The Man-Kzin Wars 02

BRIAR PATCH by Dean Ing

If Locklear had been thinking straight, he never would have stayed in the god business. But when a man has been thrust into the Fourth Man-Kzin War, won peace with honor from the tigerlike Kzinti on a synthetic zoo planet, and released long-stored specimens so that his vast prison compound resembles the Kzin homeworld, it's hard for that man to keep his sense of mortality.

It's hard, that is, until someone decides to kill him. His first mistake was lust, impure and simple. A week after he paroled Scarface, the one surviving Kzin warrior, Locklear admitted his problem during supper. “All that caterwauling in the ravine,” he said, refilling his bowl from the hearth stewpot, “is driving me nuts. Good thing you haven't let the rest of those Kzinti out of stasis; the racket would be unbelievable!”

Scarface wiped his muzzle with a brawny forearm and handed his own bowl to Kit, his new mate. The darkness of the huge Kzersatz region was tempered only by coals, but Locklear saw those coals flicker in Scarface's cat eyes. “A condition of my surrender was that you release Kit to me,” the big Kzin growled. “And besides; do humans mate so quietly?”

Because they were speaking Kzin, the word Scarface had used was actually “ch’rowl!” — itself a sexual goad. Kit, who was refilling the bowl, let slip a tiny mew of surprise and pleasure. “Please, milord,” she said, offering the bowl to Scarface. “Poor Rockear is already over stimulated. Is it not so?” Her huge eyes flicked to Locklear, whom she had grown to know quite well after Locklear waked her from age-long sleep.

“Dead right,” Locklear agreed with a morose glance. “Not by the word; by the goddamn deed!”

“She is mine,” Scarface grinned; a Kzin grin, the kind with big fangs and no amusement.

“Calm down. I may have been an animal psychologist, but I only have letches for human females,” Locklear gloomed toward his Kzin companions. “And every night when I hear you two flattening the grass out there,” he nodded past the half-built walls of the hut, “I get, uh,…” He did not know how to translate “horny” into Kzin.

“You get the urge to travel!”, Scarface finished, making it not quite a suggestion. The massive Kzin stared into darkness as if peering across the force walls surrounding Kzersatz. Those towering invisible walls separated the air, and lifeforms, of Kzersatz from other synthetic compounds of this incredible planet, Zoo. “I can see the treetops in the next compound as easily as you, Locklear. But I see no monkeys in them.”

Before his defeat, Scarface had been “Graf-Commander.” The same strict Kzin honor that bound him to his surrender, forbade him to curse his captor as a monkey. But he could still sharpen the barb of his wit. Kit, with real affection for Locklear, did not approve. “Be nice,” she hissed to her mate.

“Forget it,” Locklear told her, stabbing with his Kzin w'tsai blade for a hunk of meat in his stew. “Kit, he's stuck with his military code, and it won't let him insist that his captor get the hell out of here. But he's right. I still don't know if that next compound I call Newduvai is really Earthlike.” He smiled at Scarface, remembering not to show his teeth, and added, “Or whether it has my kind of monkey.”

“And we must not try to find out until your war wounds have completely healed,” Kit replied.

The eyes of man and Kzin warrior met. “Whoa,” Locklear said quickly, sparing Scarface the trouble. “We won't be scouting over there; I will, but you won't. I'm an ethologist,” he went on, holding up a hand to bar Kit's interruption. “If Newduvai is as completely stocked as Kzersatz, somebody — maybe the Outsiders, maybe not, but damn certain a long time ago — somebody intended all these compounds to be kept separate. Now, I won't say I haven't played god here a little…”

“And intend to play it over there a lot,” said Kit, who had never yet surrendered to anyone.

“Hear me out. I'm not going to start mixing species from Kzersatz and Newduvai any more than I already have, and that's final.” He pried experimentally at the scab running down his knife arm. “But I'm pretty much healed, thanks to your medkit, Scarface. And I meant it when I said you'd have free run of this place. It's intended for Kzinti, not humans. High time I took your lifeboat over those force walls to Newduvai.”

“Boots will miss you,” said Kit.

Locklear smiled, recalling the other Kzin female he'd released from stasis in a very pregnant condition. According to Kit, a Kzin mother would not emerge from her birthing crèche until the eyes of her twins had opened — another week, at least. “Give her my love,” he said, and swilled the last of his stew.

“A pity you will not do that yourself,” Kit sighed.

“Milady.” Scarface became, for the moment, every inch a Graf-Commander. “Would you ask me to ch'rowl a human female?” He waited for Kit to control her mixed expression. “Then please be silent on the subject. Locklear is a warrior who knows what he fights for.”

Locklear yawned. “There's an old song that says, 'Ain't gonna study war no more,' and a slogan that goes, 'Make love, not war.'”

Kit stood up with a fetching twitch of her tail. “I believe our leader has spoken, milord,” she purred.

Locklear watched them swaying together in the night, and his parting call was plaintive. “Just try and keep it down, okay? A fellow needs his sleep.”

The Kzin lifeboat was over ten meters long, well armed and furnished with emergency rations. In accord with their handshake armistice, Scarface had given flight instructions to his human pupil after disabling the hyperwave portion of its comm set. He had given no instructions on armament because Locklear, a peaceable man, saw no further use for anything larger than a sidearm. Neither of them could do much to make the lifeboat seating comfortable for Locklear, who was small even by human standards in an acceleration couch meant for a two hundred-kilo Kzin.

Locklear paused in the airlock in midmorning and raised one arm in a universal peace sign. Scarface returned it. “I'll call you now and then, if those force walls don't stop the signal,” Locklear called. “If you let your other Kzinti out of stasis, call and tell me how it works out.”

“Keep your tail dry, Rockear,” Kit called, perhaps forgetting he lacked that appendage — a compliment, of sorts.

“Will do,” he called back as the airlock swung shut. Moments later, he brought the little craft to life and, cursing the cradle-rock motion that branded him a novice, urged the lifeboat into the yellow sky of Kzersatz.

Locklear made one pass, a “goodbye sweep,” high above the region with its yellow and orange vegetation, taking care to stay well inside the frostline that defined those invisible force walls. He spotted the cave from the still-flattened grass where Kit had herded the awakened animals from the crypt and their sleep of forty thousand years, then steepened his climb and used aero boost to begin his trajectory. No telling whether the force walls stopped suddenly, but he did not want to find out by plowing into the damned things. It was enough to know they stopped below orbital height, and that he could toss the lifeboat from Kzersatz to Newduvai in a low-energy ballistic arc.

And he knew enough to conserve energy in the craft's main accumulators because one day, when the damned stupid Man-Kzin War was over, he'd need the energy to jump from Zoo to some part of known space. Unless, he amended silently, somebody found Zoo first. The war might already be over, and certainly the warlike Kzinti must have the coordinates of Zoo…

Then he was at the top of his trajectory, seeing the Planetary curvature of Zoo, noting the tiny satellite sunlets that bathed hundred-mile-diameter regions in light, realizing that a warship could condemn any one of those circular regions to death with one well placed shot against its synthetic, automated little sun. He was already past the circular force walls now, and felt an enormous temptation to slow the ship by main accumulator energy. A good pilot could lower that lifeboat down between the walls of those force cylinders, in the hard vacuum between compounds. Outsiders might be lurking there, idly studying the specimens through invisible walls.

But Locklear was no expert with a Kzin lifeboat, not yet, and he had to use his wristcomp to translate the warning on the console screen. He set the wing extensions just in time to avoid heavy buffeting, thankful that he had not needed orbital speed to manage his brief trajectory. He bobbled a maneuver once, twice, then felt the drag of Newduvai's atmosphere on the lifeboat and gave the lifting surfaces fall extension. He put the craft into a shallow bank to starboard, keeping the vast circular frostline far to portside, and punched in an autopilot instruction. Only then did he dare to turn his gaze down on Newduvai.

Like Kzersatz it boasted a big lake, but this one glinted in a sun heartbreakingly like Earth's. A rugged jumble of cliffs soared into cloud at one side of the region, and green hills mounded above plains of mottled hues: tan, brown, green, Oh, God, all that green! He'd forgotten, in the saffron of Kzersatz, how much he missed the emerald of grass, the blue of sky, the darker dusty green of Earth forests. For it was, in every respect, perfectly Earthlike. He wiped his misting eyes, grinned at himself for such foolishness, and eased the lifeboat down to a lazy circular course that kept him two thousand meters above the terrain. If the builders of Zoo were consistent, one of those shallow creekbeds would begin not in a marshy meadow but in a horizontal shaft. And there he would find— he dared not think it through any further.

After his first complete circuit of Newduvai, he knew it had no herds of animals. No birds dotted the lakeshore; no bugs whacked his viewport. A dozen streams meandered and leapt down from the frostline where clouds dumped their moisture against cold encircling force walls. One stream ended in a second small lake with no obvious outlet, but none of the creeks or dry-washes began with a cave.

Mindful of his clumsiness in this alien craft, Locklear set it down in soft sand where a drywash delta met the kidney-shaped lake. After further consulting between his wristcomp and the ship's computer, he punched in his most important queries and listened to the ship cool while its sensors analyzed Newduvai.

Gravity: Earth normal. Atmosphere, solar flux, and temperature: all Earth normal. “And not a critter in sight,” he told the cabin walls. In a burst of insight, he asked the computer to list anything that might be a health hazard to a Kzin. If man and Kzin could make steaks of each other, they probably should fear the same pathogens. The computer took its time, but its most fearsome finding was of tetanus in the dust.

He waited no longer, thrusting at the airlock in his hurry, filling his lungs with a rich soup of odors, and found his eyes brimming again as he stepped onto a little piece of Earth. Smells, he reflected, really got you back to basics. Scents of cedar, of dust, of grasses and yes, of wildflowers. Just like home — yet, in some skin-prickling way, not quite.

Locklear sat down on the sand then, with an earthlike sunlet baking his back from a turquoise sky, and he wept. Outsiders or not, any bunch that could engineer a piece of home on the rim of known space couldn't be all bad.

He was tasting the lake water's very faint brackishness when, in a process that took less than a minute, the sunlight dimmed and was gone. “But it's only noontime,” he protested, and then laughed at himself and made a notation on his wristcomp, using its faint light to guide him back to the airlock.

As with Kzersatz, he saw no stars; and then he realized that the position of Newduvai's sun had been halfway to the horizon when — almost as it happened on Kzersatz — the daily ration of sunlight was quenched. Why should Newduvai's sun keep the same time as that of Kzersatz? It didn't; nor did it wink off as suddenly as that of Kzersatz.

He activated the still-functioning local mode of the lifeboat's comm set, intending to pass his findings on to Scarface. No response. Scarface's handset was an all-band unit; perhaps some wavelength could bounce off of debris from the Kzin cruiser scuttled in orbit but Locklear knew that was a slender hope, and soon it seemed no hope at all. He spent the longest few hours of his life then, turning floodlights on the lake in the forlorn hope of seeing a fish leap, and with the vague fear that a tyrannosaur might pay him a social call. But no matter where he turned the lights he saw no gleam of eyes, and the sand was innocent of any tracks. Sleep would not come until he began to address the problem of the stasis crypt in logical ways.

Locklear came up from his seat with a bound, facing a sun that brightened as he watched. His wristcomp said not quite twelve hours had passed since the sunlet dimmed. His belly said it was late. His memory said yes, by God, there was one likely plan for locating that horizontal shaft: fly very near the frostline and scan every dark cranny that was two hundred meters or so inside the force walls. On Kzersatz, the stasis crypt had ended exactly beneath the frostline, perhaps a portal for those who'd built Zoo. And the front entrance had been two hundred meters inside the force walls.

He lifted the lifeboat slowly, ignoring hunger pangs, beginning to plot a rough map of Newduvai on the computer screen because he did not know how to make the computer do it for him. Soon, he passed a dry plateau with date palms growing in its declivities and followed the ship's shadow to more fertile soil. Near frostline, he set the aeroturbine reactor just above idle and, moving briskly a hundred meters above the ground, began a careful scan of the terrain because he was not expert enough with Kzin computers to automate the search.

After three hours he had covered more than half of his sweep around Newduvai, past semi desert and grassy fields to pine-dotted mountain slopes, and the lifeboat's reactor coolant was overheating from the slow pace. Locklear set the craft down nicely near that smaller mountain lake, chopped all power systems, and headed for scrubby trees in the near distance. Scattered among the pines were cedar and small oak. Nearer stood tall poplar and chestnut, invaded by wild grape with immature fruit. But nearest of all, the reason for his landing here, were gnarled little pear trees and, amid wild shoots of rank growth, trees laden with small ripe plums. He wolfed them down until juice dripped from his chin, washed in the lake, and then found the pears unripe. No matter: he'd seen dates, grapes, and chestnut, which suggested a model of some Mediterranean region. After identifying juniper, oleander, and honeysuckle, he sent his wristcomp scurrying through its megabytes and narrowed his opinion of the area: a surrogate slice of Asia Minor.

He might have sat on sunwarmed stones until dark, lulled by this sensation of being, somehow, back home without a care. But then he glanced far across the lower hills and saw, proceeding slowly across a parched desert plateau many miles distant, a whirlwind with its whiplike curve and bloom of dust where it touched the soil.

“Uh-huh! That's how you reseed plants without insect vectors,” he said aloud to the builders of Zoo. “But whirlwinds don't make honey, and they'll sting anyway. Hell, even I can play god better than that,” he said, and bore a pocketful of plums into the lifeboat, filled once more with the itch to find the cave that might not even exist on Newduvai.

But it was there, all right. Locklear saw it only because of the perfect arc of obsidian, gleaming through a tangle of brush that had grown around the cave mouth.

He made a botch of the landing because he was trembling with anticipation. A corner of his mind kept warning him not to assume everything here was the same as on Kzersatz, so Locklear stopped just outside that brush-choked entrance. His w'tsai blade made short work of the brush, revealing a polished floor. He strode forward, w'tsai in one hand, his big Kzin sidearm in the other, to the now-familiar luminous film that flickered, several meters inside the cave mouth, across an obsidian portal. He thrust his blade through the film and saw, as he had expected to see, stronger light flash behind the portal. Then he stepped through and stopped, listening.

He might have been back in the Kzersatz crypt: a quiet so deep his own breathing made echoes; the long obsidian central passage, with nine branches on each side, ending in a frost-covered force wall that filled the passageway. And the clear plastic containers ranked in the side passages were of three sizes on smooth metal bases, as expected. But Locklear took one look at the nearest specimen, spinning slowly in its stasis cage, and knew that here the resemblance to Kzersatz ended forever.

The monster lay in something like a fetal crouch, tumbling slowly in response to the grav polarizer as it had been doing for many thousands of years. It was black, with great forward-curving horns and heavy shoulders, and when released — if anyone dared, he amended — it would stand six feet at the shoulder.

Locklear figured its weight at a ton. Some European zoologists had once tried to breed cattle back to this brute, but with scant success, and Locklear had not seen so much as a sketch of it since his undergrad work. It was a bull aurochs, a beast which had survived on Earth into historic times; and counting the cows, Locklear realized there were over forty of them.

No point in kidding himself about his priorities. Locklear walked past the stasized camels and gerbils, hurried faster beyond small horses and cheetahs and bats, began to trot as he ran to the next passage past lions and hares and grouse, and was sprinting as he passed whole schools of fish (without water? Why the hell not? They were in stasis, he reminded himself) in their respective containers. He was out of breath by the time he dashed between specimens of reindeer and saw the monkeys.

No! A mistake any Kzin might have made, but… “How could I play such a shameful joke on myself?” They were in fetal curls, and some of them boasted a lot of body hair. And each of them, Locklear realized, was human.

In a kind of reverence he studied them all, careful to avoid touching the metal bases which, on Kzersatz, opened the cages and released the specimens. Narrow headed and swarthy they were, no taller than he, with heavy brow ridges and high cheekbones. Noses like prizefighters; forearms like blacksmiths; and some had pendulous mammaries and a few had— had— “Tits,” he breathed. “There's a difference! Thank you, God.”

Men and women like these had first been studied in a river valley near old Düsseldorf, hardy folk who had preceded modern humans on Earth and, in all probability, had intermarried with them until forty or fifty thousand years before. Locklear, rubbing at the gooseflesh on his arms, began to study each of the stasised nudes with great care. He would need every possible advantage because they would be disoriented, perhaps even furious, when they woke. And the last thing Locklear needed was to start off on the wrong foot with a frenzied Neanderthaler.

Only an idiot would release a mob of Neanderthal hunters into a tiny world without taking steps to protect endangered game animals. The killing of a dozen deer might doom the rest of that species to slow extinction here. On the other hand, Locklear might have released all the animals and waited for a season or more. But certain of the young women in stasis were not exactly repellant, and he did not intend to wait a year before making their acquaintance. Besides, his notes on a Neanderthal community could make him famous on a dozen worlds, and Locklear was anxious to get on with it.

His second option was to wake the people and guide them, by force if necessary, outside to fruits and grains. But each of them would see those stasized animals, probably as meat on the hoof, and might not respond to his demands. It was beyond belief that any of them would speak a language he knew. Then it struck him that he already knew how to disassemble a stasis cage, and that he had as much time as he needed. With a longing glance backward, Locklear retraced his steps to the lifeboat and started looking for something with wheels.

But Kzin lifeboats do not carry cargo dollies, and the sun of Newduvai had dimmed before he found a way to remove the wheeled carriage below the reactor's heat exchanger unit. Evidently the unit needed replacement often enough that Kzin engineers installed a carriage with it. That being so, Locklear decided not to use the lifeboat's reactor any more than he had to.

He worked until hunger and aching muscles drove him to the cabin where he cut slices of bricklike Kzin rations and ate plums for dessert. But before he fell asleep, Locklear made some decisions that might save his hide. The lifeboat must be hidden away from inquisitive savage fingers; he would even camouflage the stasis crypt so that those savages would not know what lay inside; and it was absolutely crucial that he present himself as a shaman of great power. Without a few tawdry magics, he might not be able to distance himself as an observer; might even be challenged to combat by some strong male. And Locklear remembered those hornlike fingernails and bulging muscles all too well. He saw no sense in shooting a man, even a Neanderthal, merely to prove a point that could be made in peaceable ways.

He spent over a week preparing his hardware. His trials on Kzersatz had taught him how, when all you've got is a hammer, the whole world is a nail; and that you must hammer out a few other tools as soon as possible. He soon found the lifeboat's military toolbox complete with wire, pistol-grip arc welder, and motorized drill.

He took time off to gather fruit and to let his frustrations drain away. It was hard not to throw rocks at the sky when he commanded a state-of-the-art Kzin craft, yet could not cannibalize much of it for the things he needed. “Maybe I should release a dog from stasis so I could kick it,” he told himself aloud, while attaching an oak branch as a wagon tongue for the wheeled carriage. But lacking any other game, he figured, the dog would probably attack before he did.

Then he used oak staves to lever a cage base up, with flat stones as blocks, and eased his makeshift wagon beneath. The doe inside was heavy with young. Most likely, she would retreat far from him before bearing her fawns, and he knew what to do with the tuneable grav polarizer below that cage. Soon the clear plastic container sat gleaming in the sun, and Locklear poked hard at the base before retreating to the cave mouth.

As on Kzersatz, the container levered up, the red doe sank to the cage base, and the base slid forward. A moment later the creature moved, stood with lovely slender limbs shaking, and then saw him waving an oak stave. She reached grassy turf in one graceful bound and sped off with leaps he watched in admiration. Then, feeling somehow more lonely as the doe vanished, he sighed and disconnected the plastic container, then set about taking the entire cage to pieces. Already experienced with these gadgets, he would need at least two of the grav polarizer units before he could move stasized specimens outside with ease.

Disconnected from the stasis unit, a polarizer toroid with its power source and wiring could be tuned to lift varied loads; for example, a container housing a school of fish. The main thing was to avoid tipping it, which Locklear managed by wiring the polarizer securely to the underside of his wheeled carriage. Another hour saw him tugging his burden to the airlock, where he wrestled that entire, still-functioning cageful of fish inside. The fish, he saw, had sucking mouths meant for bottom-feeding on vegetable trash. They looked rather like carp or tilapia. Raising the lifeboat with great care, he eased toward the big lake some miles distant. It was no great trick to dump the squirming mass of life from the airlock port into the lake from a height of two meters, and then he celebrated by landing near the first laden fig tree he saw. Munching and lazing in the sun, he decided that his fortunes were looking up. But then, Locklear had been wrong before…

He knew that his next steps must be planned carefully. Before hiding the Kzin craft away he must duplicate the airboat he had built on Kzersatz. After an exhaustive search — meanwhile mapping Newduvai's major features — he felled and stripped slender pines, hauling them in the lifeboat to his favorite spot near the small mountain lake. By now he had found a temporary spot in a barren cleft near frostline to hide the lifeboat itself, and began by stripping off its medium-caliber beam weapons from extension struts. The strut skins were attached by long screws, which Locklear saved. The weapon wiring came in handy, too, as he began fitting the raftlike platform of his airboat together. When he realized that the lifeboat's slings and emergency seats could be stripped for a fabric sail, he began to feel a familiar excitement.

This airboat was larger than his first, with its single sail and swiveling double-pole keel for balance. With wires for rigging, he could hunker down just behind the mast and operate the gravity control vernier through a slot in the flat deck. He could carry over two hundred kilos of ballast, the mass of a stasis cage with a human specimen inside, far from the crypt before setting that specimen free. “I'll have to carry the cage back, of course. Who knows what trouble a savage might create, fiddling with a stasis cage?” He snorted at himself; he'd almost said “monkeying,” and it was dangerous to assume he was smarter than these ancient people. But wasn't he, really? If Neanderthalers had died out on Earth, they must have been inferior in some way. Well, he was sure as hell going to find out.

If his new airboat was larger than the first, it was also more unwieldy. He used it to ferry logs to his cabin site at the small lake, cursing his need to tack in the light breezes, wishing he had a better propulsion system, for over a week before the solution hit him.

At the time he was debating the release of more animals. The mammoths, he promised himself, would come last. No wonder the builders of Newduvai had left them nearest the crypt entrance! Their cage tops would each make a dandy greenhouse and their grav polarizers would lift tons. Or push tons.

“Some things don't change,” he told himself, laughing aloud. “I was dumb on Kzersatz and I've been dumb here.” So he released the hares, gerbils, grouse, and some other species of bird with beaks meant for crunching seeds. He promptly installed their grav units around his airboat seat for propulsion, removing the mast and keel poles for reuse as cabin roof beams. That was the day Locklear nearly killed himself caroming off the lake's surface at sixty miles an hour, whooping like a fool. Now the homemade craft was no longer a boat; it was a scooter, and would scoot with an extra fifty kilos of cargo.

It might have been elation with the sporty performance of his scooter that made him so optimistic, failing to remember that you have to kill pessimists, but optimists do it themselves. The log cabin, five meters square with fireplace and frond-thatched shed roof, needed only a pallet of sling fabric and fragrant boughs beneath. A big pallet, he decided. It had been Kit who taught him that he should have food and shelter ready before waking strangers in strange lands. He had figs and apricot slices drying, Kzin rations for the strong of tooth, and Kzin-sized drinking vessels from the lifeboat. He moved a few more items, including a clever Kzin memory pad with electronic stylus and screen, from lifeboat to cabin, then attached a ten-meter cable harness from the scooter to the lifeboat's overhead weapon pylon.

It was only necessary then to set the scooter's bottom grav unit to slight buoyancy, and to pilot the Kzin lifeboat very slowly, towing the scooter.

The cleft where he landed had become a soggy meadow from icemelt near the frostline high on Newduvai's perimeter, protected on one side by the towering force wall and on the other by jagged basalt. The lifeboat could not be seen from below, and if his first aerial visitors were Kzinti, they'd have to fly dangerously near that force wall before they saw it. He sealed the lifeboat and then hauled the scooter down hand over hand, puffing with exertion, letting the scooter bounce harmlessly off the lifeboat's hull as he clambered aboard. Then he cast off and twiddled with those grav unit verniers until the wind whistled in his ears en route to the stasis crypt. He was already expert at modifying stasis units, and he would have lots of them to play with. If he had to protect himself from a wild woman, he could hardly wish for anything better.

He trundled the crystal cage into sunlight still wondering if he'd chosen the right-specimen? Subject? “Woman, dammit; woman!” He was trying to wear too many hats, he knew, with the one labeled “lecher” perched on top. He landed the scooter near his cabin, placed bowls of fruit and water nearby, and pressed the cage baseplate, retreating beyond his offerings.

She sank to the cage floor but only shifted position, still asleep, the breeze moving strands of chestnut hair at her cheeks. She was small and muscular, her breasts firm and immature, pubic hair sparse, limbs slender and marked with scratches; and yes, he realized as he moved nearer, she had a forty-thousand-year-old zit on her little chin. Easily the best-looking choice in the crypt, not yet fully developed into the Neanderthal body shape, she seemed capable of sleep in any position and was snoring lightly to prove it.

A genuine teen-ager, he mused, grinning. Aloud he said, “Okay, Lolita, up and at'em.” She stirred; a hand reached up as if tugging at an invisible blanket. “You'll miss the school shuttle,” he said louder. It had never worked back on Earth with his sister.

It didn't work here, either. She woke slowly, blinking as she sat up in lithe, nude, heartbreaking innocence. But her yawn snapped in two as she focused on him, and her pantomime of snatching a stone and hurling it at Locklear was convincing enough to make him duck. She leaped away scrabbling for real stones, and between her screams and her clods, all in Locklears direction, she seemed to be trying to cover herself.

He retreated, but not far enough, and grabbed a chunk of dirt only after taking one clod on his thigh. He threatened a toss of his own, whereupon she ducked behind the cage, watching him warily.

Well, it wouldn't matter what he said, so long as he said it calmly. His tone and gestures would have to serve. “You're a real little shit before breakfast, Lolita,” he said, smiling, tossing his clod gently toward the bowls.

She saw the food then, frowning. His open hands and strained smile invited her to the food, and she moved toward it still holding clods ready. Wolfing plums, she paused to gape as he pulled a plum from a pocket and began to eat. “Never seen pockets, hm? Stick around, little girl, I'll show you lots of interesting things.” The humor didn't work, even on himself; and at his first step toward her she ran like a deer.

Every time he pointed to himself and said his name, she screamed something brief. She moved around the area, checking out the cabin, draping a vine over her breasts, and after an hour Locklear gave up. He'd made a latchcord for the cabin door, so she couldn't do much harm. She watched from fifty meters distance with great wondering brown eyes as he waved, lifted the scooter, and sped away with her cage and a new idea.

An hour later he returned with a second cage, cursing as he saw Lolita trying to smash his cabin window with an oak stave. The clear plastic, of cage material, was tough stuff and he laughed as the scooter settled nearby, pretending he didn't itch to whack her rump. She began a litany of stone-age curses, then, as she saw the new cage and its occupant. Locklear actually had to mount the scooter and chase her off before she would quit pelting him with anything she could throw.

He made the same preparations as before, this time with shreds of smelly Kzin rations as well, and stood leaning against the cage for long moments, facing Lolita who lurked fifty meters away, to make his point. The young woman revolving slowly inside the cage was at his mercy. Then he pressed the baseplate, turned his back as the plastic levered upward, and strode off a few paces with a sigh. This one was a Neanderthal and no mistake; curves a little too broad to be exciting, massive forearms and calves, pug nose, considerable body hair. Nice tits, though. Stop it, fool!

The young woman stirred, sat up, looked around, then let her big jaw drop comically as she stared at Locklear, whose smile was a very rickety construction. She cocked her head at him, impassive, an instant before he spoke.

“You're no beauty, lady, so maybe you won't throw rocks at me. Too late for breakfast,” he continued in his sweetest tones and a pointing finger. “How about lunch?”

She saw the bowls. Slowly, with caution and surprising grace, she stepped from the scooter's deck still eyeing him without smile or frown. Then she squatted to inspect the food, knees apart, facing him, and Locklear grew faint at the sight. He looked away quickly, flushing, aware that she continued to stare at him while sampling human and Kzin rations with big strong teeth and wrinklings of her nose that made her oddly attractive. More attractive. Why the hell doesn't she cover up or something?

He pulled another plum from a pocket, and this magic drew a smile from her as they ate. He realized she was through eating when she wiped sticky fingers in her straight black hair, and stepped back by reflex as she stepped toward him. She stopped, with a puzzled inclination of her head, and smiled at him. That was when he stood his ground and let her approach. He had hoped for something like this, so the watching Lolita could see that he meant no harm.

When the woman stood within arm's length of him she stopped. He put a hand on his breast. “Me Locklear you Jane,” he said.

“(Something,)” she said. Maybe Kh-roofeh.

He was going to try saying it himself when she startled him into a wave of actual physical weakness. With eyes half-closed, she cupped her full breasts in both hands and smiled. He looked at her erect nipples, feeling the rush of blood to his face, and showed her his hands in a broad helpless shrug. Whereupon, she took his hands and placed them on her breasts, and now her big black eyes were not those of a savage Neanderthal but a sultry smiling Levantine woman who knew how to make a point. Two points.

Three points, as he felt a rising response and knew her hands were seeking that rise, hands that had never known velcrolok closures yet seemed to have an intelligence of their own. His whole body was tingling now as he caressed her, and when her hands found that fabric closure, she shared a fresh smile with him, and tried to pull him down on the ground with her.

So he took her hands in his and walked her to the cabin. She “hmm”ed when he pulled the latchcord loop to open the door, and “ahh”ed when she saw the big pallet, and then offered those swarthy full breasts again and put her face against the hollow of his throat, and toyed inside his velcrolok closure until he astonished her by pulling his entire flight suit off, and offered her body in ways simple and sophisticated, and Locklear accepted all the offers he could, and made a few of his own, all of which she accepted expertly.

He had his first sensation of something eerie, something just below his awareness, as he lay inert on his back bathed in honest sweat, his partner lying facedown more or less across him like one stick abandoned across another stick after both had been rubbed to kindle a blaze. He saw a movement at his window and knew it was Lolita, peering silently in. He sighed.

His partner sighed, too, and turned toward the window with a quick, vexed burst of some command. The face disappeared.

He chuckled, “Did you hear the little devil, or smell her?” Actually, his partner had more of the eau de sweatsock perfume than Lolita did; now more pronounced than ever. He didn't care. If the past half-hour had been any omen, he might never care again.

She stretched then, and sat up, dragging a heel that was rough as a rasp across his calf. Her heavy ragged nails had scratched him, and he was oily from God knew what mixture of greases in her long hair. He didn't give a damn about that either, reflecting that a man should allow a few squeaks in the hinges of the pearly gates.

She said something then, softly, with that tilt of her head that suggested inquiry. “Locklear,” he replied, tapping his chest again.

Her look was somehow pitying then, as she repeated her phrase, placing one hand on her head, the other on his. “Oh yeah, you're my girl and I'm your guy,” he said, nodding, placing his hands on hers.

She sat quite still for a moment, her eyes sad on his. Then, delighting him, she placed one hand on his breast and managed a passable, “Loch-leah.”

He grinned and nodded, then cocked his head and placed a hand between her (wonderful) breasts. No homecoming queen, but dynamite in deep shadows…

He paid more attention as she said, approximately, “Ch'roofh,” and when he repeated it she laughed, closing her eyes with downcast chin. A big chin, a really whopping big one to be honest about it, and then he caught her gaze, not angry but perhaps reproachful, and again he felt the passage of something like a cold breeze through his awareness.

She rubbed his gooseflesh down for him, responding to his 'ahh's, and presently she astonished him again by beginning to query him on the names of things. Locklear knew that he could thoroughly confuse her if he insisted on perfectly grammatical tenses, cases, and syntax. He tried to keep it simple, and soon learned that “head down, eyes shut” was the same as a negative headshake. “Chin elevated, smiling” was the same as a nod — and now he realized he'd seen her giving him yesses that way from the first moment she awoke. A smile or a frown was the same for her as for him — but that heads-up smile was a definite gesture.

She drew him outside again presently, studying the terrain with lively curiosity, miming actions and listening as he provided words, responding with words of her own.

The name he gave her was, in part, because it was faintly like the one she'd offered; and in part because she seemed willing to learn his ways while revealing ancient ways of her own. He named her “Ruth.” Locklear felt crestfallen when, by midafternoon, he realized Ruth was learning his language much faster than he was learning hers. And then, as he glanced over her shoulder to see little Lolita creeping nearer, he began to understand why.

Ruth turned quickly, with a shouted command and warning gestures, and Lolita dropped the sharpened stick she'd been carrying. Locklear knew beyond doubt that Lolita had made no sound in her approach. There was only one explanation that would fit all his data: Ruth unafraid of him from the first; offering herself as if she knew his desires; keeping track of Lolita without looking; and her uncanny speed in learning his language.

And that moment when she'd placed her hand on his head, with an inquiry that was somehow pitying. Now he copied her gesture with one hand on his own head, the other on hers, and lowered his head, eyes shut. “No,” he said. “Locklear, no telepath. Ruth, yes?”

“Ruth, yes.” She pointed to Lolita then. “No-telpat.”

She needed another ten minutes of pantomime, attending to his words and obviously to his thoughts as he spoke them, to get her point across. Ruth was a “gentle,” but like Locklear himself, Lolita was a “new.”

When darkness came to Newduvai, Lolita got chummier in a hurry, complaining until Ruth let her into the cabin. Despite that, Ruth didn't seem to like the girl much and accepted Locklear's name for her, shortening it to “Loli.” Ruth spoke to her in their common tongue, not so much guttural as throaty, and Locklear had a strong impression that they were old acquaintances. Either of them could tend a fire expertly, and both were wary of the light from his Kzin memory screen until they found that it would not singe a curious finger.

Locklear was bothered on two counts by Loli's insistence on taking pieces of Kzin plastic film to make a bikini suit: first because Ruth plainly thought it silly, and second because the kid was more appealing with it than she was when stark naked. At least the job kept Loli silently occupied, listening and watching as Locklear got on with the business of talking with Ruth.

Their major breakthrough for the evening came when Locklear got the ideas of past and future, “before” and “soon,” across to Ruth. Her telepathy was evidently the key to her quick grasp of his language; yet it seemed to work better with emotional states than with abstract ideas, and she grew upset when Loli became angry with her own first clumsy efforts at making her panties fit. Clearly, Ruth was a lady who liked her harmony.

For Ruth was, despite her rude looks, a lady when she wasn't in the sack. Even so, when at last Ruth had seen to Loli's comfort with spare fabric and Locklear snapped off the light, he felt inviting hands on him again. “No thanks,” he said, chuckling, patting her shoulder, even though he wanted her again. And Ruth knew he did, judging from her sly insistence.

“No. Loli here,” he said finally, and felt Ruth shrug as if to say it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't matter to Neanderthals, but— “Soon,” he promised, and shared a hug with Ruth before they fell asleep.

During the ensuing week, he learned much. For one thing, he learned that Loli was a chronic pain in the backside. She ate like a Kzin warrior. She liked to see if things would break. She liked to spy. She interfered with Locklear's pace during his afternoon “naps” with Ruth by whacking on the door with sticks and stones, until he swore he would “…hit Loli soon”.

But Ruth would not hear of that. “Hit Loli, same hit Ruth head. Locklear like hit Ruth head?”

But one afternoon, when she saw Locklear studying her with friendly intensity, Ruth spoke to Loli at some length. The girl picked up her short spear and, crooning her happiness, loped off into the forest. Ruth turned to Locklear smiling. “Loli find fruitwater, soon Ruth make fruitfood.” A few minutes of miming showed that she had promised to make some kind of dessert, if Loli could find a beehive for honey.

Locklear had seen beehives in stasis, but explained that there were very few animals loose on Newduvai, and no hurtbugs.

“No hurtbugs? Loli no find, long time. Good,” Ruth replied firmly, and led him by the hand into their cabin, and “good” was the operative word.

On his next trip to the crypt, Locklear needed all day for his solitary work. He might put it off forever, but it was clear by now that he must populate Newduvai with game before he released their most fearsome predators. The little horses needed only to see daylight before galloping off. Camels were quicker still, and the deer bounded off like golf balls down a freeway. The predators would simply have to wait until the herds were larger, and the day was over before he could rig grav polarizers to trundle mammoths to the mouth of the crypt. His last job of the day was his most troublesome, releasing small cages of bees near groves of fruit trees and wildflowers.

Locklear and Ruth managed to convey a lot with only a few hundred words, though some of those words had to do multiple duty while Ruth expanded her vocabulary. When she said “new,” for example, it often carried a stigma. Neanderthals, he decided, were very conservative folk, and they sensed a lie before you told it. If Ruth was any measure, they also had little aptitude for math. She understood one and two and many. She understood “none,” but not as a number. If there wasn't any, she conveyed to him, why try to count it? She had him there.

Eventually, between food-gathering forays, he used pebbles and sketches to tell Ruth of the many, many other animals and people he could bring to the scene. She was no sketch artist; in fact, she insisted, women were not supposed to draw things — especially hunt-things. Ah, he said, magics were only for men? Yes, she said, then mystified him with pantomimes of sleep and pain. That was for men, too, and food gathering was for women.

He pursued the mystery, sketching with the Kzin memo screen. At last, when she pretended to cut her throat with his w'tsai knife, he understood, and added the word “kill” to her vocabulary. Men hunted and killed.

Dry-mouthed, he asked, “Man like kill Locklear?”

Now it was her turn to be mystified. “No kill. Why kill magic man?”

Because, he replied, “Locklear like Ruth, one-two other men like Ruth. Kill Locklear for Ruth?”

He had never seen her laugh aloud, but he saw it now, the big teeth gleaming, breasts shaking with merriment. “Locklear like Ruth, good. Many man like Ruth, good.”

He was silent for a long time, fighting the temptation to tell her that many men liking Ruth was not good. Then: “Ruth like many man?”

She had learned to nod by now, and did it happily.

The next five minutes were troubled ones for Locklear. Ruth did not seem to understand monogamy in any form. Apparently, everybody took pot luck in the sex department and was free to accept or reject. Some people were simply more popular than others. “Many man like Ruth,” she said. “Many, many, many…”

“Okay, for Christ's sake, I get the idea,” he exploded, and again he saw that look of sadness — or perhaps pain. “Locklear see, Ruth popular with man.”

It seemed to be their first quarrel. Tentatively, he said, “Locklear little popular with woman.”

“Much popular with Ruth,” she said, and began to rub his shoulders. That was the day she asked him about her appearance, and he responded the best way he could. She thought it silly to trim her strong, useful nails; sillier to wash her hair. Still, she did it, and he claimed she was pretty, and she knew he lied.

When it occurred to him to ask how he could look nice for her, Ruth said, “Locklear pretty now.” But he never thought to wonder if she might be lying.

Whatever Ruth said about women and hunting, it did not seem to apply to Loli. While aloft in the scooter one day to study distribution of the animals, Locklear saw the girl chasing a hare across a meadow. She was no slouch with a short spear and nailed the hare on her second toss, dispatching it with a stone after a brief struggle. He lowered the scooter very, very slowly, watching her tear at the animal, disgusted when he realized she was eating it raw.

She saw his shadow when the scooter was hovering very near, and sat there blushing, looking at him with the innards of the hare across her lap.

She understood few of his words — or seemed to, at the cabin — but his tone was clear enough. “You couldn't share it, you little bastard. No, you sneak out here and stuff yourself.” She began to suck her thumb, pouting. Then perhaps Loli realized the boss must be placated; she tried a smile on her bloodstreaked face and held her grisly trophy out.

“No. Ruth. Give to Ruth,” he scowled, pointing toward the cabin. She elevated her chin and smiled, and he flew off grumbling. He couldn't much blame the kid; Kzin rations and fruit were getting pretty tiresome, and the gruel Ruth made from grain wasn't all that exciting without bits of meat. It was going to be rougher on the animals when he woke the men.

And why wake them at all? You've got it good here, he reminded himself in Sequence Umpteen of his private dialogue. You have your own little world and a harem of one, and you know when her period comes so you know when not to play. And one of these days, Loli will be a knockout, I suspect. A much niftier dish than poor Ruth, who doesn't know what a skag she'd be in modern society, thank God.

Moments like this made him squirm. Setting Ruth's looks aside, he had no complaint, not even about the country itself. Not much seasonal change, no dangerous animals unless you want to release them, certainly none of the most dangerous animal of all. Except for Kzinti, of course. One on one, they were meaner predators than men — even Neanderthal savages.

“That's why I have to release them”, he said to the wind. “If a fully-manned Kzin ship comes, I'll need an army.” He no longer kidded himself about scholarship and the sociology of homo neanderthalensis, which was strictly a secondary item. It was sobering to look yourself over and see self-interest riding you like a hunchback. So he flew directly to the crypt and spent the balance of the day releasing the whoppers: aurochs and bison, which didn't make him sweat much, and a half-dozen mammoths, which did.

A mammoth, he found, was a flighty beast not given to confrontations. He could set one shambling off with a shout, its trunk high like a periscope tasting the breeze. Every one of them turned into the wind and disappeared toward the frostline, and now the crypt held only its most dangerous creatures.

He returned to the cabin perilously late, the sun of Newduvai dying while he was still a hundred meters from the wisp of smoke rising from the cabin. He landed blind near the cabin, very slowly but with a jolt, and saw the faint gleam of the Kzin light leap from the cabin window. Ruth might not have a head for figures, but she'd seen him snap that light on fifty times. And she must've sensed my panic. I wonder how far off she can do that…

Ruth already had succulent broiled haunches of Loli's hare, keeping them warm over coals, and it wrenched his heart as he saw she was drooling as she waited for him. He wiped the corner of her mouth, kissed her anyhow, and sat at the rough pole table while she brought his supper. Loli had obviously eaten, and watched him as if fearful that he would order her outside.

Hauling mammoths, even with a grav polarizer, is exhausting work. After finishing off a leg of hare, and falling asleep at the table, Locklear was only half-aware when Ruth picked him up and carried him to their pallet as easily as she would have carried a child.

The next day, he had Ruth convey to Loli that she was not to hunt without permission. Then, with less difficulty than he'd expected, he sketched and quizzed her about the food of a Neanderthal tribe. Yes, they hunted everything: bugs to mammoths, it was all protein, but chiefly they gathered roots, grains, and fruits.

That made sense. Why risk getting killed hunting when tubers didn't fight back? He posed his big question then. If he brought a tribe to Newduvai (this brought a smile of anticipation to her broad face), and forbade them to hunt without his permission, would they obey?

Gentles might, she said. New people, such as Loli, were less obedient. She tried to explain why, conveying something about telepathy and hunting, until he waved the question aside. If he showed her sleeping gentles, would she tell him which ones were good? Oh yes, she said, adding a phrase she knew he liked: “No problem.”

But it took him an hour to get Ruth on the scooter. That stuff was all very well for great magic men, she implied, but women's magics were more prosaic. After a few minutes idling just above the turf, he sped up, and she liked that fine. Then he slowed and lifted the scooter a bit. By noon, he was cruising fast as they surveyed groups of aurochs, solitary gazelles, and skittish horses from high above. It was she, sampling the wind with her nose, who directed him higher and then pointed out a mammoth, a huge specimen using its tusks to find roots.

He watched the huge animal briefly, estimating how many square miles a mammoth needed to feed, and then made a decision that saddened him. Earth had kept right on turning when the last mammoths disappeared. Newduvai could not afford many of them, ripping up foliage by the roots. Perhaps the Outsiders didn't care about that, but Locklear did. If you had to start sawing off links in your food chain, best if you started at the top. And he didn't want to pursue that thought by himself. At the very top was man. And Kzin. It was the kind of thing he'd like to discuss with Scarface, but he'd made two trips to the lifeboat without a peep from its all-band comm set.

Finally, he flew to the crypt and set his little craft down nearby, reassuring Ruth as they walked inside. She paused for flight when she saw the rest of the mammoths, slowly tumbling inside their cages. “Much, much, much magic,” she said, and patted him with great confidence.

But it was the sight of forty Neanderthals in stasis that really affected Ruth. Her face twisted with remorse, she turned from the nearest cage and faced Locklear with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Locklear kill?”

“No, no! Sleep,” he insisted, miming it.

She was not convinced. “No sleeptalk,” she protested, placing a hand on her head and pointing toward the rugged male nearby. And doubtless she was right; in stasis you didn't even dream.

“Before, Locklear take Ruth from little house,” he said, tapping the cage, and then she remembered, and wanted to take the man out then and there. Instead, he got her help in moving the cage onto his improvised dolly and outside to the scooter.

They were halfway to the cabin and a thousand feet up on the heavily-laden scooter when Ruth somehow struck the cage base with her foot. Locklear saw the transparent plastic begin to rise, shouted, and nearly turned the scooter on its side as he leaped to slam the plastic down.

“Good God! You nearly let a wild man loose on a goddamn raft, a thousand feet in the air,” he raged, and saw her cringe, holding her head in both hands. “Okay, Ruth. Okay, no problem,” he continued more slowly, and pointed at the cage base. “Ruth no hit little house more. Locklear hit, soon.”

They remained silent until they landed, and Locklear had time to review Newduvai's first in-flight airline emergency. Ruth had not feared a beating. No, it was his own panic that had punished her. That figured: a Kzin telepath sometimes suffered when someone nearby was suffering.

He brought food and water from the cabin, placed it near the scooter, then paused before pressing the cage base. “Ruth — gentle man talk in head same Ruth talk in head?”

“Yes, all gentles talk in head.” She saw what he was getting at. “Ruth talk to man, say Locklear much, much good magic man.”

He pointed again at the man, a muscular young specimen who, without so much body hair, might have excited little comment at a collegiate wrestling match. “Ruth friend of man?”

She blushed as she replied: “Yes. Friend long time.”

“That's what I was afraid of,” he muttered with a heavy sigh, pressed the baseplate, and then stepped back several paces, nearly bumping into the curious Loli.

The man's eyes flicked open. Locklear could see the heavy muscles tense, yet the man moved only his eyes, looking from him to Ruth, then to him again. When he did move, it was as though he'd been playing possum for forty thousand years, and his movements were as oddly graceful as Ruth's. He held up both hands, smiling, and it was obvious that some silent message had passed between them.

Locklear advanced with the same posture. A flat touch of hands, and then the man turned to Ruth with a burst of throaty speech. He was no taller than Locklear, but immensely more heavily-boned and muscled. He stood as erect as any man, unconcerned in his nakedness, and after a double handclasp with Ruth he made a smiling motion toward her breasts.

Again, Locklear saw the deeper color of flushing over her face and, after a head-down gesture of negation, she said something while staring at the young man's face. Puzzled, he glanced at Locklear with a comical half-smile, and Locklear tried to avoid looking at the man's budding erection. He told the man his name, and got a reply, but as usual Locklear gave him a name that seemed appropriate. He called him “Minuteman.”

After a quick meal of fruit and water, Ruth did the translating. From the first, Minuteman accepted the fact that Locklear was one of the “new” people. After Locklear's demonstrations with the Kzin memo screen and a levitation of the scooter, Minuteman gave him more physical space, perhaps a sign of deference. Or perhaps wariness; time would tell.

Though Loli showed no fear of Minuteman, she spoke little to him and kept her distance — with an egg-sized stone in her little fist at all times.

Minuteman treated Loli as a guest might treat an unwelcome pet. Oh yes, thought Locklear, he knows her, all righty…

The hunt, Locklear claimed, was a celebration to welcome Minuteman, but he had an ulterior motive. He made his point to Ruth, who chattered and gestured and, no doubt, silently communed with Minuteman for long moments. It would be necessary for Minuteman to accompany Locklear on the scooter, but without Ruth if they were to lug any sizeable game back to the cabin.

When Ruth stopped, Minuteman said something more. “Yes, no problem,” Ruth said then.

Minuteman, his facial scars writhing as he grinned, managed, “Yes, no problem,” and laughed when Locklear did. Amazing how fast these people adapt, Locklear thought. He wakes up on a strange planet, and an hour later he's right at home. A wonderful trusting kind of innocence; even childlike. Then Locklear decided to see just how far that trust went, and gestured for Minuteman to sit down on the scooter after he wrestled the empty stasis cage to the ground.

Soon they were scudding along just above the trees at a pace guaranteed to scare the hell out of any sensible Neanderthal, Minuteman desperately trying to make a show of confidence in the leadership of this suicidal shaman, and Locklear was satisfied on two counts, with one count yet to come. First, the scooter's pace near trees was enough to make Minuteman hold on for dear life. Second, the young Neanderthal would view Locklear's easy mastery of the scooter as perhaps the very greatest of magics and maybe Minuteman would pass that datum on, when the time came.

The third item was a shame, really, but it had to be done. A shaman without the power of ultimate punishment might be seen as expendable, and Locklear had to show that power. He showed it after passing over specimens of aurochs and horse, both noted with delight by Minuteman.

The goat had been grazing not far from three does until he saw the scooter swoop near. He was an old codger, probably driven off by the younger buck nearby, and Locklear recalled that the gestation period for goats was only five months — and besides, he told himself, the Outsiders could be pretty dumb in some matters. You didn't need twenty bucks for twenty does.

All of the animals bounded toward a rocky slope, and Minuteman watched them as Locklear maneuvered, forcing the old buck to turn back time and again. When at last the buck turned to face them, Locklear brought the scooter down, moving straight toward the hapless old fellow. Minuteman did not turn toward Locklear until he heard the report of the Kzin sidearm which Locklear held in both hands, and by that time the scooter was only a man's height above the rocks.

At the report, the buck slammed backward, stumbling, shot in the breast. Minuteman ducked away from the sound of the shot, seeing Locklear with the sidearm, and then began to shout. Locklear let the scooter settle but Minuteman did not wait, leaping down, rushing at the old buck which still kicked in its death agony.

By the time Locklear had the scooter resting on the slope, Minuteman was tearing at the bucks throat with his teeth, trying to dodge flinty hooves, the powerful arms locked around his prey. In thirty seconds the buck's eyes were glazing and its movements grew more feeble by the moment. Locklear put away the sidearm, feeling his stomach churn. Minuteman was drinking the animal's blood; sucking it, in fact, in a kind of frenzy.

When at last he sat up, Minuteman began to massage his temples with bloody fingers — perhaps a ritual, Locklear decided. The young Neanderthal's gaze at Locklear was not pleasant, though he was suitably impressed by the invisible spear that had noisily smashed a man-sized goat off its feet leaving nothing more than a tiny hole in the animals breast. Locklear went through a pantomime of shooting, and Minuteman gestured his “yes.” Together, they placed the heavy carcass on the scooter and returned to the cabin. Minuteman seemed oddly subdued for a hunter who had just chewed a victim's throat open.

Locklear guffawed at what he saw at the cabin: in the cage so recently vacated by Minuteman was Loli, revolving in the slow dance of stasis. Ruth explained, “Loli like little house, like sleep. Ruth like for Loli sleep. Many like for Loli sleep long time,” she added darkly.

It was Ruth who butchered the animal with the w'tsai, while talking with Minuteman. Locklear watched smugly, noting the absence of flies. Damned if he was going to release those from their cages, nor the mosquitoes, locusts, and other pests which lay with the predators in the crypt. Why would any god worth his salt pester a planet with flies, anyhow? The butterflies might be worth the trouble.

He was still ruminating on these matters when Ruth handed him the w'tsai and entered the cabin silently. She seemed preoccupied, and Minuteman had wandered off toward the oaks so, just to be sociable, he said, “Minuteman see Locklear kill with magic, Minuteman like?”

She built a smoky fire, stretching skewers of stringy meat above the smoke, before answering. “No good, talk bad to magic man.”

“It's okay, Ruth. Talk true to Locklear.”

She propped the cabin door open to adjust the draft, then sat down beside him. “Minuteman feel bad. Locklear no kill meat fast, meat hurt long time. Meat feel much, much bad, so Minuteman feel much bad before kill meat. Locklear new person, no feel bad. Loli no feel bad. Minuteman no want hunt with Locklear.”

As she attended to the barbecue and Locklear continued to ferret out more of this mystery, he grew more chastened. Neanderthal boys, learning to kill for food, began with animals that did not have a highly developed nervous system. Because when the animal felt pain, all the gentles nearby felt some of it, too, especially women and girls. Neanderthal hunt teams were all-male affairs, and they learned every trick of stealth and quick kills because a clumsy kill meant a slow one. Minuteman had known that, lacking a club, he himself would feel the least pain if the goat bled to death quickly.

And large animals? You dug pit traps and visited them from a distance, or drove your prey off a distant cliff if you could. Neanderthal telepathy did not work much beyond twenty meters. The hunter who approached a wounded animal to pierce its throat with a spear was very brave, or very hungry. Or he was one of the new people, perfectly capable of irritating or even fighting a gentle without feeling the slightest psychic pain. The gentle Neanderthal, of course, was not protected against the new person's reflected pain. No wonder Ruth took care of Loli without liking her much!

He asked if Loli was the first “new” Ruth had seen. No, she said, but the only one they had allowed in the tribe. A hunt team had found her wandering alone, terrified and hungry, when she was only as high as a man's leg. Why hadn't the hunters run away? They had, Ruth said, but even then Loli had been quick on her feet. Rather than feel her gnawing fear and hunger on the perimeter of their camp, they had taken her in. And had regretted it ever since, “… long time. Long, long, long time!”

Locklear knew that he had gained a crucial insight; a Neanderthal behaved gently because it was in his own interests. It was, at least, until modern Cro-Magnon man appeared without the blessing, and the curse, of telepathy.

Ruth's first telepathic greeting to the waking Minuteman had warned that he was in the presence of a great shaman, a “new” but nonetheless a good man. Minuteman had been so glad to see Ruth that he had proposed a brief roll in the grass, which involved great pleasure to participants — and it was expected that the audience could share their joy by telepathy.

But Ruth knew better than that, reminding her friend that Locklear was not telepathic. Besides, she had the strongest kind of intuition that Locklear did not want to see her enjoying any other man. Peculiar, even bizarre; but new people were hard to figure…

It was clear now, why Ruth's word “new” seemed to have an unpleasant side. New people were savage people. So much for labels, Locklear told himself. Modern man is the real savage!

Ruth took Loli out of stasis for supper, perhaps to share in the girl's pleasure at such a feast. Through Ruth, Locklear explained to Minuteman that he regretted giving pain to his guest. He would be happy to let gentles do the hunting, but all animals belonged to Locklear. No animals must be hunted without prior permission. Minuteman was agreeable, especially with a mouthful of succulent goat rib in his big lantern jaws. Tonight, Minuteman could share the cabin. Tomorrow he must choose a site for a camp, for Locklear would soon bring many, many more gentles.

Locklear fell asleep slowly, no thanks to the ache in his jaws. The others had wolfed down that barbecued goat as if it had been well-aged porterhouse, but he had been able to choke only a little of it down after endless chewing because, savory taste or not, that old goat had been tough as a Kzin's knuckles.

He wondered how Kit and Scarface were getting along, on the other side of those force walls. He really ought to fire up the lifeboat and visit them soon. Just as soon as he got things going here. With his mind-bending discovery of the truly gentle nature of Neanderthals, he was feeling very optimistic about the future. And modestly hungry. And very, very sleepy.

Minuteman spent two days quartering the vast circular expanse of Newduvai while Locklear piloted the scooter. In the process, he picked up a smatter of modern words though it was Ruth, in the evenings, who straightened out misunderstandings. Minuteman's clear choice for a major encampment was beside Newduvai's big lake, near the point where a stream joined the “big water.” The site was a day's walk from the cabin, and Minuteman stressed that his choice might not be the choice of tribal elders. Besides, gentles tended to wander from season to season.

Though tempted by his power to command, Locklear decided against using it unless absolutely necessary. He would release them all and let them sort out their world, with the exception of excess hunting or tribal warfare. That didn't seem likely, but: “Ruth,” he asked after the second day of recon, “see all people in little houses in cave?”

“Yes”, she said firmly. “Many many in tribe of Minuteman and Ruth. Many many in other tribe.”

But “many many” could mean a dozen or less. “Ruth see all in other tribe before?”

“Many times,” she assured him. “Others give killstones, Ruth tribe give food.”

“You trade with them,” he said. After she had studied his face a moment, she agreed. He persisted: “Bad trades? Problem?”

“No problem,” she said. “Trade one, two man or woman sometimes, before big fire.”

He asked about that, of course, and got an answer to a question he hadn't thought to ask. Ruth's last memory before waking on Newduvai — and Minuteman's, too — was of the great fire that had driven several tribes to the base of a cliff. There, with trees bursting into flame nearby, the men had gathered around their women and children, beginning their song to welcome death. It was at that moment when the Outsiders must have put them in stasis and whisked them off to the rim of Known Space.

Almost an ethical decision, Locklear admitted. Almost. “No little gentles in cave,” he reminded Ruth. “Locklear much sorry.”

“No good, think of little gentles,” she said glumly. And with that, they passed to matters of tribal leadership. The old men generally led, though an old woman might have followers. It seemed a loose kind of democracy and, when some faction disagreed, they could simply move out — perhaps no farther than a short walk away.

Locklear soon learned why the gentles tended to stay close: “Big, bad animals eat gentles,” Ruth said. “New people take food, kill gentles,” she added. Lions, wolves, bears — and modern man — were their reasons for safety in numbers.

Ruth and Minuteman had both seen much of Newduvai from the air by now. To check his own conclusions, Locklear said, “Plenty food for many people. Plenty for many, many, many people?”

“Plenty,” said Ruth, “for all people in little houses; no problem.” Locklear ended the session on that note and Minuteman, perhaps with some silent urging from Ruth, chose to sleep outside.

Again, Locklear had a trouble getting to sleep, even after a half-hour of delightful tussle with the willing, homely, gentle Ruth. He could hardly wait for morning and his great social experiment.

His work would have gone much faster with Minuteman's muscular help, but Locklear wanted to share the crypt's secrets with as few as possible. The lake site was only fifteen minutes from the crypt by scooter, and there were no predators to attack a stasis cage, so Locklear transported the gentles by twos and left them in their cages, cursing his rotten time-management. It soon was obvious that the job would take two days and he'd set his heart on results now, now, now!

He was setting the scooter down near his cabin when Minuteman shot from the doorway, began to lope off, and then turned, approaching Locklear with the biggest, ugliest smile he could manage. He chattered away with all the innocence of a ferret in a birdhouse, his maleness in repose but rather large for that innocence. And wet.

Ruth waved from the cabin doorway.

“Right,” Locklear snarled, too exhausted to let his anger kindle to white-hot fury. “Minuteman, I named you well. Your pants would be down, if you had any. Ahh, the hell with it.”

Loli was asleep in her cage, and Minuteman found employment elsewhere as Locklear ate chopped goat, grapes, and gruel. He did not look at Ruth, even when she sat near him as he chewed.

Finally he walked to the pallet, looking from it to Ruth, shook his head and then lay down.

Ruth cocked her head in that way she had. “Like Ruth stay at fire?”

“I don't give a good shit. Yes, Ruth stay at fire. Good.” Some perversity made him want her, but it was not as strong as his need for sleep. And rejecting her might be a kind of punishment, he thought sleepily…

Late the next afternoon, Locklear completed his airlift and returned to the cabin. He could see Minuteman sitting disconsolate, chin in hands, at the edge of the clearing. Apparently, no one had seen fit to take Loli from stasis. He couldn't blame them much. Actually, he thought as he entered the cabin, he had no logical reason to blame them for anything. They enjoyed each other according to their own tradition, and he was out of step with it. Damn right, and I don't know if I could ever get in step.

He called Minuteman in. “Many, many gentles at big water,” he said. “No big bad meat hurt gentles. Like see gentles now?” Minuteman wanted to very much. So did Ruth. He urged them onto the scooter and handed Ruth her woven basket full of dried apricots, giving both hindquarters of the goat to Minuteman without comment. Soon they were flitting above conifers and poplars, and then Ruth saw the dozens of cages glistening beside the lake.

“Gentles, gentles,” she exclaimed, and began to weep. Locklear found himself angry at her pleasure, the anger of a wronged spouse, and set the scooter down abruptly some distance from the stasis cages.

Minuteman was off and running instantly. Ruth disembarked, turned, held a hand out. “Locklear like wake gentles? Ruth tell gentles, Locklear good, much good magics.”

“Tell'em anything you like,” he barked, “after you screw'em all!”

In the distance, Minuteman was capering around the cages, shouting in glee. After a moment, Ruth said, “Ruth like go back with Locklear.”

“The hell you will! No, Ruth like push-push with many gentles. Locklear no like.” And he twisted a vernier hard, the scooter lifting quickly.

Plaintively, growing faint on the breeze: “Ruth hurt in head. Like Locklear much—” And whatever else she said was lost.

He returned to the hidden Kzin lifeboat, hating the idea of the silent cabin, and monitored the comm set for hours. It availed him nothing, but its boring repetitions eventually put him to sleep.

For the next week, Locklear worked like a man demented. He used a stasis cage, as he had on Kzersatz, to store his remaining few hunks of smoked goat. He flew surveillance over the new encampment, so high that no one would spot him, which meant that he could see little of interest, beyond the fact that they were building huts of bundled grass and some dark substance, perhaps mud. The stasis cages lay in disarray; he must retrieve them soon.

It was pure luck that he spotted a half-dozen deer one morning, a half-day's walk from the encampment, running as though from a predator. Presently, hovering beyond big chestnut trees, he saw them: men, patiently herding their prey toward an arroyo. He grinned to himself and waited until a rise of ground would cover his maneuver. Then he swooped low behind the deer, swerving from side to side to group them, yelping and growling until he was hoarse. By that time, the deer had put a mile between themselves and their real pursuers.

No better time than now to get a few things straight. Locklear swept the scooter toward the encampment at a stately pace, circling twice, hearing thin shouts as the Neanderthals noted his approach. He watched them carefully, one hand checking his Kzin sidearm. They might be gentle but a few already carried spears and they were, after all, experts at the quick kill. He let the scooter hover at knee height, a constant reminder of his great magics, and noted the great stir he made as the scooter glided silently to a stop at the edge of the camp.

He saw Ruth and Minuteman emerge from one of the dozen beehive-shaped, grass-and-wattle huts. No, it wasn't Ruth; he admitted with chagrin that they all looked very much alike. The women paused first, and then he did spot Ruth, waving at him, a few steps nearer. The men moved nearer, falling silent now, laying their new spears and stone axes down as if by prearrangement. They stopped a few paces ahead of the women.

An older male, almost covered in curly gray hair, continued to advance using a spear — no, it was only a long walking staff — to aid him. He too stopped, with a glance over his shoulder, and then Locklear saw a bald old fellow with a withered leg hobbling past the younger men. Both of the oldsters advanced together then, full of years and dignity without a stitch of clothes. The gray man might have been sixty, with a little pot belly and knobby joints suggesting arthritis. The cripple was perhaps ten years younger but stringy and meatless, and his right thigh had been hideously smashed a long time before. His right leg was inches too short, and his left hip seemed disfigured from years of walking to compensate.

Locklear knew he needed Ruth now, but feared to risk violating some taboo so soon. “Locklear,” he said, showing empty hands, then tapping his breast.

The two old men cocked their heads in a parody of Ruth's familiar gesture, then the curly one began to speak. Of course it was all gibberish, but the walking staff lay on the ground now and their hands were empty.

Wondering how much they would understand telepathically, Locklear spoke with enough volume for Ruth to hear. “Gentles hunt meat in hills,” he said. “Locklear no like.” He was not smiling.

The old men used brief phrases to each other, and then the crippled one turned toward the huts. Ruth began to walk forward, smiling wistfully at Locklear as she stopped next to the cripple.

She waited to hear a few words from each man, and then faced Locklear. “All one tribe now, two leaders,” she said. “Skywater and Shortleg happy to see great shaman who save all from big fire. Ruth happy see Locklear, too,” she added softly.

He told her about the men hunting deer, and that it must stop; they must make do without meat for awhile. She translated. The old men conferred, and their gesture for “no” was the same as Ruth's. They replied through Ruth that young men had always hunted, and always would.

He told them that the animals were his, and they must not take what belonged to another. The old men said they could see that he felt in his head the animals were his, but no one owned the great mother land, and no one could own her children. They felt much bad for him. He was a very, very great shaman, but not so good at telling gentles how to live.

With great care, having chosen the names Cloud and Gimp for the old fellows, he explained that if many animals were killed, soon there would be no more. One day when many little animals were born, he would let them hunt the older ones.

The gist of their reply was this: Locklear obviously thought he was right, but they were older and therefore wiser. And because they had never run out of game no matter how much they killed, they never could run out of game. If it hadn't already happened, it wouldn't ever happen.

Abruptly, Locklear motioned to Cloud and had Ruth translate: he could prove the scarcity of game if Cloud would ride the scooter as Ruth and Minuteman had ridden it.

Much silent discussion and some out loud. Then old Cloud climbed aboard and in a moment, the scooter was above the trees.

From a mile up, they could identify most of the game animals, especially herd beasts in open plains. There weren't many to see. “No babies at all,” Locklear said, trying to make gestures for “small.”

“Cloud, gentles must wait until babies are born.” The old fellow seemed to understand Locklear's thoughts well enough, and spoke a bit of gibberish, but his head gesture was a Neanderthal “no.”

Locklear, furious now, used the verniers with abandon. The scooter fled across parched arroyo and broken hill, closer to the ground and now so fast that Locklear himself began to feel nervous. Old Cloud sensed his unease, grasping handholds with gnarled knuckles and hunkering down, and Locklear knew a savage elation. Serve the old bastard right if I splattered him all over Newduvai. And then he saw the old man staring at his eyes, and knew that the thought had been received.

“No, I won't do it,” he said. But a part of him had wanted to; still wanted to out of sheer frustration. Cloud's face was a rigid mask of fear, big teeth showing, and Locklear slowed the scooter as he approached the encampment again.

Cloud did not wait for the vehicle to settle, but debarked as fast as painful old joints would permit and stood facing his followers without a sound.

After a moment, with dozens of Neanderthals staring in stunned silence, they all turned their backs, a wave of moans rising from every throat. Ruth hesitated, but she too faced away from Locklear.

“Ruth! No hurt Cloud. Locklear no like hurt gentles.”

The moans continued as Cloud strode away. “Locklear need to talk to Ruth!” And then as the entire tribe began to walk away, he raised his voice: “No hurt gentles, Ruth!”

She stopped, but would not look at him as she replied. “Cloud say new people hurt gentles and not know. Locklear hurt Cloud before, want kill Cloud. Locklear go soon soon,” she finished in a sob. Suddenly, then, she was running to catch the others.

Some of the men were groping for spears now. Locklear did not wait to see what they might do with them. A half-hour later he was using the dolly in the crypt, ranking cage upon cage just inside the obscuring film. With several lion cages stacked like bricks at the entrance, no sensible Neanderthal would go a step further. Later, he could use disassembled stasis units as booby traps as he had done on Kzersatz. But it was nearly dark when he finished, and Locklear was hurrying. Now, for the first time ever on Newduvai, he felt gooseflesh when he thought of camping in the open.

For days, he considered a return to Kzersatz in the lifeboat, meanwhile improving the cabin with Loli's help. He got that help very simply, by refusing to let her sleep in her stasis cage unless she did help. Loli was very bright, and learned his language quickly because she could not rely on telepathy. Operating on the sour-grape theory, he told himself that Ruth had been mud-fence ugly; he hadn't felt any real affection for a Neanderthal bimbo. Not really…

He managed to ignore Loli's budding charms by reminding himself that she was no more than twelve or so, and gradually she began to trust him. He wondered how much that trust would suffer if she found he was taking her from stasis only on the days he needed help.

As the days faded into weeks, the cabin became a two-room affair with a connecting passage for firewood and storage. Loli, after endless scraping and soaking of the stiff goat hide in acorn water, fashioned herself a one-piece garment. She taught Locklear how repeated boiling turned acorns into edible nuts, and wove mats of plaited grass for the cabin.

He let her roam in search of small game once a week until the day she returned empty-handed. He was cutting hinge material of stainless steel from a stasis cage with Kzin shears at the time, and smiled. “Don't feel bad, Loli. There's plenty of meat in storage.” The more he used complete sentences, the more she seemed to be picking up the lingo.

She shrugged, picking at a scab on one of her little feet. “Loli not hurt. Gentles hunt Loli.” She read his stare correctly. “Gentles not try to hurt Loli; this many follow and hide,” she said, holding up four fingers and making a comical pantomime of a stealthy hunter.

He held up four fingers. “Four,” he reminded her. “Did they follow you here?”

“Maybe want to follow Loli here,” she said, grinning. “Loli think much. Loli go far far—”

“Very far,” he corrected.

“Very far to dry place, gentles no follow feet there. Loli hide, run very far where gentles, not see. Come back to Locklear.”

Yes, they'd have trouble tracking her through those desert patches, he realized, and she could've doubled back unseen in the arroyos. Or she might have been followed after all. “Loli is smart,” he said, patting her shoulder, “but gentles are smart, too. Gentles maybe want to hurt Locklear.”

“Gentles cover big holes, spears in holes, come back, maybe find kill animal. Maybe kill Locklear.”

Yeah, they'd do it that way. Or maybe set a fire to burn him out of the cabin. “Loli, would you feel bad if the gentles killed me?”

In her vast innocence, Loli thought about it before answering. “Little while, yes. Loli don't like to live alone. Gentles all time like to play,” she said, with a bump-and-grind routine so outrageous that he burst out laughing. “Locklear don't trade food for play,” she added, making it obvious that Neanderthal men did.

“Not until Loli is older,” he said with brutal honesty.

“Loli is a woman,” she said, pouting as though he had slandered her.

To shift away from this dangerous topic he said, “Yes, and you can help me make this place safe from gentles.” That was the day he began teaching the girl how to disassemble cages for their most potent parts, the grav polarizers and stasis units.

They burned off the surrounding ground cover bit by bit during the nights to avoid telltale smoke, and Loli assured him that Neanderthals never ventured from camp on nights as dark as Newduvai's. Sooner or later, he knew, they were bound to discover his little homestead and he intended to make it a place of terrifying magics.

As luck would have it, he had over two months to prepare before a far more potent new magic thundered across the sky of Newduvai.

Locklear swallowed hard the day he heard that long roll of synthetic thunder, recognizing it for what it was. He had told Loli about the Kzinti, and now he warned her that they might be near, and saw her coltish legs flash into the forest as he sent the scooter scudding close to the ground toward the heights where his lifeboat was hidden. He would need only one close look to identify a Kzin ship.

Dismounting near the lifeboat, peering past an outcrop and shivering because he was so near the cold force walls, he saw a foreshortened dot hovering near Newduvai's big lake. Winks of light streaked downward from it; he counted five shots before the ship ceased firing, and knew that its target had to be the big encampment of gentles.

“If only I had those beam cannons I took apart,” he growled, unconsciously taking the side of the Neanderthals as tendrils of smoke fingered the sky. But he had removed the weapon pylon mounts long before. He released a long-held breath as the ship dwindled to a dot in the sky, hunching his shoulders, wondering how he could have been so naive as to foreswear war altogether. Killing was a bitter draught, yet not half so bitter as dying.

The ship disappeared. Ten minutes later he saw it again, making the kind of circular sweep used for cartography, and this time it passed only a mile distant, and he gasped — for it was not a Kzin ship. The little cruiser escort bore Interworld Commission markings.

“The goddamn tabbies must have taken one of ours,” he muttered to himself, and cursed as he saw the ship break off its sweep. No question about it: they were hovering very near his cabin.

Locklear could not fight from the lifeboat, but at least he had plenty of spare magazines for his Kzin sidearm in the lifeboat's lockers. He crammed his pockets with spares, expecting to see smoke roiling from his homestead as he began to skulk his scooter low toward home. His little vehicle would not bulk large on radar. And the tabbies might not realize how soon it grew dark on Newduvai. Maybe he could even the odds a little by landing near enough to snipe by the light of his burning cabin. He sneaked the last two hundred meters afoot, already steeling himself for the sight of a burning cabin.

But the cabin was not burning. And the Kzinti were not pillaging because, he saw with utter disbelief, the armed crew surrounding his cabin was human. He had already stood erect when it occurred to him that humans had been known to defect in previous wars — and he was carrying a Kzin weapon. He placed the sidearm and spare magazines beneath a stone overhang. Then Locklear strode out of the forest rubber-legged, too weak with relief to be angry at the firing on the village.

The first man to see him was a rawboned, ruddy private with the height of a belter. He brought his assault rifle to bear on Locklear, then snapped it to port arms. Three others spun as the big belter shouted, “Gomulka! We've got one!”

A big fireplug of a man, wearing sergeant's stripes, whirled and moved away from a cabin window, motioning a smaller man beneath the other window to stay put. Striding toward the belter, he used the heavy bellow of command. “Parker; escort him in! Schmidt, watch the perimeter.”

The belter trotted toward Locklear while an athletic specimen with a yellow crew-cut moved out to watch the forest where Locklear had emerged. Locklear took the belter's free hand and shook it repeatedly. They walked to the cabin together, and the rest of the group relaxed visibly to see Locklear all but capering in his delight. Two other armed figures appeared from across the clearing, one with curves too lush to be male, and Locklear invited them all in with, “There are no Kzinti on this piece of the planet; welcome to Newduvai.”

Leaning, sitting, they all found their ease in Locklear's room, and their gazes were as curious as Locklear's own. He noted the varied shoulder patches: We Made It, jinx, Wunderland. The woman, wearing the bars of a lieutenant, was evidently a Flatlander like himself. Commander Curt Stockton wore a Canyon patch, standing wiry and erect beside the woman, with pale gray eyes that missed nothing.

“I was captured by a Kzin ship,” Locklear explained, “and marooned. But I suppose that's all in the records; I call the planet 'Zoo' because I think the Outsiders designed it with that in mind.”

“We had these co-ordinates, and something vague about prison compounds, from translations of Kzin records,” Stockton replied. “You must know a lot about this Zoo place by now.”

“A fair amount. Listen, I saw you firing on a village near the big lake an hour ago. You mustn't do it again, commander. Those people are real Earth Neanderthals, probably the only ones in the entire galaxy.”

The blocky sergeant, David Gomulka, slid his gaze to lock on Stockton's and shrugged big sloping shoulders. The woman, a close-cropped brunette whose cinched belt advertised her charms, gave Locklear a brilliant smile and sat down on his pallet. “I'm Grace Agostinho; Lieutenant, Manaus Intelligence Corps, Earth. Forgive our manners, Mr. Locklear, we've been in heavy fighting along the Rim and this isn't exactly what we expected to find.”

“Me neither,” Locklear smiled, then turned serious. “I hope you didn't destroy that village.”

“Sorry about that,” Stockton said. “We may have caused a few casualties when we opened fire on those huts. I ordered the firing stopped as soon as I saw they weren't Kzinti. But don't look so glum, Locklear; it's not as if they were human.”

“Damn right they are,” Locklear insisted. “As you'll soon find out, if we can get their trust again. I've even taught a few of'em some of our language. And that's not all. But hey, I'm dying of curiosity without any news from outside. Is the war over?”

Commander Stockton coughed lightly for attention and the others seemed as attentive as Locklear. “It looks good around the core worlds, but in the Rim sectors it's still anybody's war.” He jerked a thumb toward the two-hundred-ton craft, twice the length of a Kzin lifeboat, that rested on its repulser jacks at the edge of the clearing with its own small pinnacle clinging to its back. “The Anthony Wayne is the kind of cruiser escort they don't mind turning over to small combat teams like mine. The big brass gave us this mission after we captured some Kzinti files from a tabby dreadnought. Not as good as R & R back home, but we're glad of the break.” Stockton's grin was infectious.

“I haven't had time to set up a distillery,” Locklear said, “or I'd offer you drinks on the house.”

“A man could get parched here,” said a swarthy little private.

“Good idea, Gazho. You're detailed to get some medicinal brandy from the med stores,” said Stockton.

As the private hurried out, Locklear said, “You could probably let the rest of the crew out to stretch their legs, you know. Not much to guard against on Newduvai.”

“What you see is all there is,” said a compact private with high cheekbones and a Crashlander medic patch. Locklear had not heard him speak before. Softly accented, laconic; almost a scholar's diction. But that's what you might expect of a military medic.

Stockton's quick gaze riveted the man as if to say, “that's enough.” To Locklear he nodded. “Meet Soichiro Lee; an intern before the war. Has a tendency to act as if a combat team is a democratic outfit but,” his glance toward Lee was amused now, “he's a good sawbones. Anyhow, the Wayne can take care of herself. We've set her auto defenses for voice recognition when the hatch is closed, so don't go wandering closer than ten meters without one of us. And if one of those hairy apes throws a rock at her, she might just burn him for his troubles.”

Locklear nodded. “A crew of seven; that's pretty thin.”

Stockton, carefully: “You want to expand on that?”

Locklear: “I mean, you've got your crew pretty thinly spread. The tabbies have the same problem, though. The bunch that marooned me here had only four members.”

Sergeant Gomulka exhaled heavily, catching Stockton's glance. “Commander, with your permission: Locklear here might have some ideas about those tabby records.”

“Umm. Yeah, I suppose,” with some reluctance. “Locklear, apparently the Kzinti felt there was some valuable secret, a weapon maybe, here on Zoo. They intended to return for it. Any idea what it was?”

Locklear laughed aloud. “Probably it was me. It ought to be the whole bleeding planet,” he said. “If you stand near the force wall and look hard, you can see what looks like a piece of the Kzin homeworld close to this one. You can't imagine the secrets the other compounds might have. For starters, the life forms I found in stasis had been here forty thousand years, near as I can tell, before I released'em.”

“You released them?”

“Maybe I shouldn't have, but—” He glanced shyly toward Lieutenant Agostinho. “I got pretty lonesome.”

“Anyone would,” she said, and her smile was more than understanding.

Gomulka rumbled in evident disgust, “Why would a lot of walking fossils be important to the tabby war effort?”

“They probably wouldn't,” Locklear admitted. “And anyhow, I didn't find the specimens until after the Kzinti left.” He could not say exactly why, but this did not seem the time to regale them with his adventures on Kzersatz. Something just beyond the tip of his awareness was flashing like a caution signal.

Now Gomulka looked at his commander. “So that's not what we're looking for,” he said. “Maybe it's not on this Newduvai dump. Maybe next door?”

“Maybe. We'll take it one dump at a time,” said Stockton, and turned as the swarthy private popped into the cabin. “Ah. I trust the Armagnac didn't insult your palate on the way, Nathan,” he said.

Nathan Gazho looked at the bottle's broken seal, then began to distribute nested plastic cups, his breath already laced with his quick nip of the brandy. “You don't miss much,” he grumbled.

But I'm missing something, Locklear thought as he touched his half-filled cup to that of the sloe-eyed, languorous lieutenant. Slack discipline? But combat troops probably ignore the spit and polish. Except for this hotsy who keeps looking at me as if we shared a secret, they've all got the hand calluses and haircuts of shock troops. No, it's something else…

He told himself it was reluctance to make himself a hero; and next he told himself they wouldn't believe him anyway. And then he admitted that he wasn't sure exactly why, but he would tell them nothing about his victory on Kzersatz unless they asked. Maybe because I suspect they'd round up poor Scarface, maybe hunt him down and shoot him like a mad dog no matter what I said. Yeah, that's reason enough. But something else, too.

Night fell, with its almost audible thump, while they emptied the Armagnac. Locklear explained his scholarly fear that the gentles were likely to kill off animals that no other ethologist had ever studied on the hoof; mentioned Ruth and Minuteman as well; and decided to say nothing about Loli to these hardbitten troops. Anse Parker, the gangling belter, kept bringing the topic back to the tantalizingly vague secret mentioned in Kzin files. Parker, Locklear decided, thought himself subtle but managed only to be transparently cunning.

Austin Schmidt, the wide-shouldered blond, had little capacity for Armagnac and kept toasting the day when “… all this crap is history and I'm a man of means,” singing that refrain from an old barracks ballad in a surprisingly sweet tenor. Locklear could not warm up to Nathan Gazho, whose gaze took inventory of every item in the cabin. The man's expensive wristcomp and pinky ring mismatched him like earrings on a weasel.

David Gomulka was all noncom, though, with a veteran's gift for controlling men and a sure hand in measuring booze. If the two officers felt any unease when he called them “Curt” and “Grace,” they managed to avoid showing it. Gomulka spun out the tale of his first hand-to-hand engagement against a Kzin penetration team with details that proved he knew how the tabbies fought. Locklear wanted to say, “That's right; that's how it is,” but only nodded.

It was late in the evening when the commander cut short their speculations on Zoo, stood up, snapped the belt flash from its ring and flicked it experimentally. “We could all use some sleep,” he decided, with the smile of a young father at his men, some of whom were older than he. “Mr. Locklear, we have more than enough room. Please be our guest in the Anthony Wayne tonight.”

Locklear, thinking that Loli might steal back to the cabin if she were somewhere nearby, said, “I appreciate it, commander, but I'm right at home here. Really.”

A nod, and a reflective gnawing of Stockton's lower lip. “I'm responsible for you now, Locklear. God knows what those Neanderthals might do, now that we've set fire to their nests.”

“But—” The men were stretching out their kinks, paying silent but close attention to the interchange.

“I must insist. I don't want to put it in terms of command, but I am the local sheriff here now, so to speak.” The engaging grin again. “Come on, Locklear, think of it as repaying your hospitality. Nothing's certain in this place, and—” his last phrase bringing soft chuckles from Gomulka, “they'd throw me in the brig if I let anything happen to you now.”

The taciturn Parker led the way, and Locklear smiled in the darkness thinking how Loli might wonder at the intensely bright, intensely magical beams that bobbed toward the ship. After Parker called out his name and a long number, the ship's hatch steps dropped at their feet and Locklear knew the reassurance of climbing into an Interworld ship with its familiar smells, whines, and beeps.

Parker and Schmidt were loudly in favor of a nightcap, but Stockton's, “Not a good idea, David,” to the sergeant was met with a nod and barked commands by Gomulka. Grace Agostinho made a similar offer to Locklear.

“Thanks anyway. You know what I'd really like?”

“Probably,” she said, with a pursed-lipped smile.

He was blushing as he said, “Ham sandwiches. Beer. A slice of thrill cake,” and nodded quickly when she hauled a frozen shrimp teriyaki from their food lockers. When it popped from the radioven, he sat near the ship's bridge to eat it, idly noting a few dark food stains on the bridge linolamat and listening to Grace tell of small news from home. The Amazon dam, a new “must-see” holo musical, a controversial cure for the common cold; the kind of tremendous trifles that cemented friendships.

She left him briefly while he chased scraps on his plate, and by the time she returned most of the crew had secured their pneumatic cubicle doors. “It's always satisfying to feed a man with an appetite,” said Grace, smiling at his clean plate as she slid it into the galley scrubber. “I'll see you're fed well on the Wayne.” With hands on her hips, she said, “Well: Private Schmidt has sentry duty. He'll show you to your quarters.”

He took her hand, thanked her, and nodded to the slightly wavering Schmidt who led the way back toward the ship's engine room. He did not look back but, from the sound of it, Grace entered a cubicle where two men were arguing in subdued tones.

Schmidt showed him to the rearmost cubicle but not the rearmost dozen bunks. Those, he saw, were ranked inside a cage of duralloy with no privacy whatever. Dark crusted stains spotted the floor inside and outside the cage. A fax sheet lay in the passageway. When Locklear glanced toward it, the private saw it, tried to hide a startle response, and then essayed a drunken grin.

“Gotta have a tight ship,” said Schmidt, banging his head on the duralloy as he retrieved the fax and balled it up with one hand. He tossed the wadded fax into a flush-mounted waste receptacle, slid the cubicle door open for Locklear, and managed a passable salute. “Have a good one, pal. You know how to adjust your rubberlady?”

Locklear saw that the mattresses of the two bunks were standard models with adjustable inflation and webbing. “No problem,” he replied, and slid the door closed. He washed up at the tiny inset sink, used the urinal slot below it, and surveyed his clothes after removing them. They'd all seen better days. Maybe he could wangle some new ones. He was sleepier than he'd thought, and adjusted his rubberlady for a soft setting, and was asleep within moments.

He did not know how long it was before he found himself sitting bolt-upright in darkness. He knew what was wrong, now: everything. It might be possible for a little escort ship to plunder records from a derelict mile-long Kzin battleship. It was barely possible that the same craft would be sent to check on some big Kzin secret — but not without at least a cruiser, if the Kzinti might be heading for Zoo.

He rubbed a trickle of sweat as it counted his ribs. He didn't have to be a military buff to know that ordinary privates do not have access to medical lockers, and the commander had told Gazho to get that brandy from med stores. Right; and all those motley shoulder patches didn't add up to a picked combat crew, either. And one more thing: even in his halfblotted condition, Schmidt had snatched that fax sheet up as though it was evidence against him. Maybe it was…

He waved the overhead lamp on, grabbed his ratty flight suit, and slid his cubicle door open. If anyone asked, he was looking for a cleaner unit for his togs.

A low thrum of the ship's sleeping hydraulics; a slightly louder buzz of someone sleeping, most likely Schmidt while on sentry duty. Not much discipline at all. I wonder just how much commanding Stockton really does. Locklear stepped into the passageway, moved several paces, and eased his free hand into the waste receptacle slot. Then he thrust the fax wad into his dirty flight suit and padded silently back, cursing the sigh of his door. A moment later he was colder than before.

The fax was labeled, “PRISONER RIGHTS AND PRIVILEGES”, and had been signed by some Provost Marshall — or a doctor, to judge from its illegibility. He'd bet anything that fax had fallen, or had been torn, from those duralloy bars. Rust-colored crusty stains on the floor; a similar stain near the ship's bridge; but no obvious damage to the ship from Kzin weapons.

It took all his courage to go into the passageway again, flight suit in hand, and replace the wadded fax sheet where he'd found it. And the door seemed much louder this time, almost a sob instead of a sigh.

Locklear felt like sobbing, too. He lay on his rubberlady in the dark, thinking about it. A hundred scenarios might explain some of the facts, but only one matched them all: the Anthony Wayne had been a prisoner ship, but now the prisoners were calling themselves “commander” and “sergeant,” and the real crew of the Anthony Wayne had made those stains inside the ship with their blood.

He wanted to shout it, but demanded it silently: So why would a handful of deserters fly to Zoo? Before he fell at last into a troubled sleep, he had asked it again and again, and the answer was always the same: somehow, one of them had learned of the Kzin records and hoped to find Zoo's secret before either side did.

These people would be deadly to anyone who knew their secret. And almost certainly, they'd never buy the truth, that Locklear himself was the secret because the Kzinti had been so sure he was an Interworld agent.

Locklear awoke with a sensation of dread, then a brief upsurge of joy at sleeping in modern accommodations, and then he remembered his conclusions in the middle of the night, and his optimism fell off and broke.

To mend it, he decided to smile with the innocence of a Candide and plan his tactics. If he could get to the Kzin lifeboat, he might steer it like a slow battering ram and disable the Anthony Wayne. Or they might blow him to flinders in midair — and what if his fears were wrong, and despite all evidence this combat team was genuine? In any case, disabling the ship meant marooning the whole lot of them together. It wasn't a plan calculated to lengthen his life expectancy; maybe he would think of another.

The crew was already bustling around with breakfasts when he emerged, and yes, he could use the ship's cleaning unit for his clothes. When he asked for spare clothing, Soichiro Lee was first to deny it to him. “Our spares are still-contaminated from a previous engagement,” he explained, with a meaningful look toward Gomulka.

I bet they are, with blood, Locklear told himself as he scooped his synthesized eggs and bacon. Their uniforms all seemed to fit well. Probably their own, he decided. The stylized winged gun on Gomulka's patch said he could fly gunships. Lee might be a medic, and the sensuous Grace might be a real intelligence officer — and all could be renegades.

Stockton watched him eat, friendly as ever, arms folded and relaxed. “Gomulka and Gazho did a recon in our pinnacle at dawn,” he said, sucking a tooth. “Seems your apemen are already rebuilding at another site; a terrace at this end of the lake. A lot closer to us.”

“I wish you could think of them as people,” Locklear said. “They're not terribly bright, but they don't swing on vines.”

Chuckling: “Bright enough to be nuisances, perhaps try and burn us out if they find the ship here,” Stockton said. “Maybe bright enough to know what it is the tabbies found here. You said they can talk a little. Well, you can help us interrogate'em.”

“They aren't too happy with me,” Locklear admitted as Gomulka sat down with steaming coffee. “But I'll try on one condition.”

Gomulka's voice carried a rumble of barely hidden threat. “Conditions? You're talking to your commander, Locklear.”

“It's a very simple one,” Locklear said softly. “No more killing or threatening these people. They call themselves 'gentles,' and they are. The New Smithson, or half the Interworld University branches, would give a year's budget to study them alive.”

Grace Agostinho had been working at a map terminal, but evidently with an ear open to their negotiations. As Stockton and Gomulka gazed at each other in silent surmise, she took the few steps to sit beside Locklear, her hip warm against his. “You're an ethologist. Tell me, what could the Kzinti do with these gentles?”

Locklear nodded, sipped coffee, and finally said, “I'm not sure. Study them hoping for insights into the underlying psychology of modern humans, maybe.”

Stockton said, “But you said the tabbies don't know about them.”

“True; at least I don't see how they could. But you asked. I can't believe the gentles would know what you're after, but if you have to ask them, of course I'll help.”

Stockton said it was necessary, and appointed Lee acting corporal at the cabin as he filled most of the pinnacle's jumpseats with himself, Locklear, Agostinho, Gomulka, and the lank Parker. The little craft sat on downsloping delta wings that ordinarily nested against the Wayne's hull, and had intakes for gas-reactor jets. “Newest piece of hardware we have,” Stockton said, patting the pilot's console. It was Gomulka, however, who took the controls.

Locklear suggested that they approach very slowly, with hands visibly up and empty, as they settled the pinnacle near the beginnings of a new gentles camp site. The gentles, including their women, all rushed for primitive lances but did not flee, and Anse Parker was the only one carrying an obvious weapon as the pinnacle’s canopy swung back. Locklear stepped forward, talking and smiling, with Parker at their backs.

He saw Ruth waiting for old Gimp, and said he was much happy to see her, which was an understatement. Minuteman, too, had survived the firing on their village.

Cloud had not. Ruth told him so immediately. “Locklear make many deaths to gentles,” she accused. Behind her, some of the gentles stared with faces that were anything but gentle. “Gentles not like talk to Locklear, he says. Go now. Please,” she added, one of the last words he'd taught her, and she said it with urgency. Her glance toward Grace Agostinho was interested, not hostile but perhaps pitying.

Locklear moved away from the others, farther from the glaring Gimp. “More new people come,” he called from a distance, pleading. “Think gentles big, bad animals. Stop when they see gentles; much much sorry. Locklear say not hurt gentles more.”

With her head cocked sideways, Ruth seemed to be testing his mind for lies. She spoke with Gimp, whose face registered a deep sadness and, perhaps, some confusion as well. Locklear could hear a buzz of low conversation between Stockton nearby and Gomulka, who still sat at the pinnacle controls.

“Locklear think good, but bad things happen,” Ruth said at last. “Kill Cloud, many more. Gentles not like fight. Locklear know this,” she said, almost crying. “Now please go!”

Gomulka came out of the pinnacle with his sidearm drawn, and Locklear turned toward him, aghast. “No shooting! You promised,” he reminded Stockton.

But: “We'll have to bring the ape-woman with the old man,” Stockton said grimly, not liking it but determined. Gomulka stood quietly, the big sloping shoulders hunched.

Stockton said, “This is an explosive situation, Locklear. We must take those two for interrogation. Have the woman tell them we won't hurt them unless their people try to hunt us.”

Then, as Locklear froze in horrified anger, Gomulka bellowed, “Tell'em!”

Locklear did it and Ruth began to call in their language to the assembled throng. Then, at Gomulka's command, Parker ran forward to grasp the pathetic old Gimp by the arm, standing more than a head taller than the Neanderthal. That was the moment when Minuteman, who must have understood only a little of their parley, leaped weaponless at the big belter.

Parker swept a contemptuous arm at the little fellow's reach, but let out a howl as Minuteman, with those blacksmith arms of his, wrenched that arm as one would wave a stick.

The report was shattering, with echoes slapping off the lake, and Locklear whirled to see Gomulka's two-handed aim with the projectile sidearm. “No! Goddammit, these are human beings,” he screamed, rushing toward the fallen Minuteman, falling on his knees, placing one hand over the little fellow's breast as if to stop the blood that was pumping from it. The gentles panicked at the thunder from Gomulka's weapon, and began to run.

Minuteman's throat pulse still throbbed, but he was in deep shock from the heavy projectile and his pulse died as Locklear watched helpless. Parker was already clubbing old Gimp with his rifle-butt and Gomulka, his sidearm out of sight, grabbed Ruth as she tried to interfere. The big man might as well have walked into a train wreck while the train was still moving.

Grace Agostinho seemed to know she was no fighter, retreating into the pinnacle. Stockton, whipping the ornamental braid from his epaulets, began to fashion nooses as he moved to help Parker, whose left arm was half-useless. Locklear came to his feet, saw Gomulka's big fist smash at Ruth's temple, and dived into the fray with one arm locked around Gomulka's bull neck, trying to haul him off-balance. Both of Ruth's hands grappled with Gomulka's now, and Locklear saw that she was slowly overpowering him while her big teeth sought his throat, only the whites of her eyes showing. It was the last thing Locklear would see for awhile, as someone raced up behind him.

He awoke to a gentle touch and the chill of antiseptic spray behind his right ear, and focused on the real concern mirrored on Stockton's face. He lay in the room he had built for Loli, Soichiro Lee kneeling beside him, while Ruth and Gimp huddled as far as they could get into a corner. Stockton held a standard issue parabellum, arms folded, not pointing the weapon but keeping it in evidence. “Only a mild concussion,” Lee murmured to the commander.

“You with us again, Locklear?” Stockton got a nod in response, motioned for Lee to leave, and sighed. “I'm truly sorry about all this, but you were interfering with a military operation. Gomulka is— he has a lot of experience, and a good commander would be stupid to ignore his suggestions.”

Locklear was barely wise enough to avoid saying that Gomulka did more commanding than Stockton did. Pushing himself up, blinking from the headache that split his skull like an axe, he said, “I need some air.”

“You'll have to get it right here,” Stockton said, “because I can't— won't let you out. Consider yourself under arrest. Behave yourself and that could change.” With that, he shouldered the woven mat aside and his slow footsteps echoed down the connecting corridor to the other room.

Without a door directly to the outside, he would have to run down that corridor where armed yahoos waited. Digging out would make noise and might take hours. Locklear slid down against the cabin wall, head in hands. When he opened them again he saw that poor old Gimp seemed comatose, but Ruth was looking at him intently. “I wanted to be friend of all gentles,” he sighed.

“Yes. Gentles know,” she replied softly. “New people with gentles not good. Stok-Tun not want hurt, but others not care about gentles. Ruth hear in head,” she added, with a palm against the top of her head.

“Ruth must not tell,” Locklear insisted. “New people maybe kill if they know gentles hear that way.”

She gave him a very modern nod, and even in that hopelessly homely face, her shy smile held a certain beauty. “Locklear help Ruth fight. Ruth like Locklear much, much; even if Locklear is new.”

“Ruth, 'new' means 'ugly,' doesn't it? New, new,” he repeated, screwing his face into a hideous caricature, making claws of his hands, snarling in exaggerated mimicry.

He heard voices raised in muffled excitement in the other room, and Ruth's head was cocked again momentarily. “Ugly?” She made faces, too. “Part yes. New means not same as before but also ugly, maybe bad.”

“All the gentles considered me the ugly man. Yes?”

“Yes,” she replied sadly. “Ruth not care. Like ugly man if good man, too.”

“And you knew I thought you were, uh—”

“Ugly? Yes. Ruth try and fix before.”

“I know,” he said, miserable. “Locklear like Ruth for that and many, many more things.”

Quickly, as boots stamped in the corridor, she said, “Big problem. New people not think Locklear tell truth. New woman—”

Schmidt's rifle barrel moved the mat aside and he let it do his gesturing to Locklear. “On your feet, buddy, you've got some explaining to do.”

Locklear got up carefully so his head would not roll off his shoulders. Stumbling toward the doorway he said to Ruth: “What about new woman?”

“Much, much new in head. Ruth feel sorry,” she called as Locklear moved toward the other room.

They were all crowded in, and seven pairs of eyes were intent on Locklear. Grace's gaze held a liquid warmth but he saw nothing warmer than icicles in any other face. Gomulka and Stockton sat on the benches facing him across his crude table like judges at a trial. Locklear did not have to be told to stand before them.

Gomulka reached down at his own feet and grunted with effort, and the toolbox crashed down on the table. His voice was not its usual command timbre but menacingly soft. “Gazho noticed this was all tabby stuff,” he said.

“Part of an honorable trade,” Locklear said, drymouthed. “I could have killed a Kzin and didn't.”

“They trade you a fucking LIFEBOAT, too?”

Those goddamn pinnacle sorties of his! The light of righteous fury snapped in the big man's face, but Locklear stared back. “Matter of fact, yes. The Kzin is a cat of his word, sergeant.”

“Enough of your bullshit, I want the truth!”

Now Locklear shifted his gaze to Stockton. “I'm telling it. Enough of your bullshit, too. How did your bunch of bozos get out of the brig, Stockton?”

Parker blurted, “How the hell did—” before Gomulka spun on his bench with a silent glare. Parker blushed and swallowed.

“We're asking the questions, Locklear. The tabbies must've left you a girlfriend, too,” Stockton said quietly. “Lee and Schmidt both saw some little hotsy queen of the jungle out near the perimeter while we were gone. Make no mistake, they'll hunt her down and there's nothing I can say to stop them.”

“Why not, if you're a commander?”

Stockton flushed angrily, with a glance at Gomulka that was not kind. “That's my problem, not yours. Look, you want some straight talk, and here it is: Agostinho has seen the goddamned translations from a tabby dreadnought, and there is something on this godforsaken place they think is important, and we were in this Rim sector when— when we got into some problems, and she told me. I'm an officer, I really am, believe what you like. But we have to find whatever the hell there is on Zoo.”

“So you can plea-bargain after your mutiny?”

“That's ENOUGH,” Gomulka bellowed. “You're a little too cute for your own good, Locklear. But if you're ever gonna get off this ball of dirt, it'll be after you help us find what the tabbies are after.”

“It's me,” Locklear said simply. “I've already told you.”

Silent consternation, followed by disbelief. “And what the fuck are you,” Gomulka spat.

“Not much, I admit. But as I told you, they captured me and got the idea I knew more about the Rim sectors than I do.”

“How much Kzinshit do you think I'll swallow?” Gomulka was standing, now, advancing around the table toward his captive. Curt Stockton shut his eyes and sighed his helplessness.

Locklear was wondering if he could grab anything from the toolbox when a voice of sweet reason stopped Gomulka. “Brutality hasn't solved anything here yet,” said Grace Agostinho. “I'd like to talk to Locklear alone.” Gomulka stopped, glared at her, then back at Locklear. “I can't do any worse than you have, David,” she added to the fuming sergeant.

Beckoning, she walked to the doorway and Gazho made sure his rifle muzzle grated on Locklear's ribs as the ethologist followed her outside. She said, “Do I have your honorable parole? Bear in mind that even if you try to run, they'll soon have you and the girl who's running loose, too. They've already destroyed some kind of flying raft; yours, I take it,” she smiled.

Damn, hell, shit, and blast! “Mine. I won't run, Grace. Besides, you've got a parabellum.”

“Remember that,” she said, and began to stroll toward the trees while the cabin erupted with argument. Locklear vented more silent damns and hells; she wasn't leading him anywhere near his hidden Kzin sidearm.

Grace Agostinho, surprisingly, first asked about Loli. She seemed amused to learn he had waked the girl first, and that he'd regretted it at his leisure. Gradually, her questions segued to answers. “Discipline on a warship can be vicious,” she mused as if to herself. “Curt Stockton was— is a career officer, but it's his view that there must be limits to discipline. His own commander was a hard man, and—”

“Jesus Christ; you're saying he mutinied like Fletcher Christian?”

“That's not entirely wrong,” she said, now very feminine as they moved into a glade, out of sight of the cabin. “David Gomulka is a rougher sort, a man of some limited ideas but more of action. I'm afraid Curt filled David with ideas that, ah,…”

“Stockton started a boulder downhill and can't stop it,” Locklear said. “Not the first time a man of ideas has started something he can't control. How'd you get into this mess?”

“An affair of the heart; I'd rather not talk about it. When I'm drawn to a man… well, I tend to show it,” she said, and preened her hair for him as she leaned against a fallen tree. “You must tell them what they want to know, my dear. These are desperate men, in desperate trouble.”

Locklear saw the promise in those huge dark eyes and gazed into them. “I swear to you, the Kzinti thought I was some kind of Interworld agent, but they dropped me on Zoo for safekeeping.”

“And were you?” Softly, softly, catchee monkey…

“Good God, no! I'm an—”

“Ethologist. I heard it. But the Kzin suspicion does seem reasonable, doesn't it?”

“I guess, if you're paranoid.” God, but this is one seductive lieutenant.

“Which means that David and Curt could sell you to the Kzinti for safe passage, if I let them,” she said, moving toward him, her hands pulling apart the closures on his flight suit. “But I don't think that's the secret, and I don't think you think so. You're a fascinating man, and I don't know when I've been so attracted to anyone. Is this so awful of me?”

He knew damned well how powerfully persuasive a woman like Grace could be with that voluptuous willowy sexuality of hers. And he remembered Ruth's warning, and believed it. But he would rather drown in honey than in vinegar, and when she turned her face upward, he found her mouth with his, and willingly let her lust kindle his own.

Presently, lying on forest humus and watching Grace comb her hair clean with her fingers, Locklear's breathing slowed. He inventoried her charms as she shrugged into her flight suit again; returned her impudent smile; began to readjust his togs. “If this be torture,” he declaimed like an actor, “make the most of it.”

“Up to the standards of your local ladies?”

“Oh yes,” he said fervently, knowing it was only a small lie. “But I'm not sure I understand why you offered.”

She squatted becomingly on her knees, brushing at his clothing. “You're very attractive,” she said. “And mysterious. And if you'll help us, Locklear, I promise to plumb your mysteries as much as you like — and vice-versa.”

“An offer I can't refuse, Grace. But I don't know how I can do more than I have already.”

Her frown held little anger; more of perplexity, “But I've told you, my dear: we must have that Kzin secret.”

“And you didn't believe what I said.”

Her secret smile again, teasing: “Really, darling, you must give me some credit. I am in the intelligence corps.”

He did see a flash of irritation cross her face this time as he laughed. “Grace, this is crazy,” he said, still grinning. “It may be absurd that the Kzinti thought I was an agent, but it's true. I think the planet itself is a mind-boggling discovery, and I said so first thing off. Other than that, what can I say?”

“I'm sorry you're going to be this way about it,” she said with the pout of a nubile teen-ager, then hitched up the sidearm on her belt as if to remind him of it.

She's sure something, he thought as they strode back to his clearing. If I had any secret to hide, could she get it out of me with this kind of attention? Maybe — but she's all technique and no real passion. Exactly the girl you want to bring home to your friendly regimental combat team…

Grace motioned him into the cabin without a word and, as Schmidt sent him into the room with Ruth and the old man, he saw both Gomulka and Stockton leave the cabin with Grace. I don't think she has affairs of the heart, he reflected with a wry smile. Affairs of the glands beyond counting, but maybe no heart to lose. Or no character?

He sat down near Ruth, who was sitting with Gimp's head in her lap, and sighed. “Ruth much smart about new woman. Locklear see now,” he said and, gently, kissed the homely face.

The crew had a late lunch but brought none for their captives, and Locklear was taken to his judges in the afternoon. He saw hammocks slung in his room, evidence that the crew intended to stay awhile. Stockton, as usual, began as pleasantly as he could. “Locklear, since you're not on Agostinho's list of known intelligence assets in the Rim sectors, then maybe we've been peering at the wrong side of the coin.”

“That's what I told the tabbies,” Locklear said.

“Now we're getting somewhere. Actually, you're a Kzin agent; right?”

Locklear stared, then tried not to laugh. “Oh, Jesus, Stockton! Why would they drop me here, in that case?”

Evidently, Stockton's pleasant side was loosely attached under trying circumstances. He flushed angrily. “You tell us.”

“You can find out damned fast by turning me over to Interworld authorities,” Locklear reminded him.

“And if you turn out to be a plugged nickel,” Gomulka snarled, “you're home free and we're in deep shit. No, I don't think we will, little man. We'll do anything we have to do to get the facts out of you. If it takes shooting hostages, we will.”

Locklear switched his gaze to the bedeviled Stockton and saw no help there. At this point, a few lies might help the gentles. “A real officer, are you? Shoot these poor savages? Go ahead, actually you might be doing me a favor. You can see they hate my guts! The only reason they didn't kill me today is that they think I'm one of you, and they're scared to. Every one you knock off, or chase off, is just one less who's out to tan my hide.”

Gomulka, slyly: “So how'd you say you got that tabby ship?”

Locklear: “On Kzersatz. Call it grand theft, I don't give a damn.” Knowing they would explore Kzersatz sooner or later, he said, “The tabbies probably thought I hightailed it for the Interworld fleet but I could barely fly the thing. I was lucky to get down here in one piece.”

Stockton's chin jerked up. “Do you mean there's a Kzin force right across those force walls?”

“There was; I took care of them myself.”

Gomulka stood up now. “Sure you did. I never heard such jizm in twenty years of barracks brags. Grace, you never did like a lot of hollering and blood. Go to the ship.” Without a word, and with the same liquid gaze she would turn on Locklear — and perhaps on anyone else — she nodded and walked out.

As Gomulka reached for his captive, Locklear grabbed for the heavy toolbox. That little hand welder would ruin a man's entire afternoon. Gomulka nodded, and suddenly Locklear felt his arms gripped from behind by Schmidt's big hands. He brought both feet up, kicked hard against the table, and as the table flew into the faces of Stockton and Gomulka, Schmidt found himself propelled backward against the cabin wall.

Shouting, cursing, they overpowered Locklear at last, hauling the top of his flight suit down so that its arms could be tied into a sort of straitjacket. Breathing hard, Gomulka issued his final backhand slap toward Locklear's mouth. Locklear ducked, then spat into the big man's face.

Wiping spittle away with his sleeve, Gomulka muttered, “Curt, we gotta soften this guy up.”

Stockton pointed to the scars on Locklear's upper body. “You know, I don't think he softens very well, David. Ask yourself whether you think it's useful, or whether you just want to do it.”

It was another of those ideas Gomulka seemed to value greatly because he had so few of his own. “Well goddammit, what would you do?”

“Coercion may work, but not this kind.” Studying the silent Locklear in the grip of three men, he came near smiling. “Maybe give him a comm set and drop him among the Neanderthals. When he's good and ready to talk, we rescue him.”

A murmur among the men, and a snicker from Gazho. To prove he did have occasional ideas, Gomulka replied, “Maybe. Or better, maybe drop him next door on Kzinkatz or whatever the fuck he calls it.” His eyes slid slowly to Locklear.

To Locklear, who was licking a trickle of blood from his upper lip, the suggestion did not register for a count of two beats. When it did, he needed a third beat to make the right response. Eyes wide, he screamed.

“Yeah,” said Nathan Gazho.

“Yeah, right,” came the chorus.

Locklear struggled, but not too hard. “My God! They'll— They EAT people, Stockton!”

“Well, it looks like a voice vote, Curt,” Gomulka drawled, very pleased with his idea, then turned to Locklear. “But that's democracy for you. You'll have a nice comm set and you can call us when you're ready. Just don't forget the story about the boy who cried 'wolf'. But when you call, Locklear—” the big sergeant's voice was low and almost pleasant, “be ready to deal.”

Locklear felt a wild impulse, as Gomulka shoved him into the pinnacle, to beg, “Please, Bre'r Fox, don't throw me in the briar patch!” He thrashed a bit and let his eyes roll convincingly until Parker, with a choke hold, pacified him half-unconscious.

If he had any doubts that the pinnacle was orbit-rated, Locklear lost them as he watched Gomulka at work. Parker sat with the captive though Lee, beside Gomulka, faced a console. The three pirates negotiated a three-way bet on how much time would pass before Locklear begged to be picked up. His comm set, roughly shoved into his ear with its button switch, had fresh batteries but Lee reminded him again that they would be returning only once to bail him out. The pinnacle, a lovely little craft, arced up to orbital height and, with only its transparent canopy between him and hard vac, Locklear found real fear added to his pretense. After pitchover, tiny bursts of light at the wingtips steadied the pinnacle as it began its re-entry over the saffron jungles of Kzersatz.

Because of its different schedule, the tiny programmed sunlet of Kzersatz was only an hour into its morning. “Keep one eye on your sweep screen,” Gomulka said as the roar of deceleration died away.

“I am,” Lee replied grimly. “Locklear, if we get jumped by a tabby ship I'll put a burst right into your guts, first thing.”

As Locklear made a show of moaning and straining at his bonds, Gomulka banked the pinnacle for its mapping sweep. Presently, Lee's infrared scanners flashed an overlay on his screen and Gomulka nodded, but finished the sweep. Then, by manual control, he slowed the little craft and brought it at a leisurely pace to the IR blips, a mile or so above the alien veldt. Lee brought the screen's video to high magnification.

Anse Parker saw what Locklear saw. “Only a few tabbies, huh? And you took care of'em, huh? You son of a bitch!” He glared at the scene, where a dozen Kzinti moved unaware amid half-submerged huts and cooking fires, and swatted Locklear across the back of his head with an open hand. “Looks like they've gone native,” Parker went on. “Hey, Gomulka: they'll be candy for us.”

“I noticed,” Gomulka replied. “You know what? If we bag'em now, we're helping this little shit. We can come back any time we like, maybe have ourselves a tabby-hunt.”

“Yeah; show'em what it's like,” Lee snickered, “after they've had their manhunt.”

Locklear groaned for effect. A village ready-made in only a few months! Scarface didn't waste any time getting his own primitives out of stasis. I hope to God he doesn't show up looking glad to see me. To avoid that possibility he pleaded, “Aren't you going to give me a running chance?”

“Sure we are,” Gomulka laughed. “Tabbies will pick up your scent anyway. Be on you like flies on a turd.” The pinnacle flew on, unseen from far below, Lee bringing up the video now and then. Once he said, “Can't figure out what they're hunting in that field. If I didn't know Kzinti were strict carnivores I'd say they were farming.”

Locklear knew that primitive Kzinti ate vegetables as well, and so did their meat animals; but he kept his silence. It hadn't even occurred to these piratical deserters that the Kzinti below might be as prehistoric as Neanderthalers. Good; let them think they understood the Kzinti! But nobody knows 'em like I do, he thought. It was an arrogance he would recall with bitterness very, very soon.

Gomulka set the pinnacle down with practiced ease behind a stone escarpment and Parker, his gaze nervously sweeping the jungle, used his gunbarrel to urge Locklear out of the craft.

Soichiro Lee's gentle smile did not match his final words: “If you manage to hide out here, just remember we'll pick up your little girlfriend before long. Probably a better piece of snatch than the Manaus machine,” he went on, despite a sudden glare from Gomulka. “How long do you want us to use her, asshole? Think about it,” he winked, and the canopy's “thunk” muffled the guffaws of Anse Parker.

Locklear raced away as the pinnacle lifted, making it look good. They had tossed Bre'r Rabbit into his personal briar patch, never suspecting he might have friends here.

He was thankful that the village lay downhill as he began his one athletic specialty, long-distance jogging, because he could once again feel the synthetic gravity of Kzersatz tugging at his body. He judged that he was a two-hour trot from the village and paced himself carefully, walking and resting now and then. And planning.

As soon as Scarface learned the facts, they could set a trap for the returning pinnacle. And then, with captives of his own, Locklear could negotiate with Stockton. It was clear by now that Curt Stockton considered himself a leader of virtue — because he was a man of ideas. David Gomulka was a man of action without many important ideas, the perfect model of a playground bully long after graduation.

And Stockton? He would've been the kind of clever kid who decided early that violence was an inferior way to do things, because he wasn't very good at it himself. Instead, he'd enlist a Gomulka to stand nearby while the clever kid tried to beat you up with words; debate you to death. And if that finally failed, he could always sigh, and walk away leaving the bully to do his dirty work, and imagine that his own hands were clean.

But Kzersatz was a whole 'nother playground, with different rules. Locklear smiled at the thought and jogged on.

An hour later he heard the beast crashing in panic through orange ferns before he saw it, and realized that it was pursued only when he spied a young male flashing with sinuous efficiency behind.

No one ever made friends with a Kzin by interrupting its hunt, so Locklear stood motionless among palmferns and watched. The prey reminded him of a pygmy tyrannosaur, almost the height of a man but with teeth meant for grazing on foliage. The Kzin bounded nearer, disdaining the w'tsai knife at his belt, and screamed only as he leaped for the kill.

The prey's armored hide and thrashing tail made the struggle interesting, but the issue was never in doubt. A Kzin warrior was trained to hunt, to kill, and to eat that kill, from kittenhood. The roars of the lizard dwindled to a hissing gurgle; the tail and the powerful legs stilled. Only after the Kzin vented his victory scream and ripped into his prey did Locklear step into the clearing made by flattened ferns.

Hands up and empty, Locklear called in Kzin, “The Kzin is a mighty hunter!” To speak in Kzin, one needed a good falsetto and plenty of spit. Locklear's command was fair, but the young Kzin reacted as though the man had spouted fire and brimstone. He paused only long enough to snatch up his kill, a good hundred kilos, before bounding off at top speed.

Crestfallen, Locklear trotted toward the village again. He wondered now if Scarface and Kit, the mate Locklear had freed for him, had failed to speak of mankind to the ancient Kzin tribe. In any case, they would surely respond to his use of their language until he could get Scarface's help. Perhaps the young male had simply raced away to bring the good news.

And perhaps, he decided a half-hour later, he himself was the biggest fool in Known Space or beyond it. They had ringed him before he knew it, padding silently through foliage the same mottled yellows and oranges as their fur. Then, almost simultaneously, he saw several great tigerish shapes disengage from their camouflage ahead of him, and heard the scream as one leapt upon him from behind.

Bowled over by the rush, feeling hot breath and fangs at his throat, Locklear moved only his eyes. His attacker might have been the same one he surprised while hunting, and he felt needle-tipped claws through his flight suit.

Then Locklear did the only things he could: kept his temper, swallowed his terror, and repeated his first greeting: “The Kzin is a mighty hunter.”

He saw, striding forward, an old Kzin with ornate bandolier straps. The oldster called to the others, “It is true, the beast speaks the Hero's Tongue! It is as I prophesied.” Then, to the young attacker, “Stand away at the ready,” and Locklear felt like breathing again.

“I am Locklear, who first waked members of your clan from age-long sleep,” he said in that ancient dialect he'd learned from Kit. “I come in friendship. May I rise?”

A contemptuous gesture and, as Locklear stood up, a worse remark. “Then you are the beast that lay with a palace prret, a courtesan. We have heard. You will win no friends here.”

A cold tendril marched down Locklear's spine. “May I speak with my friends? The Kzinti have things to fear, but I am not among them.”

More laughter. “The Rockear beast thinks it is fearsome,” said the young male, his ear-umbrellas twitching in merriment.

“I come to ask help, and to offer it,” Locklear said evenly.

“The priesthood knows enough of your help. Come,” said the older one. And that is how Locklear was marched into a village of prehistoric Kzinti, ringed by hostile predators twice his size.

His reception party was all-male, its members staring at him in frank curiosity while prodding him to the village. They finally left him in an open area surrounded by huts with his hands tied, a leather collar around his neck, the collar linked by a short braided rope to a hefty stake. When he squatted on the turf, he noticed the soil was torn by hooves here and there. Dark stains and an abattoir odor said the place was used for butchering animals. The curious gazes of passing females said he was only a strange animal to them. The disappearance of the males into the largest of the semi-submerged huts suggested that he had furnished the village with something worth a town meeting.

At last the meeting broke up, Kzin males striding from the hut toward him, a half-dozen of the oldest emerging last, each with a four-fingered paw tucked into his bandolier belt. Prominent scars across the breasts of these few were all exactly similar; some kind of self-torture ritual, Locklear guessed. Last of all with the ritual scars was the old one he'd spoken with, and this one had both paws tucked into his belt. Got it; the higher your status, the less you need to keep your hands ready, or to hurry.

The old devil was enjoying all this ceremony, and so were the other big shots. Standing in clearly separated rings behind them were the other males with a few females, then the other females, evidently the entire tribe. Locklear spotted a few Kzinti whose expressions and ear-umbrellas said they were either sick or unhappy, but all played their obedient parts.

Standing before him, the oldster reached out and raked Locklear's face with what seemed to be only a ceremonial insult. It brought welts to his cheek anyway. The oldster spoke for all to hear. “You began the tribe's awakening, and for that we promise a quick kill.”

“I waked several Kzinti, who promised me honor,” Locklear managed to say.

“Traitors? They have no friends here. So you have no friends here,” said the old Kzin with pompous dignity. “This the priesthood has decided.”

“You are the leader?”

“First among equals,” said the high priest with a smirk that said he believed in no equals.

“While this tribe slept,” Locklear said loudly, hoping to gain some support, “a mighty Kzin warrior came here. I call him Scarface. I return in peace to see him, and to warn you that others who look like me may soon return. They wish you harm, but I do not. Would you take me to Scarface?”

He could not decipher the murmurs, but he knew amusement when he saw it. The high priest stepped forward, untied the rope, handed it to the nearest of the husky males who stood behind the priests. “He would see the mighty hunter who had new ideas,” he said. “Take him to see that hero, so that he will fully appreciate the situation. Then bring him back to the ceremony post.”

With that, the high priest turned his back and, followed by the other priests, walked away. The dozens of other Kzinti hurried off, carefully avoiding any backward glances. Locklear said, to the huge specimen tugging on his neck rope, “I cannot walk quickly with hands behind my back.”

“Then you must learn,” rumbled the big Kzin, and lashed out with a foot that propelled Locklear forward. I think he pulled that punch, Locklear thought. Kept his claws retracted, at least. The Kzin led him silently from the village and along a path until hidden by foliage. Then, “You are the Rockear,” he said, slowing. “I am (something as unpronounceable as most Kzin names),” he added, neither friendly nor unfriendly. He began untying Locklear's hands with, “I must kill you if you run, and I will. But I am no priest,” he said, as if that explained his willingness to ease a captive's walking.

“You are a stalwart,” Locklear said. “May I call you that?”

“As long as you can,” the big Kzin said, leading the way again. “I voted to my priest to let you live, and teach us. So did most heroes of my group.”

Uh-huh; they have priests instead of senators. But this smells like the old American system before direct elections. “Your priest is not bound to vote as you say?” A derisive snort was his answer, and he persisted. “Do you vote your priests in?”

“Yes. For life,” said Stalwart, explaining everything.

“So they pretend to listen, but they do as they like,” Locklear said.

A grunt, perhaps of admission or of scorn. “It was always thus,” said Stalwart, and found that Locklear could trot, now. Another half-hour found them moving across a broad veldt, and Locklear saw the scars of a grass fire before he realized he was in familiar surroundings. Stalwart led the way to a rise and then stopped, pointing toward the jungle. “There,” he said, “is your scarfaced friend.”

Locklear looked in vain, then back at Stalwart. “He must be blending in with the ferns. You people do that very—”

“The highest tree. What remains of him is there.”

And then Locklear saw the flying creatures he had called “batowls,” tiny mites at a distance of two hundred meters, picking at tatters of something that hung in a net from the highest tree in the region. “Oh, my God! Won't he die there?”

“He is dead already. He underwent the long ceremony,” said Stalwart, “many days past, with wounds that killed slowly.”

Locklear's glare was incriminating: “I suppose you voted against that, too?”

“That, and the sacrifice of the palace prret in days past,” said the Kzin.

Blinking away tears, for Scarface had truly been a cat of his word, Locklear said, “Those prret. One of them was Scarface's mate when I left. Is she up there, too?”

For what it was worth, the big Kzin could not meet his gaze. “Drowning is the dishonorable punishment for females,” he said, pointing back toward Kzersatz's long shallow lake. “The priesthood never avoids tradition, and she lies beneath the water. Another prret with kittens was permitted to rejoin the tribe. She chose to be shunned instead. Now and then, we see her. It is treason to speak against the priesthood, and I will not.”

Locklear squeezed his eyes shut; blinked; turned away from the hideous sight hanging from that distant tree as scavengers picked at its bones. “And I hoped to help your tribe! A pox on all your houses,” he said to no one in particular. He did not speak to the Kzin again, but they did not hurry as Stalwart led the way back to the village.

The only speaking Locklear did was to the comm set in his ear, shoving its pushbutton switch. The Kzin looked back at him in curiosity once or twice, but now he was speaking Interworld, and perhaps Stalwart thought he was singing a death song.

In a way, it was true — though not a song of his own death, if he could help it. “Locklear calling the Anthony Wayne,” he said, and paused.

He heard the voice of Grace Agostinho reply, “Recording.”

“They've caught me already, and they intend to kill me. I don't much like you bastards, but at least you're human. I don't care how many of the male tabbies you bag; when they start torturing me I won't be any further use to you.”

Again, Grace's voice replied in his ear: “Recording.”

Now with a terrible suspicion, Locklear said, “Is anybody there? If you're monitoring me live, say 'monitoring.'”

His comm set, in Grace's voice, only said, “Recording.”

Locklear flicked off the switch and began to walk even more slowly, until Stalwart tugged hard on the leash. Any Kzin who cared to look, as they re-entered the village, would have seen a little man bereft of hope. He did not complain when Stalwart retied his hands, nor even when another Kzin marched him away and fairly flung him into a tiny hut near the edge of the village. Eventually they flung a bloody hunk of some recent kill into his hut, but it was raw and, with his hands tied behind him, he could not have held it to his mouth.

Nor could he toggle his comm set, assuming it would carry past the roof thatch. He had not said he would be in the village, and they would very likely kill him along with everybody else in the village when they came. If they came.

He felt as though he would drown in cold waves of despair. A vicious priesthood had killed his friends and, even if he escaped for a time, he would be hunted down by the galaxy's most pitiless hunters. And if his own kind rescued him, they might cheerfully beat him to death trying to learn a secret he had already divulged. And even the gentle Neanderthalers hated him, now.

Why not just give up? I don't know why, he admitted to himself, and began to search for something to help him fray the thongs at his wrists. He finally chose a rough-barked post, sitting down in front of it and staring toward the Kzin male whose lower legs he could see beneath the door matting.

He rubbed until his wrists were as raw as that meat lying in the dust before him. Then he rubbed until his muscles refused to continue, his arms cramping horribly. By that time it was dark, and he kept falling into an exhausted, fitful sleep, starting to scratch at his bonds every time a cramp woke him. The fifth time he awoke, it was to the sounds of scratching again. And a soft, distant call outside, which his guard answered just as softly. It took Locklear a moment to realize that those scratching noises were not being made by him.

The scratching became louder, filling him with a dread of the unknown in the utter blackness of the Kzersatz night. Then he heard a scrabble of clods tumbling to the earthen floor. Low, urgent, in the fitz-rowr of a female Kzin: “Rockear, quickly! Help widen this hole!”

He wanted to shout, remembering Boots, the new mother of two who had scorned her tribe; but he whispered hoarsely: “Boots?”

An even more familiar voice than that of Boots. “She is entertaining your guard. Hurry!”

“Kit! I can't, my hands are tied,” he groaned. “Kit, they said you were drowned.”

“Idiots,” said the familiar voice, panting as she worked. A very faint glow preceded the indomitable Kit, who had a modern Kzin beltpac and used its glowlamp for brief moments. Without slowing her frantic pace, she said softly, “They built a walkway into the lake and dropped me from it. But my mate, your friend Scarface, knew what they intended. He told me to breathe many times just before I fell. With all the stones weighting me down, I simply walked on the bottom, between the pilings and untied the stones beneath the planks near shore.”

“Idiots,” she said again, grunting as her fearsome claws ripped away another chunk of Kzersatz soil. Then, “Poor Rockear,” she said, seeing him writhe toward her.

In another minute, with the glowlamp doused, Locklear heard the growling curses of Kit's passage into the hut. She'd said females were good tunnelers, but not until now had he realized just how good. The nearest cover must be a good ten meters away… “Jesus, don't bite my hand, Kit,” he begged, feeling her fangs and the heat of her breath against his savaged wrists. A moment later he felt a flash of white-hot pain through his shoulders as his hands came free. He'd been cramped up so long it hurt to move freely. “Well, by God it'll just have to hurt,” he said aloud to himself, and flexed his arms, groaning.

“I suppose you must hold to my tail,” she said. He felt the long, wondrously luxuriant tail whisk across his chest and, because it was totally dark, did as she told him. Nothing short of true and abiding friendship, he knew, would provoke her into such manhandling of her glorious, her sensual, her fundamental tail.

They scrambled past mounds of soft dirt until Locklear felt cool night air on his face. “You may quit insulting my tail now,” Kit growled. “We must wait inside this tunnel awhile. You take this: I do not use it well.”

He felt the cold competence of the object in his hand and exulted as he recognized it as a modern Kzin sidearm. Crawling near with his face at her shoulder, he said, “How'd you know exactly where I was?”

“Your little long-talker, of course. We could hear you moaning and panting in there, and the magic tools of my mate located you.”

But I didn't have it turned on. Ohhh no, I didn't KNOW it was turned on! The goddamned thing is transmitting all the time… He decided to score one for Stockton's people, and dug the comm set from his ear. Still in the tunnel, it wouldn't transmit well until he moved outside. Crush it? Bury it? Instead, he snapped the magazine from the sidearm and, after removing its ammunition, found that the tiny comm set would fit inside. Completely enclosed by metal, the comm set would transmit no more until he chose.

He got all but three of the rounds back in the magazine, cursing every sound he made, and then moved next to Kit again. “They showed me what they did to Scarface. I can't tell you how sorry I am, Kit. He was my friend, and they will pay for it.”

“Oh, yes, they will pay,” she hissed softly. “Make no mistake, he is still your friend.”

A thrill of energy raced from the base of his skull down his arms and legs. “You're telling me he's alive?”

As if to save her the trouble of a reply, a male Kzin called softly from no more than three paces away: “Milady; do we have him?”

“Yes,” Kit replied.

“Scarface! Thank God you're—”

“Not now,” said the one-time warship commander. “Follow quietly.” Having slept near Kit for many weeks, Locklear recognized her steam-kettle hiss as a sufferer's sigh. “I know your nose is hopeless at following a spoor, Rockear. But try not to pull me completely apart this time.” Again he felt that long bushy tail pass across his breast, but this time he tried to grip it more gently as they sped off into the night.

Sitting deep in a cave with rough furniture and booby-trapped tunnels, Locklear wolfed stew under the light of a Kzin glowlamp. He had slightly scandalized Kit with a hug, then did the same to Boots as the young mother entered the cave without her kittens. The guard would never be trusted to guard anything again, said the towering Scarface, but that rescue tunnel was proof that a Kzin had helped. Now they'd be looking for Boots, thinking she had done more than lure a guard thirty meters away.

Locklear told his tale of success, failure, and capture by human pirates as he finished eating, then asked for an update of the Kzersatz problem. Kit, it turned out, had warned Scarface against taking the priests from stasis but one of the devout and not entirely bright males they woke had done the deed anyway.

Scarface, with his small hidden cache of modern equipment, had expected to lead; had he not been Graf-Commander, once upon a time? The priests had seemed to agree — long enough to make sure they could coerce enough followers. It seemed, said Scarface, that ancient Kzin priests hadn't the slightest compunctions about lying, unlike modern Kzinti. He had tried repeatedly to call Locklear with his all-band comm set, without success. Depending on long custom, demanding that tradition take precedence over new ways, the priests had engineered the capture of Scarface and Kit in a hook-net, the kind of cruel device that tore at the victim's flesh at the slightest movement.

Villagers had spent days in building that walkway out over a shallowly sloping lake, a labor of loathing for Kzinti who hated to soak in water. Once it was extended to the point where the water was four meters deep, the rough-hewn dock made an obvious reminder of ceremonial murder to any female who might try, as Kit and Boots had done ages before, to liberate herself from the ritual prostitution of yore.

And then, as additional mental torture, they told their bound captives what to expect, and made Scarface watch as Kit was thrown into the lake. Boots, watching in horror from afar, had then watched the torture and disposal of Scarface. She was amazed when Kit appeared at her birthing bower, having seen her disappear with great stones into deep water. The next day, Kit had killed a big ruminant, climbing that tree at night to recover her mate and placing half of her kill in the net.

“My medkit did the rest,” Scarface said, pointing to ugly scar tissue at several places on his big torso. “These scum have never seen anyone recover from deep body punctures. Antibiotics can be magic, if you stretch a point.”

Locklear mused silently on their predicament for long minutes. Then: “Boots, you can't afford to hang around near the village anymore. You'll have to hide your kittens and—”

“They have my kittens,” said Boots, with a glitter of pure hate in her eyes. “They will be cared for as long as I do not disturb the villagers.”

“Who told you that?”

“The high priest,” she said, mewling pitifully as she saw the glance of doubt pass between Locklear and Scarface. The priests were accomplished liars.

“We'd best get them back soon,” Locklear suggested. “Are you sure this cave is secure?”

Scarface took him halfway out one tunnel and, using the glowlamp, showed him a trap of horrifying simplicity. It was a grav polarizer unit from one of the biggest cages, buried just beneath the tunnel floor with a switch hidden to one side. If you reached to the side carefully and turned the switch off, that hidden grav unit wouldn't hurl you against the roof of the tunnel as you walked over it. If you didn't, it did. Simple. Terrible. “I like it,” Locklear smiled. “Any more tricks I'd better know before I plaster myself over your ceiling?”

There were, and Scarface showed them to him. “But the least energy expended, the least noise and alarm to do the job, the best. Instead of polarizers, we might bury some stasis units outside, perhaps at the entrance to their meeting hut. Then we catch those kshat priests, and use the lying scum for target practice.”

“Good idea, and we may be able to improve on it. How many units here in the cave?”

That was the problem; two stasis units taken from cages were not enough. They needed more from the crypt, said Locklear.

“They destroyed that little airboat you left me, but I built a better one,” Scarface said with a flicker of humor from his ears.

“So did I. Put a bunch of polarizers on it to push yourself around and ignored the sail, didn't you?” He saw Scarface's assent and winked.

“Two units might work if we trap the priests one by one,” Scarface hazarded. “But they've been meddling in the crypt. We might have to fight our way in. And you…” he hesitated.

“And I have fought better Kzinti before, and here I stand,” Locklear said simply.

“That you do.” They gripped hands, and then went back to set up their raid on the crypt. The night was almost done.

When surrendering, Scarface had told Locklear nothing of his equipment cache. With two sidearms he could have made life interesting for a man; interesting and short. But his word had been his bond, and now Locklear was damned glad to have the stuff.

They left the females to guard the cave. Flitting low across the veldt toward the stasis crypt with Scarface at his scooter controls, they planned their tactics. “I wonder why you didn't start shooting those priests the minute you were back on your feet,” Locklear said over the whistle of breeze in their faces.

“The kittens,” Scarface explained. “I might kill one or two priests before the cowards hid and sent innocent fools to be shot, but they are perfectly capable of hanging a kitten in the village until I gave myself up. And I did not dare raid the crypt for stasis units without a warrior to back me up.”

“And I'll have to do,” Locklear grinned.

“You will,” Scarface grinned back; a typical Kzin grin, all business, no pleasure.

They settled the scooter near the ice-rimmed force wall and moved according to plan, making haste slowly to avoid the slightest sound, the huge Kzin's head swathed in a bandage of leaves that suggested a wound while — with luck — hiding his identity for a few crucial seconds.

Watching the Kzin warrior's muscular body slide among weeds and rocks, Locklear realized that Scarface was still not fully recovered from his ordeal. He made his move before he was ready because of me, and I'm not even a Kzin. Wish I thought I could match that kind of commitment, Locklear mused as he took his place in front of Scarface at the crypt entrance. His sidearm was in his hand. Scarface had sworn the priests had no idea what the weapon was and, with this kind of ploy, Locklear prayed he was right. Scarface gripped Locklear by the neck then, but gently, and they marched in together expecting to meet a guard just inside the entrance.

No guard. No sound at all — and then a distant hollow slam, as of a great box closing. They split up then, moving down each side corridor, returning to the main shaft silently, exploring side corridors again. After four of these forays, they knew that no one would be at their backs.

Locklear was peering into the fifth when, glancing back, he saw Scarface's gesture of caution. Scuffing steps down the side passage, a mumble in Kzin, then silence. Then Scarface resumed his hold on his friend's neck and, after one mutual glance of worry, shoved Locklear into the side passage.

“Ho, see the beast I captured,” Scarface called, his voice booming in the wide passage, prompting exclamations from two surprised Kzin males.

Stasis cages lay in disarray, some open, some with transparent tops ripped off. One Kzin, with the breast scars and bandoliers of a priest, hopped off the cage he used as a seat, and placed a hand on the butt of his sharp w'tsai. The other bore scabs on his breast and wore no bandolier. He had been tinkering with the innards of a small stasis cage, but whirled, jaw agape.

“It must have escaped after we left, yesterday,” said the priest, looking at the “captive,” then with fresh curiosity at Scarface. “And who are—”

At that instant, Locklear saw what levitated, spinning, inside one of the medium-sized cages; spinning almost too fast to identify. But Locklear knew what it had to be, and while the priest was staring hard at Scarface, the little man lost control.

His cry was in Interworld, not Kzin: “You filthy bastard!” Before the priest could react, a roundhouse right with the massive barrel of a Kzin pistol took away both upper and lower incisors from the left side of his mouth. Caught this suddenly, even a two hundred kilo Kzin could be sent reeling from the blow, and as the priest reeled to his right, Locklear kicked hard at his backside.

Scarface clubbed at the second Kzin, the corridor ringing with snarls and zaps of warrior rage. Locklear did not even notice, leaping on the back of the fallen priest, hacking with his gunbarrel until the w'tsai flew from a smashed hand, kicking down with all his might against the back of the priest's head. The priest, at least twice Locklear's bulk, had lived a life much too soft, for far too long. He rolled over, eyes wide not in fear but in anger at this outrage from a puny beast. It is barely possible that fear might have worked.

The priest caught Locklear's boot in a mouthful of broken teeth, not seeing the sidearm as it swung at his temple. The thump was like an iron bar against a melon, the priest falling limp as suddenly as if some switch had been thrown.

Sobbing, Locklear dropped the pistol, grabbed handfuls of ear on each side, and pounded the priest's head against cruel obsidian until he felt a heavy grip on his shoulder.

“He is dead, Locklear. Save your strength,” Scarface advised. As Locklear recovered his weapon and stumbled to his feet, he was shaking uncontrollably. “You must hate our kind more than I thought,” Scarface added, studying Locklear oddly.

“He wasn't your kind. I would kill a man for the same crime,” Locklear said in fury, glaring at the second Kzin who squatted, bloody-faced, in a corner holding a forearm with an extra elbow in it. Then Locklear rushed to open the cage the priest had been watching.

The top levered back, and its occupant sank to the cage floor without moving. Scarface screamed his rage, turning toward the injured captive. “You experiment on tiny kittens? Shall we do the same to you now?”

Locklear, his tears flowing freely, lifted the tiny Kzin kitten — a male — in hands that were tender, holding it to his breast. “It's breathing,” he said. “A miracle, after getting the centrifuge treatment in a cage meant for something far bigger.”

“Before I kill you, do something honorable,” Scarface said to the wounded one. “Tell me where the other kitten is.”

The captive pointed toward the end of the passage. “I am only an acolyte,” he muttered. “I did not enjoy following orders.”

Locklear sped along the cages and, at last, found Boot's female kitten revolving slowly in a cage of the proper size. He realized from the prominence of the tiny ribs that the kitten would cry for milk when it waked. If it waked. “Is she still alive?”

“Yes,” the acolyte called back. “I am glad this happened. I can die with a less-troubled conscience.”

After a hurried agreement and some rough questioning, they gave the acolyte a choice. He climbed into a cage hidden behind others at the end of another corridor and was soon revolving in stasis. The kittens went into one small cage. Working feverishly against the time when another enemy might walk into the crypt, they disassembled several more stasis cages and toted the working parts to the scooter, then added the kitten cage and, barely, levitated the scooter with its heavy load.

An hour later, Scarface bore the precious cage into the cave and Locklear, following with an armload of parts, heard the anguish of Boots. “They'll hear you from a hundred meters,” he cautioned as Boots gathered the mewing, emaciated kittens in her arms.

They feared at first that her milk would no longer flow but presently, from where Boots had crept into the darkness, Kit returned. “They are suckling. Do not expect her to be much help from now on,” Kit said.

Scarface checked the magazine of his sidearm. “One priest has paid. There is no reason why I cannot extract full payment from the others now,” he said.

“Yes, there is,” Locklear replied, his fingers flying with hand tools from the cache. “Before you can get’em all, they'll send devout fools to be killed while they escape. You said so yourself. Scarface, I don't want innocent Kzin blood on my hands! But after my old promise to Boots, I saw what that maniac was doing and— let's just say my honor was at stake.” He knew that any modern Kzin commander would understand that. Setting down the wiring tool, he shuddered and waited until he could speak without a tremor in his voice. “if you'll help me get the wiring rigged for these stasis units, we can hide them in the right spot and take the entire bloody priesthood in one pile.”

“All at once? I should like to know how,” said Kit, counting the few units that lay around them.

“Well, I'll tell you how,” said Locklear, his eyes bright with fervor. They heard him out, and then their faces glowed with the same zeal.

When their traps lay ready for emplacement, they slept while Kit kept watch. Long after dark, as Boots lay nearby cradling her kittens, Kit waked the others and served a cold broth. “You take a terrible chance, flying in the dark,” she reminded them.

“We will move slowly,” Scarface promised, “and the village fires shed enough light for me to land. Too bad about the senses of inferior species,” he said, his ear umbrellas rising with his joke.

“How would you like a nice cold bath, tabby?” Locklear's question was mild, but it held an edge.

“Only monkeys need to bathe,” said the Kzin, still amused. Together they carried their hardware outside and, by the light of a glowlamp, loaded the scooter while Kit watched for any telltale glow of eyes in the distance.

After a hurried nuzzle from Kit, Scarface brought the scooter up swiftly, switching the glowlamp to its pinpoint setting and using it as seldom as possible.

Their forward motion was so slow that, on the two occasions when they blundered into the tops of towering fernpalms, they jettisoned nothing more than soft curses. An hour later, Scarface maneuvered them over a light yellow strip that became a heavily trodden path and began to follow that path by brief glowlamp flashes. The village, they knew, would eventually come into view.

It was Locklear who said, “Off to your right.”

“The village fires? I saw them minutes ago.”

“Oh shut up, supercat,” Locklear grumped. “So where's our drop zone?”

“Near,” was the reply, and Locklear felt their little craft swing to the side. At the pace of a weed seed, the scooter wafted down until Scarface, with one-leg hanging through the viewslot of his craft, spat a short, nasty phrase. One quick flash of the lamp guided him to a level landing spot and then, with admirable panache, Scarface let the scooter settle without a creak.

If they were surprised now, only Scarface could pilot his scooter with any hope of getting them both away. Locklear grabbed one of the devices they had prepared and, feeling his way with only his feet, walked until he felt a rise of turf. Then he retraced his steps, vented a heavy sigh, and began the emplacement.

Ten minutes later he felt his way back to the scooter, tapping twice on one of its planks to avoid getting his head bitten off by an all-too-ready Scarface. “So far, so good,” Locklear judged.

“This had better work,” Scarface muttered.

“Tell me about it,” said the retreating Locklear, grunting with a pair of stasis toroids. After the stasis units were all in place, Locklear rested at the scooter before creeping off again, this time with the glowlamp and a very sloppy wiring harness. When he returned for the last time, he virtually fell onto the scooter.

“It's all there,” he said, exhausted, rubbing wrists still raw from his brief captivity. Scarface found his bearings again, but it was another hour before he floated up an arroyo and then used the lamp for a landing light. He bore the sleeping Locklear into the cave as a man might carry a child. Soon they both were snoring, and Locklear did not hear the sound that terrified the distant villagers in late morning.

Locklear's first hint that his plans were in shreds came with rough shaking by Scarface. “Wake up! The monkeys have declared war,” were the first words he understood.

As they lay at the main cave entrance, they could see sweeps of the pinnacle as it moved over the Kzin village. Small energy beams lanced down several times, at targets too widely spaced to be the huts. “They're targeting whatever moves,” Locklear ranted, pounding a fist on hard turf. “And I'll bet the priests are hiding!”

Scarface brought up his all-band set and let it scan. In moments, the voice of David Gomulka grated from the speaker. “… kill'em all. Tell'em, Locklear! And when they do let you go, you'd better be ready to talk; over.”

“I can talk to'em any time I like, you know,” Locklear said to his friend. “The set they gave me may have a coded carrier wave.”

“We must stop this terror raid,” Scarface replied, “before they kill us all!”

Locklear stripped his sidearm magazine of its rounds and fingered the tiny ear set from its metal cage, screwing it into his ear. “Got me tied up,” he said, trying to ignore the disgusted look from Scarface at this unseemly lie. “Are you receiving…”

“We'll home in on your signal,” Gomulka cut in.

Locklear quickly shoved the tiny set back into the butt of his sidearm. “No, you won't,” he muttered to himself. Turning to Scarface: “We've got to transmit from another place, or they'll triangulate on me.”

Racing to the scooter, they fled to the arroyo and skimmed the veldt to another spot. Then, still moving, Locklear used the tiny set again. “Gomulka, they're moving me.”

The sergeant, furiously: “Where the fuck—?”

Locklear: “If you're shooting, let the naked savages alone. The real tabbies are the ones with bandoliers, got it? Bag'em if you can but the naked ones aren't combatants.”

He put his little set away again but Scarface's unit, on “receive only,” picked up the reply. “Your goddamn signal is shooting all over hell, Locklear. And whaddaya mean, not combatants? I've never had a chance to hunt tabbies like this. No little civilian shit is gonna tell us we can't teach'em what it's like to be hunted! You got that, Locklear?”

They continued to monitor Gomulka, skating back near the cave until the scooter lay beneath spreading ferns. Fleeing into the safety of the cave, they agreed on a terrible necessity. “They intend to take ears and tails as trophies, or so they say,” Locklear admitted. “You must find the most peaceable of your tribe, Boots, and bring them to the cave. They'll be cut down like so many vermin if you don't.”

“No priests, and no acolytes,” Scarface snarled. “Say nothing about us but you may warn them that no priest will leave this cave alive! That much, my honor requires.”

“I understand,” said Boots, whirling down one of the tunnels.

“And you and I” Scarface said to Locklear, “must lure that damned monkeyship away from this area. We cannot let them see Kzinti streaming in here.”

In early afternoon, the scooter slid along rocky highlands before settling beneath a stone overhang. “The best cover for snipers on Kzersatz, Locklear. I kept my cache here, and I know every cranny and clearing. We just may trap that monkeyship, if I am clever enough at primitive skills.”

“You want to trap them here? Nothing simpler,” said Locklear, bringing out his tiny comm set.

But it was not to be so simple.

Locklear, lying in the open on his back with one hand under saffron vines, watched the pinnacle thrumm overhead. The clearing, ringed by tall fernpalms, was big enough for the Anthony Wayne, almost capacious for a pinnacle. Locklear raised one hand in greeting as he counted four heads inside the canopy: Gomulka, Lee, Gazho, and Schmidt. Then he let his head fall back in pretended exhaustion, and waited.

In vain. The pinnacle settled ten meters away, its engines still above idle, and the canopy levered up; but the deserter crew had beam rifles trained on the surrounding foliage and did not accept the bait. “They may be back soon,” Locklear shouted in Interworld.

He could hear the faint savage ripping at vegetation nearby, and wondered if they heard it, too. “Hurry!”

“Tell us now, asshole,” Gomulka boomed, his voice coming both from the earpiece and the pinnacle. “The secret, now, or we leave you for the tabbies!”

Locklear licked his lips, buying seconds. “It's— it's some kind of drive. The Outsiders built it here,” he groaned, wondering feverishly what the devil his tongue was leading him into. He noted that Gazho and Lee had turned toward him now, their eyes blazing with greed. Schmidt, however, was studying the tallest fernpalm, and suddenly fired a thin line of fire slashing into its top, which was already shuddering.

“Not good enough, Locklear,” Gomulka called. “We've got great drives already. Tell us where it is.”

“In a cavern. Other side of— valley,” Locklear said, taking his time. “Nobody has an instantaneous drive but Outsiders,” he finished.

A whoop of delight, then, from Gomulka, one second before that fernpalm began to topple. Schmidt was already watching it, and screamed a warning in time for the pilot to see the slender forest giant begin its agonizingly slow fall. Gomulka hit the panic button.

Too late. The pinnacle, darting forward with its canopy still up, rose to meet the spreading top of the tree Scarface had cut using claws and fangs alone. As the pinnacle was borne to the ground, its canopy twisting off its hinges, the swish of foliage and squeal of metal filled the air. Locklear leaped aside, rolling away.

Among the yells of consternation, Gomulka's was loudest. “Schmidt, you dumb fuck!”

“It was him,” Schmidt yelled, coming upright again to train his rifle on Locklear — who fired first. If that slug had hit squarely, Schmidt would have been dead meat but its passage along Schmidt's forearm left only a deep bloody crease.

Gomulka, every inch a warrior, let fly with his own sidearm though his nose was bleeding from the impact. But Locklear, now protected by another tree, returned the fire and saw a hole appear in the canopy next to the wide-staring eyes of Nathan Gazho.

When Scarface cut loose from thirty meters away, Gomulka made the right decision. Yelling commands, laying down a cover of fire first toward Locklear, then toward Scarface, he drove his team out of the immobile pinnacle by sheer voice command while he peered past the armored lip of the cockpit.

Scarface's call, in Kzin, probably could not be understood by the others, but Locklear could not have agreed more. “Fight, run, fight again,” came the snarling cry.

Five minutes later after racing downhill, Locklear dropped behind one end of a fallen log and grinned at Scarface, who lay at its other end. “Nice aim with that tree.”

“I despise chewing vegetable matter,” was the reply. “Do you think they can get that pinnacle in operation again?”

“With safety interlocks? It won't move at more than a crawl until somebody repairs the—” but Locklear fell silent at a sudden gesture.

From uphill, a stealthy movement as Gomulka scuttled behind a hillock. Then to their right, another brief rush by Schmidt who held his rifle one handed now. This advance, basic to any team using projectile weapons, would soon overrun their quarry. The big blond was in the act of dropping behind a fern when Scarface's round caught him squarely in the breast, the rifle flying away, and Locklear saw answering fire send tendrils of smoke from his log. He was only a flicker behind Scarface, firing blindly to force their heads down, as they bolted downhill again in good cover.

Twice more, during the next hour, they opened up at long range to slow Gomulka's team. At that range they had no success. Later, drawing nearer to the village, they lay behind stones at the lip of an arroyo. “With only three,” Scarface said with satisfaction. “They are advancing more slowly.”

“And we're wasting ammo,” Locklear replied. “I have, uh, two eights and four rounds left. You?”

“Eight and seven. Not enough against beam rifles.” The big Kzin twisted, then, ear umbrellas cocked toward the village. He studied the sun's position, then came to some internal decision and handed over ten of his precious remaining rounds. “The brush in the arroyo's throat looks flimsy, Locklear, but I could crawl under its tops, so I know you can. Hold them up here, then retreat under the brushtops in the arroyo and wait at its mouth. With any luck I will reach you there.”

The Kzin warrior was already leaping toward the village. Locklear cried softly, “Where are you going?”

The reply was almost lost in the arroyo: “For reinforcements.”

The sun had crept far across the sky of Kzersatz before Locklear saw movement again, and when he did it was nearly too late. A stone descended the arroyo, whacking another stone with the crack of bowling balls; Locklear realized that someone had already crossed the arroyo. Then he saw Soichiro Lee ease his rifle into sight. Lee simply had not spotted him.

Locklear took two-handed aim very slowly and fired three rounds, full-auto. The first impact puffed dirt into Lee's face so that Locklear did not see the others clearly. It was enough that Lee's head blossomed, snapping up and back so hard it jerked his torso, and the rifle clattered into the arroyo.

The call of alarm from Gazho was so near it spooked Locklear into firing blindly. Then he was bounding into the arroyo's throat, sliding into chest-high brush with spreading tops.

Late shadows were his friends as he waited, hoping one of the men would go for the beam rifle in plain sight. Now and then he sat up and lobbed a stone into brush not far from Lee's body. Twice, rifles scorched that brush. Locklear knew better than to fire back without a sure target while pinned in that ravine.

When they began sending heavy fire into the throat of the arroyo, Locklear hoped they would exhaust their plenums, but saw a shimmer of heat and knew his cover could burn. He wriggled away downslope, past a trickle of water, careful to avoid shaking the brush. It was then that he heard the heavy reports of a Kzin sidearm toward the village.

He nearly shot the rope-muscled Kzin that sprang into the ravine before recognizing Scarface, but within a minute they had worked their way together. “Those kshat priests,” Scarface panted, “have harangued a dozen others into chasing me. I killed one priest; the others are staying safely behind.”

“So where are our reinforcements?”

“The dark will transform them.”

“But we'll be caught between enemies,” Locklear pointed out.

“Who will engage each other in darkness, a dozen fools against three monkeys.”

“Two,” Locklear corrected. But he saw the logic now, and when the sunlight winked out a few minutes later he was watching the stealthy movement of Kzin acolytes along both lips of the arroyo.

Mouth close to Locklear's ear, Scarface said, “They will send someone up this watercourse. Move aside; my w'tsai will deal with them quietly.”

But when a military flare lit the upper reaches of the arroyo a few minutes later, they heard battle screams and suddenly, comically, two Kzin warriors came bounding directly between Locklear and Scarface. Erect, heads above the brushtops, they leapt toward the action and were gone in a moment.

Following with one hand on a furry arm, Locklear stumbled blindly to the arroyo lip and sat down to watch. Spears and torches hurtled from one side of the upper ravine while thin energy bursts lanced out from the other. Blazing brush lent a flickering light as well, and at least three great Kzin bodies surged across the arroyo toward their enemies.

“At times,” Scarface said quietly as if to himself, “I think my species more valiant than stupid. But they do not even know their enemy, nor care.”

“Same for those deserters,” Locklear muttered, fascinated at the firefight his friend had provoked. “So how do we get back to the cave?”

“This way,” Scarface said, tapping his nose, and set off with Locklear stumbling at his heels.

The cave seemed much smaller when crowded with a score of worried Kzinti, but not for long. The moment they realized that Kit was missing, Scarface demanded to know why.

“Two acolytes entered,” explained one male, and Locklear recognized him as the mild-tempered Stalwart. “They argued three idiots into helping take her back to the village before dark.”

Locklear, in quiet fury: “No one stopped them?”

Stalwart pointed to bloody welts on his arms and neck, then at a female lying curled on a grassy pallet. “I had no help but her. She tried to offer herself instead.”

And then Scarface saw that it was Boots who was hurt but nursing her kittens in silence, and no cave could have held his rage. Screaming, snarling, claws raking tails, he sent the entire pack of refugees pelting into the night, to return home as best they could. It was Locklear's idea to let Stalwart remain; he had, after all, shed his blood in their cause.

Scarface did not subside until he saw Locklear, with the Kzin medkit, ministering to Boots. “A fine ally, but no expert in Kzin medicine,” he scolded, choosing different unguents.

Boots, shamed at having permitted acolytes in the cave, pointed out that the traps had been disarmed for the flow of refugees. “The priesthood will surely be back here soon,” she added.

“Not before afternoon,” Stalwart said. “They never mount ceremonies during darkness. If I am any judge, they will drown the beauteous prret at high noon.”

Locklear: “Don't they ever learn?”

Boots: “No. They are the priesthood,” she said as if explaining everything, and Stalwart agreed.

“All the same,” Scarface said, “they might do a better job this time. You,” he said to Stalwart; “could you get to the village and back here in darkness?”

“If I cannot, call me acolyte. You would learn what they intend for your mate?”

“Of course he must,” Locklear said, walking with him toward the main entrance. “But call before you enter again. We are setting deadly traps for anyone who tries to return, and you may as well spread the word.”

Stalwart moved off into darkness, sniffing the breeze, and Locklear went from place to place, switching on traps while Scarface tended Boots. This tender care from a Kzin warrior might be explained as gratitude; even with her kittens, Boots had tried to substitute herself for Kit. Still, Locklear thought, there was more to it than that. He wondered about it until he fell asleep.

Twice during the night, they were roused by tremendous thumps and, once, a brief Kzin snarl. Scarface returned each time licking blood from his arms. The second time he said to a bleary-eyed Locklear, “We can plug the entrances with corpses if these acolytes keep squashing themselves against our ceilings.” The grav polarizer traps, it seemed, made excellent sentries.

Locklear did not know when Stalwart returned but, when he awoke, the young Kzin was already speaking with Scarface. True to their rigid code, the priests fully intended to drown Kit again in a noon ceremony using heavier stones and, afterward, to lay siege to the cave.

“Let them; it will be empty,” Scarface grunted. “Locklear, you have seen me pilot my little craft. I wonder…”

“Hardest part is getting around those deserters, if any,” Locklear said. “I can cover a lot of ground when I'm fresh.”

“Good. Can you navigate to where Boots had her birthing bower before noon?”

“If I can't, call me acolyte,” Locklear said, smiling. He set off at a lope just after dawn, achingly alert. Anyone he met, now, would be a target.

After an hour, he was lost. He found his bearings from a promontory, loping longer, walking less, and was dizzy with fatigue when he climbed a low cliff to the overhang where Scarface had left his scooter. Breathing hard, he was lowering his rump to the scooter when the rifle butt whistled just over his head.

Nathan Gazho, who had located the scooter after scouring the area near the pinnacle, felt fierce glee when he saw Locklear's approach. But he had not expected Locklear to drop so suddenly. He swung again as Locklear, almost as large as his opponent, darted in under the blow. Locklear grunted with the impact against his shoulder, caught the weapon by its barrel, and used it like a pry-bar with both hands though his left arm was growing numb. The rifle spun out of reach. As they struggled away from the ten-meter precipice, Gazho cursed — the first word by either man — and snatched his utility knife from its belt clasp, reeling back, his left forearm out. His crouch, the shifting of the knife, its extraordinary honed edge: marks of a man who had fought with knives before.

Locklear reached for the Kzin sidearm but he had placed it in a lefthand pocket and now that hand was numb. Gazho darted forward in a swordsman's balestra, flicking the knife in a short arc as he passed. By that time Locklear had snatched his own w'tsai from its sheath with his right hand. Gazho saw the long blade but did not flinch, and Locklear knew he was running out of time. Standing four paces away, he pump-faked twice as if to throw the knife. Gazho's protecting forearm flashed to the vertical at the same instant when Locklear leaped forward, hurling the w'tsai as he squatted to grasp a stone of fist size.

Because Locklear was no knife-thrower, the weapon did not hit point-first; but the heavy handle caught Gazho squarely on the temple and, as he stumbled back, Locklear's stone splintered his jaw. Nathan Gazho's legs buckled and inertia carried him backward over the precipice, screaming.

Locklear heard the heavy thump as he was fumbling for his sidearm. From above, he could see the broken body twitching, and his single round from the sidearm was more kindness than revenge. Trembling, massaging his left arm, he collected his w'tsai and the beamrifle before crawling onto the scooter.

Not until he levitated the little craft and guided it ineptly down the mountainside did he notice the familiar fittings of the standard-issue rifle. It had been fully discharged during the firefight, thanks to Scarface's tactic.

Many weeks before — it seemed a geologic age by now — Locklear had found Boots's private bower by accident. The little cave was hidden behind a low waterfall near the mouth of a shallow ravine, and once he had located that ravine from the air it was only a matter of following it, keeping low enough to avoid being seen from the Kzin village. The sun was almost directly overhead as Locklear approached the rendezvous. If he'd cut it too close…

Scarface waved him down near the falls and sprang onto the scooter before it could settle. “Let me fly it,” he snarled, shoving Locklear aside in a way that suggested a Kzin on the edge of self-control. The scooter lunged forward and, as he hung on, Locklear told of Gazho's death.

“It will not matter,” Scarface replied as he piloted the scooter higher, squinting toward the village, “if my mates dies this day.” Then his predator's eyesight picked out the horrifying details, and he began to gnash his teeth in uncontrollable fury.

When they were within a kilometer of the village, Locklear could see what had pushed his friend beyond sanity. While most of the villagers stood back as if to distance themselves from this pomp and circumstance, the remaining acolytes bore a bound, struggling burden toward the lakeshore. Behind them marched the bandoliered priests, arms waving beribboned lances. They were chanting, a cacophony like metal chaff thrown into a power transformer, and Locklear shuddered.

Even at top speed, they would not arrive until that procession reached the walkway to deep water; and Kit, her limbs bound together with great stones for weights, would not be able to escape this time. “We’ll have to go in after her,” Locklear called into the wind.

“I cannot swim,” cried Scarface, his eyes slitted.

“I can,” said Locklear, taking great breaths to hoard oxygen. As he positioned himself for the leap, his friend began to fire his sidearm.

As the scooter swept lower and slower, one Kzin priest crumpled. The rest saw the scooter and exhorted the acolytes forward. The hapless Kit was flung without further ceremony into deep water but, as he was leaping feet-first off the scooter, Locklear saw that she had spotted him. As he slammed into deep water, he could hear the full-automatic thunder of Scarface's weapon.

Misjudging his leap, Locklear let inertia carry him before striking out forward and down. His left arm was only at half-strength but the weight of his weapons helped carry him to the sandy bottom. Eyes open, he struggled to the one darker mass looming ahead.

But it was only a small boulder. Feeling the prickles of oxygen starvation across his back and scalp, he swiveled, kicking hard — and felt one foot strike something like fur. He wheeled, ignoring the demands of his lungs, wresting his w'tsai out with one hand as he felt for cordage with the other. Three ferocious slices, and those cords were severed. He dropped the knife — the same weapon Kit herself had once dulled, then resharpened for him — and pushed off from the bottom in desperation. He broke the surface, gasped twice, and saw a wide-eyed priest fling a lance in his direction. By sheer dumb luck, it missed, and after a last deep inhalation Locklear kicked toward the bottom again.

The last thing a wise man would do is locate a drowning tigress in deep water, but that is what Locklear did. Kit, no swimmer, literally climbed up his sodden flightsuit, forcing him into an underwater somersault, fine sand stinging his eyes. The next moment he was struggling toward the light again, disoriented and panicky.

He broke the surface, swam to a piling at the end of the walkway, and tried to hyperventilate for another hopeless foray after Kit. Then, between gasps, he heard a spitting cough echo in the space between the water's surface and the underside of the walkway. “Kit!” He swam forward, seeing her frightened gaze and her formidable claws locked into those rough planks, and patted her shoulder. Above them, someone was raising Kzin hell. “Stay here,” he commanded, and kicked off toward the shallows.

He waded with his sidearm drawn. What he saw on the walkway was abundant proof that the priesthood truly did not seem to learn very fast.

Five bodies sprawled where they had been shot, bleeding on the planks near deep water, but more of them lay curled on the planks within a few paces of the shore, piled atop one another. One last acolyte stood on the walkway, staring over the curled bodies. He was staring at Scarface, who stood on dry land with his own long w'tsai held before him, snarling a challenge with eyes that held the light of madness. Then, despite what he had seen happen a half-dozen times in moments, the acolyte screamed and leaped.

Losing consciousness in midair, the acolyte fell heavily across his fellows and drew into a fetal crouch, as all the others had done when crossing the last six meters of planking toward shore. Those units Locklear had placed beneath the planks in darkness had kept three-ton herbivores in stasis, and worked even better on Kzinti. They'd known damned well the priesthood would be using the walkway again sooner or later; but they'd had no idea it would be this soon.

Scarface did not seem entirely sane again until he saw Kit wading from the water. Then he clasped his mate to him, ignoring the wetness he so despised. Asked how he managed to trip the gangswitch, Scarface replied, “You had told me it was on the inside of that piling, and those idiots did not try to stop me from wading to it.”

“I noticed you were wet,” said Locklear, smiling. “Sorry about that.”

“I shall be wetter with blood presently,” Scarface said with a grim look toward the pile of inert sleepers.

Locklear, aghast, opened his mouth.

But Kit placed her hand over it. “Rockear, I know you, and I know my mate. It is not your way but this is Kzersatz. Did you see what they did to the captive they took last night?”

“Big man, short black hair? His name is Gomulka.”

“His name is meat. What they left of him hangs from a post yonder.”

“Oh my God,” Locklear mumbled, swallowing hard. “But— look, just don't ask me to help execute anyone in stasis.”

“Indeed.” Scarface stood, stretched, and walked toward the piled bodies. “You may want to take a brief walk, Locklear,” he said, picking up a discarded lance twice his length. “This is Kzin business, not monkey business.” But he did not understand why, as Locklear strode away, the little man was laughing ruefully at the choice of words.

Locklear's arm was well enough, after two days, to let him dive for his w'tsai while Kzinti villagers watched in curiosity — and perhaps in distaste. By that time they had buried their dead in a common plot and, with the help of Stalwart, begun to repair the pinnacle's canopy holes and twisted hinges. The little hand-welder would have sped the job greatly but, Locklear promised, “We'll get it back. If we don't hit first, there'll be a stolen warship overhead with enough clout to fry us all.”

Scarface had to agree. As the warrior who had overthrown the earlier regime, he now held not only the rights, but also the responsibilities of leading his people. Lounging on grassy beds in the village's meeting hut on the third night, they slurped hot stew and made plans. “Only the two of us can make that raid, you know,” said the big Kzin.

“I was thinking of volunteers,” said Locklear, who knew very well that Scarface would honor his wish if he made it a demand.

“If we had time to train them,” Scarface replied. “But that ship could be searching for the pinnacle at any moment. Only you and I can pilot the pinnacle so, if we are lost in battle, those volunteers will be stranded forever among hostile monk— Hostiles,” he amended. “Nor can they use modern weapons.”

“Stalwart probably could, he's a natural mechanic. I know Kit can use a weapon — not that I want her along.”

“For a better reason than you know,” Scarface agreed, his ears folding across the fire at the somnolent Kit.

“He is trying to say I will soon bear his Kittens, Rockear,” Kit said. “And please do not take Boots's new mate away merely because he can work magics with his hands.” She saw the surprise in Locklear's face. “How could you miss that? He fought those acolytes in the cave for Boots's sake.”

“I, uh, guess I've been pretty busy,” Locklear admitted.

“We will be busier if that warship strikes before we do,” Scarface reminded him. “I suggest we go as soon as it is light.”

Locklear sat bolt upright. “Damn! If they hadn't taken my wristcomp — I keep forgetting. The schedules of those little suns aren't in synch; It's probably daylight there now, and we can find out by idling the pinnacle near the force walls. You can damned well see whether it's light there.”

“I would rather go in darkness,” Scarface complained, “if we could master those night-vision sensors in the pinnacle.”

“Maybe, in time. I flew the thing here to the village, didn't I?”

“In daylight, after a fashion,” Scarface said in friendly insult, and flicked his sidearm from its holster to check its magazine. “Would you like to fly it again, right now?”

Kit saw the little man fill his hand as he checked his own weapon, and marveled at a creature with the courage to show such puny teeth in such a feral grin. “I know you must go,” she said as they turned toward the door, and nuzzled the throat of her mate. “But what do we do if you fail?”

“You expect enemies with the biggest ship you ever saw,” Locklear said. “And you know how those stasis traps work. Just remember, those people have night sensors and they can burn you from a distance.”

Scarface patted her firm belly once. “Take great care,” he said, and strode into darkness.

The pinnacle's controls were simple, and Locklear's only worry was the thin chorus of whistles: air, escaping from a canopy that was not quite perfectly sealed. He briefed Scarface yet again as their craft carried them over Newduvai, and piloted the pinnacle so that its re-entry thunder would roll gently, as far as possible from the Anthony Wayne.

It was late morning on Newduvai, and they could see the gleam of the Wayne's hull from afar. Locklear slid the pinnacle at a furtive pace, brushing spiny shrubs for the last few kilometers before landing in a small desert wadi. They pulled hinge pins from the canopy and hid them in the pinnacle to make its theft tedious. Then, stuffing a roll of binder tape into his pocket, Locklear began to trot toward his clearing.

“I am a kitten again,” Scarface rejoiced, fairly floating along in the reduced gravity of Newduvai. Then he slowed, nose twitching. “Not far,” he warned.

Locklear nodded, moved cautiously ahead, and then sat behind a green thicket. Ahead lay the clearing with the warship and cabin, seeming little changed — but a heavy limb held the door shut as if to keep things in, not out. And Scarface noticed two mansized craters just outside the cabin's foundation logs. After ten minutes without sound or movement from the clearing, Scarface was ready to employ what he called the monkey ruse; not quite a lie, but certainly a misdirection.

“Patience,” Locklear counseled. “I thought you tabbies were hunters.”

“Hunters, yes; not skulkers.”

“No wonder you lose wars,” Locklear muttered. But after another half-hour in which they ghosted in deep cover around the clearing, he too was ready to move.

The massive Kzin sighed, slid his w'tsai to the rear and handed over his sidearm, then dutifully held his big pawlike hands out. Locklear wrapped the thin, bright red binder tape around his friend's wrists many times, then severed it with its special stylus. Scarface was certain he could bite it through until he tried. Then he was happy to let Locklear draw the stylus, with its chemical enabler, across the tape where the slit could not be seen. Then, hailing the clearing as he went, the little man drew his own w'tsai and prodded his “prisoner” toward the cabin.

His neck crawling with premonition, Locklear stood five paces from the door and called again: “Hello, the cabin!”

From inside, several female voices and then only one, which he knew very well: “Locklear go soon soon!”

“Ruth says that many times,” he replied, half amused, though he knew somehow that this time she feared for him. “New people keep gentles inside?”

Scarface, standing uneasily, had his ear umbrellas moving fore and aft. He mumbled something as, from inside, Ruth said, “Ruth teach new talk to gentles, get food. No teach, no food,” she explained with vast economy.

“I'll see about that,” he called and then, in Kzin, “what was that, Scarface?”

Low but urgent: “Behind us, fool.”

Locklear turned. Not twenty paces away, Anse Parker was moving forward as silently as he could and now the hatchway of the Anthony Wayne yawned open. Parker's rifle hung from its sling but his service parabellum was leveled, and he was smirking. “If this don't beat all: my prisoner has a prisoner,” he drawled.

For a frozen instant, Locklear feared the deserter had spied the w'tsai hanging above Scarface's backside — but the Kzin's tail was erect, hiding the weapon. “Where are the others?” Locklear asked.

“Around. Pacifyin' the natives in that tabby lifeboat,” Parker replied. “I'll ask you the same question, asshole.”

The parabellum was not wavering. Locklear stepped away from his friend, who faced Parker so that the wrist tape was obvious. “Gomulka's boys are in trouble. Promised me amnesty if I'd come for help, and I brought a hostage,” Locklear said.

Parker's movements were not fast, but so casual that Locklear was taken by surprise. The parabellum's short barrel whipped across his face, splitting his lip, bowling him over. Parker stood over him, sneering. “Buncha shit. If that happened, you'd hide out. You can tell a better one than that.”

Locklear privately realized that Parker was right. And then Parker himself, who had turned half away from Scarface, made a discovery of his own. He discovered that, without moving one step, a Kzin could reach out a long way to stick the point of a w'tsai against a man's throat. Parker froze.

“If you shoot me, you are deader than chivalry,” Locklear said, propping himself up on an elbow. “Toss the pistol away.”

Parker, cursing, did so, looking at Scarface, finding his chance as the Kzin glanced toward the weapon.

Parker shied away with a sidelong leap, snatching for his slung rifle. And ignoring the leg of Locklear who tripped him nicely.

As his rifle tumbled into grass, Parker rolled to his feet and began sprinting for the warship two hundred meters away. Scarface outran him easily, then stationed himself in front of the warship's hatch. Locklear could not hear Parker's words, but his gestures toward the w'tsai were clear: there ain't no justice.

Scarface understood. With that Kzin grin that so many humans failed to understand, he tossed the w'tsai near Parker's feet in pure contempt. Parker grabbed the knife and saw his enemy's face, howled in fear, then raced into the forest, Scarface bounding lazily behind.

Locklear knocked the limb away from his cabin door and found Ruth inside with three others, all young females. He embraced the homely Ruth with great joy. The other young Neanderthalers disappeared from the clearing in seconds but Ruth walked off with Locklear. He had already seen the spider grenades that lay with sensors outspread just outside the cabin's walls. Two gentles had already died trying to dig their way out, she said.

He tried to prepare Ruth for his ally's appearance but, when Scarface reappeared with his w'tsai, she needed time to adjust. “I don't see any blood,” was Locklear's comment.

“The blood of cowards is distasteful,” was the Kzin's wry response. “I believe you have my sidearm, friend Locklear.”

They should have counted, said Locklear, on Stockton learning to fly the Kzin lifeboat. But lacking heavy weapons, it might not complicate their capture strategy too much. As it happened, the capture was more absurd than complicated.

Stockton brought the lifeboat humbling down in late afternoon almost in the same depressions the craft's jackpads had made previously, within fifty paces of the Anthony Wayne. He and the lissome Grace wore holstered pistols, stretching out their muscle kinks as they walked toward the bigger craft, unaware that they were being watched. “Anse; we're back,” Stockton shouted. “Any word from Gomulka?”

Silence from the ship, though its hatch steps were down. Grace shrugged, then glanced at Locklear's cabin. “The door prop is down, Curt. He's trying to hump those animals again.”

“Damn him,” Stockton railed, and both turned toward the cabin. To Grace he complained, “If you were a better lay, he wouldn't always be— good God!”

The source of his alarm was a long blood-chilling, gut-wrenching scream. A Kzin scream, the kind featured in horror holovision productions; and very, very near. “Battle stations, red alert, up ship,” Stockton cried, bolting for the hatch.

Briefly, he had his pistol ready but had to grip it in his teeth as he reached for the hatch rails of the Anthony Wayne. For that one moment he almost resembled a piratical man of action, and that was the moment when he stopped, one foot on the top step, and Grace bumped her head against his rump as she fled up those steps.

“I don't think so,” said Locklear softly. To Curt Stockton, the muzzle of that alien sidearm so near must have looked like a torpedo launcher. His face drained of color, the commander allowed Locklear to take the pistol from his trembling lips. “And Grace,” Locklear went on, because he could not see her past Stockton's bulk, “I doubt if it's your style anyway, but don't give your pistol a second thought. That Kzin you heard? Well, they're out there behind you, but they aren't in here. Toss your parabellum away and I'll let you in.”

Late the next afternoon they finished walling up the crypt on Newduvai, with a small work force of willing hands recruited by Ruth. As the little group of gentles filed away down the hillside, Scarface nodded toward the rubble-choked entrance. “I still believe we should have executed those two, Locklear.”

“I know you do. But they'll keep in stasis for as long as the war lasts, and on Newduvai— Well, Ruth's people agree with me that there's been enough killing.” Locklear turned his back on the crypt and Ruth moved to his side, still wary of the huge alien whose speech sounded like the sizzle of fat on a skewer.

“Your ways are strange,” said the Kzin, as they walked toward the nearby pinnacle. “I know something of Interworld beauty standards. As long as you want that female lieutenant alive, it seems to me you would keep her, um, available.”

“Grace Agostinho's beauty is all on the outside. And there's a girl hiding somewhere on Newduvai that those deserters never did catch. In a few years she'll be— Well, you'll meet her someday.” Locklear put an arm around Ruth's waist and grinned. “The truth is, Ruth thinks I'm pretty funny-looking, but some things you can learn to overlook.”

At the clearing, Ruth hopped from the pinnacle first. “Ruth will fix place nice, like before,” she promised, and walked to the cabin.

“She's learning Interworld fast,” Locklear said proudly. “Her telepathy helps — in a lot of ways. Scarface, do you realize that her people may be the most tremendous discovery of modern times? And the irony of it! The empathy these people share probably helped isolate them from the modern humans that came from their own gene pool. Yet their kind of empathy might be the only viable future for us.” He sighed and stepped to the turf. “Sometimes I wonder whether I want to be found.”

Standing beside the pinnacle, they gazed at the Anthony Wayne. Scarface said, “With that warship, you could do the finding.”

Locklear assessed the longing in the face of the big Kzin. “I know how you feel about piloting, Scarface. But you must accept that I can't let you have any craft more advanced than your scooter back on Kzersatz.”

“But— Surely, the pinnacle or my own lifeboat?”

“You see that?” Locklear pointed toward the forest.

Scarface looked dutifully away, then back, and when he saw the sidearm pointing at his breast, a look of terrible loss crossed his face. “I see that I will never understand you,” he growled, clasping his hands behind his head. “And I see that you still doubt my honor.”

Locklear forced him to lean against the pinnacle, arms behind his back, and secured his hands with binder tape. “Sorry, but I have to do this,” he said. “Now get back in the pinnacle. I'm taking you to Kzersatz.”

“But I would have—”

“Don't say it,” Locklear demanded. “Don't tell me what you want, and don't remind me of your honor, goddammit! Look here, I know you don't lie. And what if the next ship here is another Kzin ship? You won't lie to them either, your bloody honor won't let you. They'll find you sitting pretty on Kzersatz, right?”

Teetering off-balance as he climbed into the pinnacle without using his arms, Scarface still glowered. But after a moment he admitted, “Correct.”

“They won't court-martial you, Scarface. Because a lying, sneaking monkey pulled a gun on you, tied you up, and sent you back to prison. I'm telling you here and now, I see Kzersatz as a prison and every tabby on this planet will be locked up there for the duration of the war!” With that, Locklear sealed the canopy and made a quick check of the console readouts. He reached across to adjust the inertia-reel harness of his companion, then shrugged into his own. “You have no choice, and no tabby telepath can ever claim you did. Now do you understand?”

The big Kzin was looking below as the forest dropped away, but Locklear could see his ears forming the Kzin equivalent of a smile. “No wonder you win wars,” said Scarface.