by Andre Norton
The cargo master snapped the box shut and wedged it under his own body, lest another tube escape, then swept up a hand to snatch at the floater. It seemed to jerk, as though eluding his fingers.
But it did not escape Raven. Claws hooked, swung, and dragged the prize to the feline.
“Hold it, mate!” Grospar ordered. “Don’t bite it through!”
As if Raven had any intention of doing that. Man’s four-legged companions in space had been chosen because, among other traits, they possessed a well-developed sense of caution. The cat simply pressed the vial against the webbing in which he rested, summoning more strength to hold it there.
But the tube rolled, as though it had a will of its own and was fighting to escape. Raven stared into the unfrosted portion. Now he was sure he saw eyes—eyes that met his own. He blinked. They were—no! He would not—he would not!
Yet his warding paws moved against his wish, and the vial gained near-freedom even as the cabin was weighted once more with the partial gravity of ready-flight. As he fought to keep his trophy captive, his forelegs, insanely, did just the opposite of what he wanted: they opened. The tube spun lazily down to the floor—and met Grospar’s metal-soled boot.
Raven snapped the safety catch of his hammock and leaped, only to pass through a puff of greenish vapor that burned his eyes and brought a squall of pain from him. He landed on the cabin floor and rebounded a little, dazed and limp. The cargo master caught him up, but seconds later the man began to cough with a force that made him drop the cat to gasp and clutch at his own throat.
The feline hit the floor again. Rubbing a paw at his smarting eyes, he let out another cry as Grospar continued to hack, collapsing back onto his bunk. The Survey box joined Raven on the floor, and a second of the vials was jarred loose.
Out of that tube’s green gas skidded a reddish blur, an occurrence of which the sickened cat was only half aware. Then the blur made a scuttling approach to the container and its remaining vials. Raven strove to raise a paw but found himself unable to do so. However, while his eyes still hurt, his vision had cleared, and he could see what was happening around the mysterious cache.
The cargo master lay flat on his bunk, coughing in deep, racking bursts. But the tubes were all out of the case now, pulled free by the thing—no, two things—that had got out first. The breaking of each vial released more of the breath-stealing vapor to torment the rightful occupants of the cabin.
Those . . . creatures. The cat squinted. They were as large as his human partner’s longest finger, and they had four appendages, but they moved so fast it was hard to see more than that they used an upright position as well as scrambled on all fours. He sprang toward them and, to his utter astonishment, missed.
The cabin door signal sounded a note. Grospar’s head turned, and he tried to call out, but a strangled cough was the only sound he was able to make. However, it was a sufficient summons, and the door opened.
Raven squalled again—not in pain, this time, but at the thwarting of his performance of duty. Those elusive beings, avoiding Captain Ricer’s booted feet, vanished past him into the corridor. Determinedly the cat started after them, but his steps wavered, and he did not get far before the captain scooped him up.
Thus began a reign of, if not terror, at least fierce frustration for the crew of the Horus. The creatures from the Survey box seemed not only uncatchable but unseeable as well; but the wrack and ruin they appeared to deliberately cause was more evident every day.
Some cabins had their furnishings nearly wrecked, while smaller treasures were either bashed beyond repair or disappeared altogether. Across the bunks where off duty crew members were attempting to rest, the things began to scuttle—and worse. The medic treated several nasty bites as best he could.
Raven grew thin, apt to hiss warningly when approached by even his favorite shipmates, and always he hunted. At last, however, he managed to corner one of the enemy in Supply Storage, while it was busy tearing at some packets of the captain’s treasured Larmonte tea.
The cat had gotten his paws—or rather one paw—on the entity, only to be leaped upon by two of its kindred who had been devising devilment on a higher shelf. The impudent brutes had no fear of him but bit and snatched at his fur, tweaking tufts of it out of his skin. His battle cry soared into a yowl of pain, but he fought to hold his prize.
“What the—!” Rasidan, the steward and cook, loomed suddenly above the fray. Raven’s prisoner bit, hard, into its captor’s right front paw, and he snapped back, his teeth closing about one of the creature’s forelegs. Then a smothering cloth descended upon feline and foe as they fought, and the warring beings were lifted into the air. Tenaciously the cat held his grip, even when the knot formed of himself and his keening captive was dropped onto a hard surface, and the fabric loosened to fall free.
They were in the captain’s cabin, with crew members crowded around the pulldown leaf of the desk. Raven’s prey went abruptly limp, but still he did not release his hold. It was Grospar who reached down for the small body. His furred partner growled, body tensed to spring away. He was going to finish this catch! That’s what he was there for: to make sure that the ship—his ship—was free of such intruders.
“It’s all right, Raven,” the cargo master assured him quickly. “Let me have it.”
The cat held on, studying the situation. He mistrusted Grospar’s ability to keep a grip on the thing. It was far from dead, and he was sure that if he released it, it would vanish again. These invaders had already proved that they were too swift, too small to be managed by men.
“Raven!” Captain Ricer spoke now, and he held up a square of cloth. “I’m going to wrap this around it—then you let go.”
That was a definite order—a captain’s order— and even he had to obey. He ducked his chin, relaxing his jaws. As he did so, the being came to furious life, but the captain had it bagged. The cat edged back. His numerous wounds burned, and an evil taste filled his mouth; however, he had set his own mark on the menace. He moved forward again to lend the weight of his forepaws to the control of the heaving bundle, though his superior continued to pin it also.
“In that lower cupboard.” Ricer was giving Grospar directions. “Yes—that’s it!”
The cargo master had stooped and risen. What he placed upon the desk was equipment from his commander’s own private hobby. The captain, when the Horus had time in port on a lesser-known planet, hunted flying insects, then studied them in holding boxes of his own design. Since some of his captives had not only been large in size but equipped with menacing jaws, claws, stingers, and whatever other defenses nature had chosen to give them, the cages were indeed right and tight.
The one Grospar held at the ready was a cube of heavy netting with a thick metal floor. Into this the captain now transferred the frantically-wriggling contents of the improvised bag.
The cargo master instantly slammed down the top of the box with force enough to make it catch and lock—and just in time, for the creature sprang, only to be knocked back by the lowered flap.
“Now, then—” Ricer beckoned forward those who wished a closer look at one of their miniature nightmares of days past. Those of the crew who had gathered in his cabin closed in, staring at the cage and its inmate. For the first time, since the things moved with such speed, they could all view a specimen as it tugged and hurled itself against the wire-net walls that now enclosed it.
The body was covered with what seemed to be matted brownish-red fur, but the front paws, shaped not unlike human hands, were equipped with pointed talons that were now hooked into the screen barrier. An open mouth displayed similar armament in the form of a set of needlelike teeth, which were dripping a green liquid. The nose was flat and the face hairless about the jaw, cheeks, and eyes.
Its first battle rage was stilled, but the small nightmare still clung to the wire. Glittering blood-red eyes were fixed upon Ricer as he knelt down to bring himself closer to the surface of the flap-desk. Without looking, he groped along its
top, brought out a magnifier, and swung that circle of view glass between himself and the now-quiet prisoner.
Raven approached the other side of the holding box. He snorted at the musky odor that was so strong, then stopped, growling, as though he had come up against an unseen barrier. He sensed from the being an intense malignancy. He could pick up no fear whatever—only a raging fury.
“I—don’t—believe—it—” Captain Ricer accented each word he spoke, apparently wanting to deny the report given by his eyes.
“Don’t believe what?” questioned Medic Lothers as he pushed Raven to one side to better view the cage and its occupant.
“That,” Ricer declared slowly, “is a monkey!”
“A what?” Lothers asked the question for everyone.
“If that beast were about a hundred times larger—” The captain let his sentence trail off unfinished as he swung away from the table. He opened a cupboard and reached within, emerging with a reader-tape from his personal library. This tape he slapped into the viewer that shared the desktop with the cage and its captive.
The cat paid no attention to his commander’s behavior, not even to the picture that appeared on the screen as Ricer triggered keys. He was intent on what was happening before him.
The entity had released its clutch on the wires and dropped to the floor of the box, where it curled itself into a ball. All at once, Raven shook his head vigorously, feeling as though both his ears had been invaded by loudly-buzzing insects. After a moment, he realized that the creature was mind-calling—and in a manner he had never encountered before.
The feline could not interpret the sense of the message being sent, but he was certain that it was either a warning to the being’s own kind to take cover or a plea to them for help. The thing turned its head, staring at him. Again Raven could sense no fear—only a consuming rage.
In any grouping of wildlife there was always a leader. Even in an assembling of ships’ cats, such as occurred at times when a starport’s fields were crowded, one or two would take precedence, and the others would accord them room, as was required. This angry alien was not such a dominant one, but it seemed to believe that its mental broadcasts would reach its fellows. And perhaps that vast hatred had, indeed, reached a level of force in its projection to where it would bring aid. . . .
The men had moved away from the cage and were concentrating on the reader. Raven closed his ears to the argument that seemed to be rising among them—something about a comparison between the information on the tape and the size of the thing in the box. The cat was entirely intent on its broadcasting of near-insane anger.
Suddenly he made a move of his own. A sweep of paw struck the cage to the floor of the cabin, and an instant later he was beside it. A hand grabbed for the holding box; a second caught one of his own feet in a trap-tight clutch.
“What you trying to do, Cat?” It was Grospar who held and questioned him.
No time! Raven bit—hard. The cargo master yelled and loosed his grip. His furred partner offered no more aggression but rather jumped for the cage, sank teeth into its netting, and dragged it out into the passageway beyond.
The prisoner’s kin-ones were coming—the cat could not see them, but he knew. He yowled, standing directly before the box, which he was using as bait to draw the rest of the creatures out of hiding. Then a pair of space boots grazed his tail as Grospar stopped just behind him.
“Stun him!” someone yelled.
“No!” shouted the cargo master. “He’s got some sort of plan—I’ll swear to it!”
The feline heard this exchange as though it were a rumble of distant thunder that had no meaning for him. He bobbed his head and gave the box another shove.
Within its enclosure there was no stir; the tiny intruder was still enwrapped upon itself, concentrating on its call. Not for the first time Raven wished he could communicate with his human crewmates. True, he could convey broad outlines of feelings or ideas to Grospar, but not detailed ones such as he needed to share now. He could only—
The cat crouched between the men and the cage. Should these invaders turn away from the summons and seek hiding places, it might be a long time before they would be found and routed out. Let them come into the open to free their fellow, however, and any member of the crew with a battle-stunner might take them.
“By the Last Ray of Corbus—look—they’re coming!”
The cargo master had apparently sighted one of those scuttling shadows Raven had already sensed, though he was keeping most of his attention on the entity in its pen. The cat raised his still-bleeding forepaw and shook the box back and forth. The reaction was instantaneous—a fresh burst of defiance struck at him, revealing that the little brute was still both aware and angry.
The men had been exchanging a rapid-fire volley of suggestions, but a single word from the captain brought instant silence.
“Stunner—”
“Here?” challenged the medic immediately. Use of a stunner within the narrow confines of a corridor ran counter to all the never-questioned rules of ship safety.
The creatures were all in view now, though spread well apart. Once more Raven rattled the cage, then almost at once shook his head again. The original broadcast of wrath seemed a love pat compared to the silent waves of killing fury that now crashed into his mind, causing actual physical pain.
Through the red haze he forced himself to think: Get behind the ones who would rescue their fellow—cut off any retreat. But how could he achieve that position—and how would his own crewmates snare the things still loose? These were monkeys, with the intelligence of all their kind, but incredibly small in size and able to move at a speed too fast for eyes, human or feline, to follow—
Raven gave a last bat of his paw to the box, then turned around. As he had hoped, the cargo master was right behind him. With a swiftness rivaling that of the aliens, he leaped upward, hooking claws deep enough into Grospar’s ship suit to pierce skin. The man gripped the cat and ripped him free.
For a second time. Raven bit the hand that held him, thus achieving part of his desperate plan. He was hurled away (a spluttered oath loud in his ears) to land some distance ahead, well past the pen.
Perhaps what the cargo master called “luck” was truly on his side, for the cat by his actions had now placed the invaders between himself and the crew. The creatures scrabbled frantically, but escape was impossible from the section of corridor into which the mind-call of the captive had brought them. One tried to dart in Raven’s direction, and the feline responded with the hunter’s reflexes of his kind: he did not try to pin this being down but swatted it, straight back at its companions.
The men of the Horus had spread themselves across the other end of the passage where they stood forming a barrier, space boot to space boot. Once more Captain Ricer spoke the word that told how he would deal with this situation, but this time, as he turned to exit the corridor, he was not inviting debate:
“Stunner!”
Raven uttered a yowl of agony. The free monkeys were not attacking, but the beat of rage inside his head from the confined one was almost enough to knock him down. Almost, yes—but not quite. A stunner, though—the cat knew what such a weapon might do if fired at close quarters.
Retreat? No. That was a very fleeting thought. This was his ship, his territory, his!
The crew members on the other side of the cage drew back a fraction, and the creatures, who had seemed frozen in place by wariness, suddenly stirred. Raven felt a thrust of anger that was purely his own. Were Grospar and the rest going to give the enemy a chance to escape again?
But it was the captain for whom the men were making way. And he was carrying a tube that the cat had seen borne in action planetside only twice when lives had been threatened.
Instinctively he braced himself. There would be no sound, no visible shot fired—there would be—
Blackness swallowed him. The dark was painless, but it carried fear. He was in bonds, and he could not escape—not
even open his mouth to cry out a protest! Panic had almost overwhelmed him when a familiar scent reached his nose, his brain. Grospar—? Yes, the cargo master had picked him up, was cradling him.
“Raven! Come on, li’l shadow—”
A quick sharp stab in his shoulder, and the helpless weakness began to fade.
“That ought to bring him around—”
Those words broke through the blind bondage that no longer held so tightly. Raven opened his eyes. Medic Lothers was watching him, and behind him stood the captain. Grospar gave his friend a last hug and laid him down on the softness of a bunk. His returning senses registered the odors of the captain’s cabin.
“Got ‘em—every one o’ the buggers!”
Fortunately, because his head still felt too heavy to lift, Raven could see what was happening from where he lay. First the cage containing his “bait,” then Ricer’s insect-capturing net were being placed on the desk, and the bug-bag was bulging with inert bodies.
“Dead?” The cargo master, his hand still poised above the cat’s head to touch him gently now and again, had asked that.
The captain gingerly inserted fingers into the insect-net. Bringing forth one of the small bodies, he held it out to Lothers for a medical verdict.
“Well, it can evidently survive being stunned because ifs still breathing,” was the doctor’s reply. “Can’t tell whether it’s damaged, though—too alien.”
Ricer produced another collecting cage, then a third, and into these the creatures were placed. With the three miniature brigs lined up before him, the commander could finally perform a careful examination of the inmates.
“Survey can certainly have you,” he at last declared to the entities who might or might not awaken from their enforced slumber. Then, his prison inspection concluded, the captain swung around to Raven. Standing at attention, he lifted his right hand and touched his temple in the formal salute offered only on state occasions to valiant beings in the Star Service.
“Ship’s Guard,” he said solemnly, “well done.”