The Man-Kzin Wars 12 mw-12

by Matthew Joseph Harrington

  Richard was about to ask why he couldn't use kzinti goggles, when the displays appeared on the window before them. The one in front of him was familiar in style, with different kinds of information displayed in different colors of high chroma, arranged in rows and columns with any useful diagrams at the top. The one in front of Slaverexpert had kzinti script in deep purple written right across light gray diagrams, whose shapes were constantly shifting, just slightly. The writing moved around slowly within the diagrams. The positions of the diagrams underwent abrupt changes every few seconds, too. Just looking at it was disturbing; trying to get information out of it would have given him a bad headache very quickly. “Telepath should see this,” Richard murmured.

  He'd forgotten kzinti hearing. “Why?” said Slaverexpert.

  “Oh, a while back he was talking to us about the similarities in human and kzinti thinking. There's some fundamental differences in brain structure suggested here, and it might be of interest.”

  “Oh. Good, I thought I was going to have to wake him up. He doesn't sleep enough.” Before Richard could absorb the concept of a healthy kzin showing concern for a telepath, Slaverexpert went on, “He's right, though. The fact that your readout looks like something I'd watch to get to sleep merely reflects a difference in hunting style.” His ears curled up for a moment as the readouts changed several times. Then they uncurled, the readouts steadied, and he said, “Unfamiliar equipment. I've got it now.”

  Behind the window, waldoes opened the bin of roots and removed one. Richard had controls at his own station, and directed a sniffer to sample the air that had been in the container. “I did read somewhere that humans and kzinti are the only races to use fissionables to make bombs,” he remarked.

  “Odd. It seems such an obvious idea,” said Slaverexpert. “No thallium, but I didn't expect it. Air interesting?”

  “Nitrogen, oxygen, a little argon. Pretty standard habitable-planet issue,” Richard said, and heard the kzin snort in amusement. “Traces of medium-sized hydrocarbons.”

  “Urr?” Slaverexpert brought some new instruments into play, then said, “The root is rich in terpenes. And there is no taurine.”

  “Taurine?”

  “An amino acid human metabolism uses in dendrite connections. You do not synthesize it, so tree-of-life should be crammed with it to facilitate the change… Though you may have lost the ability to synthesize it due to the supply available in Earth prey—no, Jack Brennan had no difficulty… I am unable to detect any trace of steroid compounds. The roots from the Pak ship that came to Sol System were found to contain a hormone for rapid muscle and bone development. This does not appear to be tree-of-life,” Slaverexpert concluded.

  “Good!” Richard said. “So what is it?”

  “Let me try something.” A waldo took up the uncut half of the root, then tossed it at a wall. It bounced back. “It's rubber.”

  “What?”

  “Rubber. Rather, a long-chain molecule assembled from terpene monomers, suitable for insulation, seals, and padding. Hardenable and readily cast into nonconductive parts.”

  “Rubber,” said Richard, amused.

  “A valuable industrial material. I speculate that many of the life-forms we have found here will be tailored to produce such. Shall we investigate?”

  “Let's.” Now that fear was going, avarice had come out of hiding to put in a few words.

  Unreasonably many hours later, Richard said, “Is that the last?” and wiped his brow with a hand that, he noticed, was developing a twitch from operating waldo gloves for so long.

  “It is,” said Slaverexpert. “I marvel at your endurance.”

  “I'm ready to fall down,” Richard protested. “You're in much better shape.”

  “I possess medical enhancements added long ago to repair lethal injuries, and can produce my own natural stimulants at will. Nevertheless I am losing image persistence. I need exercise and sleep.”

  “Me too, not in that order.”

  “Urr. I can't remember whether you said there were any microorganisms present in anything.”

  “Just the handmade stuff in the cans.”

  “Good.” Slaverexpert cycled a sample box through the containment lock, put a few roots into it, and brought it out, saying, “These should be amus—What's wrong?”

  Richard had backed across the lab and was squinting. “I'm not that fond of mint.” Even the traces on the outside of the closed box were disagreeably strong.

  “You'll want to avoid the relaxroom, then, because I'll be bouncing one of these around. You don't like this? It seems quite pleasant to me.”

  Richard's throat was trying to close up. “Have to go,” he choked out, and fled.

  Telepath was in their quarters, looking like he just woke up, which was likely. Gay, off monitor duty, was already in the shower. Richard said to Telepath, “Excuse me please,” and began peeling off his suit.

  “Certainly. What smells so good?”

  “That's right, you slept through the analysis. Well, I've got time”—a pressure suit should not come off quickly—“so: there was a root that looked a lot like Pak protector root, but it turned out to be something that produced a useful organic polymer. You're smelling the monomer. There were roots that produced other polymers, bacteria that made enzymes that chelated trace elements from iodine to uranium, seeds for trees that collected other elements in their bark, other this and that. We're all going to be rich. You look better,” Richard realized.

  “Possibly the good news. I feel better. I'll return to my own quarters now, in case you two wish to get in some more breeding practice.” Telepath left.

  Richard, almost stripped, stared at the closed door for a moment. That had sounded like humor.

  Even in the shower, Gay was bleary with fatigue. She'd been watching everything, and hadn't had the stimulation of doing the actual work to keep her going. “You smell like a Verguuz bottle,” she said, frowning.

  “I knew there was a reason I don't like the stuff. That monomer in the roots. Kzinti apparently enjoy it.”

  “What did you do, roll in them?”

  “This is just what wafted over and stuck to my face when Slaverexpert got a closed box out of the containment. They're elastic, he's going to bat them around to wind down.”

  “Phew.” She used a squirter and began shampooing his hair.

  They'd gone straight to sleep. Richard had bad dreams, and awoke suddenly, remembering an obscure reference in chemistry. “Fuck,” he exclaimed.

  “Brush'r teeth,” Gay murmured, not awake.

  He was already headed for their library.

  He worked fast. Once he excluded cooking, most references to any sort of mint were in folk medicine, where their analgesic effects produced the illusion of recovery. He added a search for references to terpenes, and got false mint: nepetalactone. It was not a salicylate as mints were, but scent receptors et cetera, right, composed of two isoprene groups, aha! there's your monomer. Found in various Earth plants never successfully raised on other worlds, chiefly nepeta cataria.

  More commonly known as catnip.

  He wasn't aware of making any kind of sound, and Gay was later unable to describe the noise clearly, but she came running out and said, “Richard, what's wrong?”

  “The roots are made of catnip extract,” he said.

  She burst out laughing. Abruptly she stopped and covered her mouth, then uncovered it and said, “Oh my god.”

  “Uh-huh. It's in the relaxroom, thousands of times any sane concentration, and it's hours late to warn Charrgh-Captain. Any ideas?”

  She was paralyzed for a long moment, then sat at the other screen and began hunting. Soon she said, “Says here the effect only lasts a few minutes, and is followed by temporary immunity.”

  “Sounds like someone working from theory. Shebee used to get blitzed for about an hour, sleep it off for four, and repeat until the catnip was used up,” Richard said. He found the page she was on. “Also claims it has to be smelle
d, 'eating it has no effect.' What is this atad doing in our library?”

  “I don't know!” Gay said, frazzled. “Richard, I think we'd better get the stuff off the ship. Suit up and go out really carefully.”

  The door beeped.

  They both looked at it.

  Gay had the wit to turn on the intercom and say, “Is it important? We're a little busy,” putting a chuckle into her voice.

  “You aren't either,” said a voice much like Telepath's. “The crew are stalking one another, Charrgh-Captain is running on the walls, Weapons Officer is chasing his tail, and I cannot awaken Slaverexpert for more than a few seconds at a time. We need to make plans.”

  They looked at each other. “Admit,” they said in unison.

  Telepath came in, closed the door, and said, “Better lock.”

  They did. Richard might have hit his switch first.

  Telepath was neatly groomed, relaxed, and clear-eyed. “I heard you wake up all the way from my quarters,” he said, and settled on the deck. “You should eat. I already have.”

  He smelled of mint. “Are you okay?” Gay said.

  “Depends what you mean. Like everyone else but you two, I'm dead drunk. It's just that in my case it happens to be an improvement.”

  “You heard us?” Richard repeated.

  “You only. I seem to have the… hang of it? Is that a fabric-working term? You make your language do such funny things. That's part of it. I'll use a metaphor. Think of thought as hunting. A kzin sees his prey and pounces. Humans follow it wherever it wanders until it tires and stops moving. Right now I seem to be chasing mice all over a crowded warehouse.” He took a deep breath, sat up, and brought his tail around his feet. “I'm able to follow your train of thought,” he clarified.

  “This stuff has improved your filters?” Gay guessed.

  Telepath shook his head. “If anything they're weaker. It's just destroyed my sense of criticism. Everything's great.”

  “What do we do now?” Richard said.

  “I already said. Eat.”

  “I meant about our situation.”

  “So do I. You'll think better.”

  That was undoubtedly true. They got meals from the dispenser. Gay said, “This doesn't bother you?”

  “Right now I can hear three Heroes trying to eat textiles. Reconstituted vegetables are a decided improvement.”

  While they ate Telepath sat quietly, aside from an occasional soft rumble. His eyes narrowed briefly each time he exhaled, which when Shebee had done it indicated great comfort. It was something only done at home.

  When Richard realized this, Telepath focused on him, leaned forward a bit, and gave a sleepy-looking blink: a gesture of abiding fondness. “This room and your company have been a good time in my life,” Telepath said. “And no, pity does not offend me. It is many steps up from fear and contempt.” The comment made Richard acutely self-conscious, and Telepath added, “There is truly no need to reply to everything I say. I spoke to clarify: I feel good. Eat.”

  As he finished, Richard realized who Telepath was making him think of. “Gay, remember Steve Rhee?”

  “Richard,” she reproved.

  “I am not offended,” Telepath said. “But thank you for your concern.”

  Steve Rhee was a Jinxian immigrant who had settled outside Auslandburg and started a farm, a café, a bakery, a music shop, and a furrier's, in that order. The fur business was successful. Through all his business failures he had never lost his cheerful attitude, due to his intrinsic good nature, his enjoyment of living under a third of the gravity he was accustomed to, and his careful selective breeding of a staggeringly powerful strain of hemp on his homestead plot. The fact that smoking hemp never caught on with Wunderlanders was not a problem; his own consumption of the stuff was vast, and what he didn't smoke, stray Morlocks, living in deep woods now that there were no uncollapsed caves in the region, came out and ate all night. He would go out among the stupefied creatures in the morning and snap their necks, which was where he got so many pelts.

  “So he brought the hemp with him?” Telepath remarked.

  “No, Wunderlanders have grown it for cheap cordage for a long time,” Gay said. “It's pretty strong, for a natural fiber. And it makes wonderful toys.” She looked at Richard suddenly.

  “Shebee,” he agreed, not catching on yet. Gay stood and started to examine the dispenser settings. Telepath began chuckling. “What have I missed?” Richard said, and got it. “Oh.” Then he began laughing too.

  “This may just get us into the control room,” she said, and tapped switches.

  After the dispenser had worked for a minute or so, Telepath said, “First Engineer is sneaking up the corridor outside.”

  “Do tell,” said Gay. She stopped the dispenser, took out what it had made so far, and handed it to Richard before restarting. “Care to do the honors?”

  “Sure.” Richard unlocked, opened the door manually, tossed out the fist-sized fuzzy ball of twine, and sealed the door again.

  They waited.

  Shortly there was a thump from the wall.

  It was followed, after a pause, by several more in quick succession. An intermittent series of further thumps moved off down the corridor over the next couple of minutes. All three listeners kept as quiet as possible. At one point Gay shifted her head as if to speak, but Telepath softly placed a fingertip against her lips. Then he took it away, gave her a sidelong look, and, while Gay tried desperately to keep her helpless laughter silent, wiped his perfectly dry finger repeatedly on his fur.

  By and by Telepath said, “He's out of earshot.”

  “What was that about?” Richard said, pointing at Telepath's hand.

  Gay was still shaking, and made as if to grab something with her mouth. Telepath said, “She had a sudden urge to nibble on my finger. I believe the term is contact high. I think I had better block you two out for the duration; there appears to be feedback.”

  Richard finally figured out something that had been bothering him on a subliminal level, and found he couldn't think of a courteous way to bring it up: Telepath was talking a lot more clearly.

  “I'm less self-conscious,” Telepath said. “And I can detect the way you use your own vocal apparatus. I think perhaps sthondat lymph may not be an amplifier at all, but a tranquilizer—my mind is wandering. We will need Slaverexpert.”

  “We will?” Richard said.

  “I cannot fly a ship.”

  “He can?” said Richard, just as Gay said, “Can't you read the others?”

  “He can. I can read the others readily, if all I want to do is chase my tuft. First Engineer is currently the most rational of them.”

  “Oh great,” Richard said. “Telepath, Slaverexpert must have gotten the biggest dose of all!”

  “He can control his biological responses.”

  “I thought you couldn't read his mind.”

  “I can't. But nobody will duel with him.”

  That was indicative, all right. Modern kzinti wouldn't fight unless they had a chance of winning. “Okay, how do we get to him?”

  “We need to isolate the others. Charrgh-Captain first, so I only have to change the security codes once.” Telepath stopped talking, and suddenly his ears waggled as he turned to look at Gay. “I think that could work,” he said.

  The procession started with a short figure in a pressure suit, followed by a larger figure in a similar suit, followed by a smallish kzin whose tail was generously decorated with silver ribbons tied into bows. A bell was tied to the tuft. In one hand the lead figure carried an object like a drumhead, with miniature cymbals set into the rim. This was shaken continuously except when it was struck with the other hand.

  The procession set out from the observers' quarters. Progress was slow, as there were evidently rules concerning the length and rhythm of the paces taken: They were short, and often a step or two went backward. A good deal of noisemaking was clearly required as well. No fewer than five kzinti gave the group immedi
ate and undivided attention on the trip to the bridge. Fourth Trooper seemed to consider joining in as they passed, but was distracted by a fragment falling off his chunk of vegetable.

  Telepath buzzed for entrance, and they paraded in a little circle while awaiting a reply. It was not prompt. “I do not believe we're going through a shipful of Heroes in a conga line,” Richard said over the suit radio.

  “Then where do you believe you are?” Telepath said interestedly.

  Ignoring Gay's sudden laughter, Richard mused, “I suppose I could be in a tank with that ARM general doing synthetic-perception experiments on me.”

  Gay said, still laughing, “Why would the ARM do that?”

  “Why not?”

  The hatch opened before Gay could think of a reply, and she banged her tambourine and marched through.

  They stopped performing once the hatch was shut again, but Charrgh-Captain looked at them for a long time before speaking. Finally he said, “Why were you doing that?”

  “To avoid attention, sir,” Richard said through the suit speaker.

  One of the advantages of dealing with almost anyone of any intelligent species is that when you say something that makes no sense to him, he comes up with his own explanation. As expected, Charrgh-Captain thought this over, gave a brief snort of what he supposed to be comprehension, and said, “What do you want? I'm very busy.”

  This was manifestly true. Charrgh-Captain had apparently been alone on the bridge. That is, there did not appear to be room for another kzin underneath the incredible quantity of shredded packing foam covering every available surface there, said surfaces including the top of the kzin's head.

  “Noble Sir,” Telepath said, “we came seeking your wisdom to counsel us in a matter of grave importance to the security of this vessel and success of the mission.”