by Robert Adams
“Not only can I and the other men here communicate telepathically with the cat and her cubs, but she and to a lesser extent they seem really intelligent, reasoning creatures. Now, the big big question is: is her particular strain the only one that has this gift that can be so priceless to us — the clans — or do the other cats of her breed share in it?
“But, okay, say we can’t find any of her kind, what do we do? We could inbreed it, breed the male cub back into her and into his two female siblings, of course. But there’re always certain dangers in breeding and rebreeding an animal that closely and just keeping it up. So what choices do we have, huh? Just let this rare and wonderful strain die out? No, I can’t countenance that alternative; cats like her and them could mean far too much to us — to the long-run survival of us all, clans and people. So, then, what can I do to perpetuate her and her promise?
“Find a big puma tom and try to take him alive and bring him back to top her? No, even if we could do it, I don’t think it would work; those two breeds are just too vastly divergent. The puma, for all its size, is still considered to be Felis, same genus as all the small cats, while the furry lady in there is clearly some species of Panthera — tiger, lion, leopard and so on.
“So where do we find a member of the Panthera in the Rocky Mountains of North America? Of course, the only one that was native within the ten thousand or so years prior to the end of the last civilization was the jaguar, the cat the Mexicans call tigre, but I’ve never seen one of them this far north, though if they can live in the Andes as they do I see no reason why such mountains as these would daunt them. But could it be . . . ? Could it be that the existence of this rare, long-toothed breed of cats living and hunting these mountains is the reason that the jaguars spreading slowly north from Old Mexico have never carved themselves out a niche hereabouts? There’s that to consider, too, and in further support of the theory, we’ve seen damned little trace hereabouts of anything approaching the size of a puma or a lynx, either, just a scat and a few pawprints of one solitary bobcat, and not an awfully big one at that.
“It’s a long, hard journey down far enough south to be certain of finding a jaguar or three, and if we go that far, hell, we might as well cross over into California and see about roping us a real leopard. Last time I was in Southern California, them were both leopards and cheetahs to be found there, even some tigers and a whole hell of a lot of lions. They were why we had to leave, the good graze and hunting notwithstanding — there were just too damned many predators roaming about our herds and camps for comfort.
“And we’re back to little Arabella Lindsay again, by gum. It was her, constantly prodding at me orally and telepathically, who was primarily responsible for my suggestion to the chiefs that we find a pass, cross the ranges and winter that year in Southern California. She was so anxious to see with her own two eyes the cities I’d allowed her to see in my memories.
“And she discovered to her sorrow that my memories are the only place in which anyone will ever again see them. According to reports at the time, I believe that the vast Los Angeles area was struck by at least three and perhaps as many as five missiles, so it’s bound to still be hot, radioactively speaking, and consequently I wouldn’t allow any of my people really close to it, but what I saw of it from the hills to the west was truly heartbreaking when compared to my memories of better times.
“The missiles of course did very little real damage to most of the structures — what did them in was the horrific conflagrations that raged unchecked for as long as there was anything on which flames could feed. Also, it appeared that at some time between the time I left California and the time I returned with Arabella and the clans, there had been one or more really bad earthquakes in the Los Angeles area, and these had toppled anything standing after the effects of fires and years of natural decay. By then, there was precious little left to show above the abundant vegetation, the river and the numerous little lakes and tiny streams that man had ever settled or built there. That no one had resettled any part of the vast territory I ascribe to fear of radioactivity, no doubt passed on by word of mouth to each new generation of survivors, though a tribe of Mexican nomads we ran into farther south said that their forebears had tried to winter in the areas of rich graze and hunting on two occasions and had each time been forced to leave because of the hordes of large and small predators.
“So it just wouldn’t do to take the clans and the herds back into California — well, not far into it. anyway. We’d have to find a relatively secure place with plenty of graze and water and enough game to feed us, then send a strong party down westward to find and rope a big, healthy male leopard, truss him up and bring him back. And that is a task that I don’t look forward to, either, thank you kindly. We’ll have to time it for when our furry lady is in or near her estrus, or we’ll have to construct a cage to keep our leopard in until she is naturally receptive and fertile. And even then that mating may not take.
“No, I think the best thing for the clans to do is to bend their every effort toward finding more of her breed, around here, first, then farther afield if necessary, in other areas like this one.”
His thoughts and schemes and fledgling plans were interrupted by an insistent scratching at the outer face of the door, and he leaned over and opened it to admit the largest of the three cubs. The beastlet stalked in, seated himself, wrapped his thick tail around his big paws and mindspoke his imperious demands.
“Killer-of-Two-Legs is hungry. He wants more of the thin milk that the two-legs make from white sand and water. Get it for him, now!”
“If it’s milk you want,” beamed Milo, “I suggest you take up the matter with your mother, for you and she and your sisters have drunk up all of the powdered milk that we found here.”
“The Mother drives us away when we try to nurse,” was the cub’s reply. “Then get this cat some meat, a big, big piece. Get it now! Get it before Killer-of-Two-Legs hurts you.”
“Here we go again,” thought Milo to himself, slipping his hands back into his leather riding gloves with the thick cuffs of skirting-weight that reached almost to his elbows.
“Then go upstairs and tell one of those two-legs to hack you off a piece of the last kill and —”
“No!” The cub rippled a snarl that was amazingly deep to issue from so small a body. “Be warned, Two-Legs, this cat wants fresh meat, fresh, still warm and dripping blood, none of that old, cold meat, all icy and watery. You and the other two-legs go out and get meat for this cat, now! You will not be warned again.”
“Do you hear the wind howling, little cat?” beamed Milo. “A blizzard is raging outside this place, and no one can go out to hunt until it ends, until it’s howled itself out, so you may have your choice, a chunk of frozen venison, a frozen elk steak or nothing at all. And I issue you warning: try attacking me again and I’ll do to you just what I’ve done before; you’ll hurt, not me.”
But the warning did no slightest good, for without pause, the cub launched his furry body upward at Milo’s face, his teeth bared, forelegs and paws spread, claws out, pure murder in his eyes.
Milo’s powerful backhand slap took the cub in the sensitive nose with enough force to not only negate all the power of his spring but to actually reverse it and send the twenty-odd pounds of fur and flesh, muscle and bone tumbling back to finally thud against a concrete wall and sprawl in a corner of the small room, barely conscious, his big head having struck the wall first and hardest.
Milo sought out the mother cat’s mind and beamed, “My lady, I once more have had to hurt the male cub.”
“You are good,” she beamed back. “Had he not deserved to be hurt, you would not have hurt him any more than this one would have hurt him. I hunger. So do the cubs. You two-legs will bring us meat soon?”
“Yes, it will be soon, my lady,” Milo silently replied, then, still keeping a wary eye on his furry antagonist, now beginning to tremble all over and whimper in the corner, he beamed upstairs to the first mind
he could range, Djim Linsee. “Djim, the cat and the cubs are hungry, so one of you go up atop that tower and see if you can hack enough meat off one of those carcasses for the four of them. There should still be enough to go around, even if this blizzard lasts for another two days.”
“It will be done, Uncle Milo,” replied Djim, adding, “Yes, there is still much meat frozen up there. We are making a stew here, with deer and elk and some of the things from the old times that you found down there. It will be good, Uncle Milo, it already smells good, very, very good it smells.”
“I’ll just bet it does, Djim,” beamed Milo, grinning. “But you and the others take it easy on those powders and dried herbs. Not all of them mix together well, flavoring-wise, and when those are gone, there’ll be no more . . . ever. The finding of these was the wildest chance find out of inconceivable odds against such a cache surviving this long intact and still being accessible. Besides, too much of or a wrong mixture of some of those spices eaten by people not accustomed to them can make you violently ill, make you so sick you’ll pray for death. So beware.”
Memory of the first time the naive nomads had experimented on their own with the hoard of spices and condiments from Bedford’s store of foodstuffs and flavorings still could bring a smile to his lips. Some one of them had elected to dump a full three-ounce jar of piquinita peppers, most of a jar of hot curry powder, some cracked peppercorns, powdered ginger root, whole cloves and some ounces of tabasco into an otherwise innocent stew of venison and freeze-dried vegetables. The result had been a dish hot enough to have seared out any Mexican, Korean, Thai or Hunan palate and but a single mouthful of the stuff had been enough to send the nomads racing up the steel stairs to the top of the tower, there to jump down to where they could cram handfuls of snow into their burning mouths without pause or conscious thought until their sufferings had begun to ease. Milo had finally speared the larger chunks of meat from out the pot, scooped up as many of the vegetables as he could dumped and rinsed and scoured the pot, then filled it with clear water, added fresh fuel to the fire and boiled the retrieved food long enough to make it at least palatable, if tough and very much overcooked. The much shocked and thoroughly abashed nomads had been very wary of the strange bottles and jars for a while and were but just beginning to hesitantly try some of them once more in their cooking.
To the gasping, whimpering cub, Milo beamed, “I suggest that you go back to the den with your mother and sisters now. Other two-legs will presently be bringing down meat for you all.”
“You hurt this cat!” was the cub’s reply. “You hurt Killer-of-Two Legs . . . and he will not soon forget it.”
“Good,” he beamed. “Remember that hurting well, and whenever you think of attacking me or one of the others again, recall that the sure outcome will be more hurting of you.”
“You remember, Two-Legs,” beamed the cub bitterly. “You are bigger and stronger, now, but Killer-of-Two-Legs will be bigger than you, one day. On that day, he will claw loose your belly-parts, he will rip out your throat and drink your hot blood, he will —”
Milo broke in with his own beaming. “He will be dead before he so much as touches claw or tooth to any one of us two-legs, rather. Enter your mother’s memories and learn from them just how difficult it is to slay two-legs. Learn how easily I slew, in her sight and hearing, a dozen or more adult wolves on the day I came first into the den. You must quickly learn and accept a fact that your mother and your sisters already have learned and accepted; you cats and we two-legs are not enemies, but now friends; we are, however, not in any way servants, one of the other, but partners against the rest of this hard, cruel world and its adversities. One of us does not order the other or feel any compunction to do so, for we both willingly work together for the common good, as true Kindred should. In this and in no other way can cat and two-legs forge out a secure bond between us.”
Chapter VII
Project feethami had wound up with not two but three of the nearly extinct snow leopards, two females and one male; all three of these cats were zoo-born and -bred, and the largest weighed only some forty-six or so kilos; this was the male, and the females ran only a bit over two-thirds of that weight. The white jaguar which finally arrived, on the other hand, was quite another matter; he had been trapped while roaming wild as a full-grown adult, and a couple of years of caged captivity had not done much either to improve his temper or to reduce his desire to regain his freedom. Nor was he at all small, being twice as heavy as the male snow leopard, his weight spread over a longer-legged, rangier frame. He had cost over twice what the total had been for all three of the snow leopards, and so Bedford prayed that he would prove to be worth so large a chunk of the project’s already slim budget.
There were two other cats, both females. In order to obtain the initial pair of snow leopards, Bedford had had no option but to buy the two ringers — which the dealer had apparently been unable to unload on anyone else — which were derived of a bankruptcy sale that had marked the end of some underfunded European project. He was not sure just what to call them. The dealer had claimed that they were spotted lions, and they did bear a fleeting resemblance to leonine shape, but they were neither of them any larger than the white jaguar, lacked both the bony spur and characteristic tuft on the end of the tail and had upper cuspids as long in proportion to their heads and jaws as snow leopards. Although they were about two years old — to judge from their overall physical and sexual development — their reddish-tawny coats were speckled thickly on the back and sides with darker spots, with a few more lighter and less distinct ones even extending down the legs and onto the tail. Whatever they were, they were gentle, obviously used to the presence of humans and cooperative.
Bedford had, on the journey back with the four cats which would join the one female snow leopard already arrived, been very worried about the reception of the two strange felines. But he found he need not have so fretted, for Singh, Stekowski, Ruth Marberg and Zepur Baronian had all been ecstatic over the chance acquisition.
In the staff meeting later on the day he and the four cats had arrived back, Singh had explained their exceeding joy to him. “James, you are of course familiar with the recent success and the patenting of the Panthera spelaea replications by the Greek-Yugoslavian group? Well, what you may not know is that their efforts, though eminently successful, of course, were not truly original. No, there was a somewhat earlier project aimed at the selfsame replication: Panthera spelaea.
“That project was backed by an Italian investment group, and it overreached itself along many financial fronts. When there was no more money, almost all of the project’s physical assets and records were brought up by the hurriedly formed Greek-Yugoslavian group; they even hired on some of the original group’s personnel. All of this took place about eighteen months ago, and just how, at that time, two little cubs of no more than four or six months of age went astray and into the hands of this animal dealer, I cannot at all begin to imagine. If only he had known, he could have set almost any price for them and received it, too, had it gladly paid to him by the then-ongoing project in the Balkans.
“Awaiting only more detailed examination, we all here are firmly convinced that those two specimens are, can be nothing but, replications or reproduced examples of the Panthera spelaea — a spotted lion, somewhat smaller than the average of our extant lions, generally adapted to colder weather, denning in caves and possibly originally a predator of montane forests, like the uncia or snow leopard of today and, most likely, the extinct Panthera feethami, as well.”
“The unexpected possession of these two cats should be a really tremendous advantage to us, to our own project, Jim.” said Dr. Baronian. “We already have the feethami material in the lab freezer, so whenever the jaguar gets here, we can start to work. With all of us together —”
“But it will not be all of us together, Dr. Baronian!” snarled Harel, who had been sitting in glum silence since the beginning of the meeting. “I told you all from the v
ery outset, I will never have anything to do with, take any tiniest part in, replicating any damned, blood-drinking, murderous predator species.
“What now is to become of the bovines out there? Are they all to just be left to starve in the snow? Or is it the predaceous Mr. Bedford’s intention to have them slaughtered and butchered, one by one, to feed those stinking, treacherous cats . . . and his own unnatural meat-eating tendencies?” For the first time in several days, the big, beefy man emphasized his question by slamming his broad palm down on the table before him, sullen hatred in the stare he glared at the group at the other end of the table.
Bedford sighed resignedly. “Look, Dr. Harel, I’ll go through it one more time. See if you can get it into your head this time around. While I did order the skinning and butchering and hanging of the carcass of that wisent cow, I did not order her killed and I had nothing to do with the killing of her; she was killed in order to save Dr. Stekowski’s life. Yes, I ate and continue to eat of the carcass, just as I eat of the other meats in that cooler out there. I like game, this is excellent game-hunting country hereabouts, I hunt and so too do some other members of our staff, so there will continue to be game aging in the cooler no matter how much that fact displeases you.
“Insofar as feeding the cats is concerned, I’ve obtained some special licenses from the State Game Department to take elk and deer year-round from certain areas, and should the hunting fail at any time, I’ll have sides of beef brought up here for them, or mutton or goat or horse or whatever. Your precious shaggy bison and cattle and bastard cross-breeds will not be bothered, please believe me, whether or not you happen to be around to watch over them.”