoughts drifting. They had been married nearly twenty years, and the more they knew one another’s bodies the better they became, even as—something they had once thought impossible—their love for one another seemed to continue to deepen. This is perfection, he thought, kissing his wife’s skin. Most twenty-ninth-century human bodies were perfect, but beyond that their minds, spirits, and desires were in a radiant union. Lying together there, his arms about her, it was as if each basked in an aura of the other’s comfort, happiness, and contentment. He murmured something below speech, running his knuckles along her spine.
She turned away from him, her curves of shoulder and back and buttocks making her seem rather more surrendered and giving than when she faced him.
“You know, eighty days of this each way shouldn’t be too hard to bear,” Richard mused.
“And we’re getting paid to do it!”
“Hah! True. Not sure how I’d phrase it on a resumé, though. Of course the kzinti aren’t what they were, not quite. Even with a full shipyard doing nothing else it would take several hours, at least, to convert this ship back for Navy use in another war…I’m still digesting the idea of kzinti Rotarians.”
“I remember hearing somewhere there’s been attempts to set up kzinti Lions Clubs. The fines officer’s known as the Tail-Twister, you know! The mind boggles.”
They both laughed, rather nervously, and Richard reached for her again.
The door beeped. Someone desired entrance. Gay kicked herself over and pulled the cover up to her chin, then let it fall. “What the hell, kzinti aren’t going to be shocked by monkeys.”
“Shall we let them in?”
“Why not?”
“Admit,” said Richard. Unless specially locked, the door was voice-keyed.
“May I join you?” It was Telepath. Like Charrgh-Captain, he spoke Interworld, the largely Jinxian-based common human tongue which, despite its name, was difficult for nonhumans to pronounce.
“We speak some kzinti tongues,” said Richard, experimentally. Even on Wunderland, some kzinti strongly disliked simians “defiling” the Heroes’ Tongue—and this, as he was all too well aware, was not Wunderland. Still, his accent was good; and a certain amount of the hostility was due to frequent mangled pronunciation.
“I would be grateful,” said the telepath, “if I could spend some time here with you. The minds of the Heroes leak at me endlessly. I can shield, but it is not enough. Humans are so different that when I am n
ot drugged I need to concentrate to understand you at all. The noise drowns out the others. This cabin, your minds, give me a refuge.”
Richard felt uncomfortable. Telepath was obviously trying to control his neurotic behavior. Good manners toward the humans were clamped about him like a coat of mail. Yet this timid, wistful, depressed, and undersized kzin was so hideously unnatural. It’s just the instinctive revulsion one feels towards a sick animal, he thought. Don’t let him sense it! How do I stop him sensing it? No headaches yet. He’s not trying to read my mind. But I’ll bet he gets the vibes.
Gay nodded. “Stay awhile,” she said, sitting up. “We can offer you bourbon if you like.”
“A small one, thank you. So that is what you really look like, without your clothing.”
They had forgotten for a moment that they were naked. Richard and Gay came from a culture where nudity, if not everyday, was less uncommon for everyone than it had been in the past—after the wars, Wunderland had needed a lot of work to clean up its climate, and there had been no reason to stop short of comfort. In any case Telepath himself, like most kzinti, wore very minimal garments consisting chiefly of utility belts and pouches for tools (including, they presumed, his drugs). “What you see is what you get,” said Richard, a laugh covering a momentary stab of embarrassment. He swung his feet to the deck and crossed to the drinks cabinet.
“It is fascinating,” said Telepath, looking them both up and down. “I knew you were tailless, but I have never actually seen tailless beings like you before. How do you balance? And would you not need them when you are swinging through trees?”
“We don’t actually swing through trees very much,” Richard said. “Not now.”
“And only two teats. You must have small litters.”