Man-Kzin Wars IX Read online

  Nordbo smiled wryly. "Forever the optimist, aren't you? No, much too risky. We'd certainly lose our insurance."

  "Uh-huh," Saxtorph must agree. "Seeing as how they'd be in a tiny danger of having to pay up."

  "The danger would not be tiny, and it would be to you and yours, Robert."

  Dorcas, Saxtorph thought. Her, and everything we've shared all these years, and the kids we still hope to have someday. Not to mention Kam, Carita, and Buck. And any passengers.

  "The kzinti say their expedition will be strictly scientific, like ours, employing simply a transport and a few auxiliaries," Nordbo continued. "But everybody knows that will be a naval transport with at least some armament. If they learned Rover had come, as they might very well— No, it would be too much to expect of kzinti, not to attack."

  Saxtorph surrendered. "Okay. Okay. You've gotten through this thick skull of mine. You're right." He rallied his spirit. "What'll we do instead?"

  Nordbo smiled afresh, warmly. "The coin has a bright side. Because I saved the ISC embarrassment, I was able to drive a bargain. They naturally prefer our names never be associated with this. So . . . we keep silence. In return, we have a commission to bring several special cargoes to the puppeteers' tradepoint and distribute the exchange goods to four different human planets."

  Joy flared. "Holy Christ! Clear to there!"

  "And well paid. With a clause that will allow us to develop the route further for ourselves if we choose and the puppeteers are willing."

  "Pete," Saxtorph declared, "I take every hard thought about you back. I apologize, I heap sthondat dung on my head, I adore. You're flat-out a genius."

  A parallel gladness: How grandly this guy's gotten over his decades of exile, a kzin prisoner, and the death of his son. Even though I got the reasons for it made an official secret, he knew, he knows. He threw himself into our partnership to escape. Oh, he did a lot more than furnish some capital we badly needed, he hadn't lost his skill at handling people either, but it was an escape. In the three years since, however— He and his new wife seem like being about as happy as Dorcas and me. And now he's wangled this for us.

  "Aw, shucks," said Nordbo. "Isn't that your American expression?"

  "Your triumph calls for a drink, followed by unbridled celebration." And, Saxtorph thought, what happens at the cannibal star will be fun to watch when the databases arrive home. We'll've been having real-time adventures just as much fun, or maybe more.

  He took forth his pipe and tobacco pouch. "First, though, fill me in, will you? Who's going to carry the mission?"

  "I helped arrange that too," Nordbo told him. "A little reshifting of schedules made the Freuchen available."

  "Oh, fine. She is mainly for exploration—done good work in the past . . . A tad crowded, maybe, for an expedition like this, with the tonne of gear I imagine they'll want to take."

  "They'll have ample extra room. A naval vessel will escort them."

  Saxtorph grinned. "Well, well. The ISC's being smart for a change. Nothing `provocative,' no, never; but the kitty-cats won't be tempted to touch off an `incident' and claim afterward it was our side's fault."

  Nordbo nodded. "That's the unspoken idea. Nobody wants a fight, myself least."

  "The Freuchen . . . Yah, the establishment, scientists and politicians both, owe us one, over and above the puppeteer contract. They owe you, rather."

  Nordbo gave his friend a steady look. "I cashed in that part of it. Which is why I'm especially relieved by their having an escort."

  "Hey?"

  "Tyra's going along."

  "Huh?"

  "She was after me about it from the first. A writer by trade, and what a story to tell! I managed to make her assignment part of the bargain, and didn't suppose you would object. Not but what they won't get their money's worth. She'll make the public love that science."

  "Well, yes, she always was a venturesome sort. Not strange, seeing she's your daughter." And can wind you around her finger, Saxtorph said silently. As she damn near did me, till she decided not to finish the job. I've never said anything to you or anybody. Nor did I stay regretful. Dorcas and me do belong together.

  He knew how suddenly seriousness could grab hold of the other man. Nordbo generally kept his deepest feelings to himself. But he and Saxtorph had grown close, and from time to time everybody needs somebody who will listen.

  "Robert, she's been unhappy. She doesn't let on, she wouldn't, but I can tell. I don't know why. Yes, she's grieved for Ib, side by side with me, but—but that's past and done with. It isn't like her to brood. Is it?" He had missed out on the years when she grew up.

  Did our not-quite-affair really hurt her so badly? wondered Saxtorph. I sure never thought that, seeing how she behaved. Afterward—well, friendly when we've met, of course, but in the nature of the case that hasn't been often.

  What can I do except wish her everything good?

  "No, her style is to get on with her life."

  Nordbo steadied. "She's been doing so. It's simply that I felt her heart wasn't altogether in it. Now, I do believe, this prospect, this amazement to see and take part in, I think it's healing her."

  3

  Having climbed high enough up the complex and changeable Alpha Centaurian gravity well, the lancer Samurai slipped into hyperspace. Freuchen followed seventy-two hours later. The naval ship was to reach destination first and make sure of security before the civilians appeared.

  Although no passenger liner, Freuchen often made long voyages, and long stays at the far ends of them, which might well involve hardship and danger. Facilities for privacy, recreation, and exercise were not a luxury but a necessity. A couple of watchcycles after leaving 3-space, Tyra Nordbo and Craig Raden were in the gymnasium playing recoil ball.

  That game takes strength and wind as well as speed and agility. This being a Wunderland vessel crewed mostly by Wunderlanders, her gravity polarizers maintained the interior weight to which they were accustomed. Nevertheless the Earthman found himself hard challenged. The match ended with score tied and both breathing from the bottoms of their lungs, sweat agleam and animal-odorous on their skins.

  "Whoof!" Raden laughed. "Congratulations and thanks. You gave me a good one."

  "The same to you," Tyra answered. Her tone was warmer toward him than hitherto. It had been fun. And, she must admit to herself, the sight of him was fun too—medium-tall, slim and supple but well-muscled, features Roman-nosed and regular, with bright hazel eyes, beneath wavy brown hair. That doesn't mean I have to fall over you—or under you, said defensiveness.

  "Frankly, I didn't expect it from a person of your origins."

  Then why did you invite me to play? she flared inwardly. An approach? Likely. They say you're quite a tomcat. "We're healthy," she snapped.

  "Oh, absolutely. Normal adaptation to a lower gravity. No offense intended, please believe." Raden shook his head and clicked his tongue. "Foolish of me. I should have given more thought to what I saw, besides enjoying the view."

  He made no pretense of doing otherwise. Tyra's height equaled his, which was not surprising in a Wunderlander woman, but damp T-shirt and shorts clung to a figure as full and robust as that of any Earthling female in good condition. Flaxen hair in a pageboy cut framed a face strong-boned and blunt, where little save a few fine lines at the blue eyes hinted at an age of about forty terrestrial years, perhaps three more than his. "You'd be unusually athletic on any planet," he added.

  She shrugged. "I'm not obsessed with aerobics. I just enjoy some activities."

  "Which especially, if I may ask?"

  "Swimming, wingsailing, hiking, mountaineering, that sort of thing."

  "Tastes we share, then. The results do come in useful occasionally, don't you agree? I understand you too have spent a fair amount of time on different worlds, and not merely in their tourist resorts."

  "My work. Gathering material, getting ideas." He's pushing familiarity pretty fast, isn't he? "You're an astrophysicist." Put him
in his place. Imply that his travels were a gadding about.

  Raden's smile faded, his voice went amicably earnest. "Look here, Fräulein Nordbo, may I suggest we become better acquainted? We've a rather long haul before us, and then a time about which we can predict nothing other than that it will be busy, till we've done whatever we can. Let's go as friends."

  "Have I seemed unfriendly?" she asked with caution.

  "No, no. A bit aloof, perhaps."

  "We're barely into the voyage."

  "Why not start it on the right foot? Suppose after we've washed and changed clothes, we meet in the wardroom. I'd be honored to stand you a drink or two before dinner."

  "Honored? You?" She spoke coldly, to make clear that she didn't like being patronized.

  He caught on at once. "I'm sorry. I truly am. What I wanted to say was `delighted,' but I was afraid of seeming too forward. You're known as a formidable sort."

  That's hard to resist, Tyra confessed. Damn him, he can turn on the charm like a light. Anyhow, it's true, we need to become comrades, all of us on board. There's unknownness waiting yonder, and kzinti.

  "Not intentionally." She didn't have to force her smile. "Thank you, I'd be delighted myself. In half an hour?"

  Command and competence were as vital as in any spacecraft, but an explorer did best without social distinctions between ranks off duty. The wardroom was open to anyone who wanted sociability. Nobody chanced to be present but steward Marcus Hauptmann and planetologist Kees Verwoort, pushing chessmen. Already at ease with Tyra, they nodded as she came in. Nattily attired, Raden jumped from a chair and strode to meet her. "Ah, jolly good," he said. "What would you like?"

  "Draft Solborg." She sat down at the little table where he had been. Several more were spaced around the room with their chairs, plus a few loungers. Underneath each was the magnetic inductor that would secure it to the deck in case of untoward acceleration or free fall.

  "Forthcoming. Hm, not too early in the daywatch for a glass of wine. They've shipped a reasonably decent dry Riesling." Raden got them from the dispenser, which debited his personal ration, and brought them over. He took his place opposite her and lifted his goblet. "Skaal."

  So he's remembered, Tyra thought, or he's taken the trouble to find out, things about me like my hailing from Skogarna, and that this is our toast there instead of "Prosit."

  She didn't know how to feel about that. Well, pay him in kind. "Here's how," she responded.

  Glasyl clinked against stein. The beer was a welcome tartness in mouth and throat.

  "Ah-ha. Then you know I'm American, Fräulein Nordbo?" Raden said genially. "Most people off Earth seem under the impression I'm a Brit."

  "Next time I'll say `Cheers' if you prefer." Was she parrying something?

  He laughed. "Touché! Yes, I admit to certain affectations. And I did study for a while at Cambridge." He sipped and went on in a philosophical tone. "Such details are apt to look vanishingly small across a few light-years, aren't they? Consider how societies diverged when only subluminal transit was available. They've not had much time or opportunity thus far to catch up, have they? Rather amazing, how knowledgeable you are."

  Is he showing off his serious, intellectual side? wondered Tyra. Or do quantum jumps come naturally to him? "No surprise, Dr. Raden. Writers collect oddments like glitterfowl. You know that."

  "Well, yes, I am a writer too, of sorts. But secondarily. Not a rival of yours on this mission or, I hope, ever."

  "I've seen your popular science works, those of them that have reached us, and your `Multiverse' show." Be honest, she told herself. "I've enjoyed them, in fact admired them."

  "Thank you. I look forward to seeing what you've done."

  "Nothing like yours. Mainly travel pieces, some assorted journalism, some fiction, a couple of things for children."

  "I'll doubtless write up this expedition and its findings myself, elsewhere than in the scientific databases. But I don't imagine I'll overlap what you do in the least."

  And my audience won't be ten percent of yours, even if my accounts get distribution on Earth, Tyra realized. The famous young scientist, popularizer, lecturer, sportsman, yes, licensed spaceboat pilot and bronze medalist in the Saturnian Ring Run—all very well publicized—showman— Unfair? Am I being nasty and jealous? Or just shy? I'm not sure. I'm not used to either of those feelings.

  "I have in mind telling about the people with us and what happens to them personally," she said. "But you will do that too, along with explaining the discoveries, same as always, won't you?"

  "Mostly incidentally, trying to get across that science isn't a revelation handed down from on high, it's something that intelligent creatures do. You'll concentrate on the human story. We are not in competition. We may well prove to be in cooperation."

  "M-m, maybe. You're kind to say so, Dr. Raden."

  "Please," he replied gently, "must we continue formal? I'm Craig to my friends."

  Impulse grabbed Tyra. "And I'm not properly `Fräulein.' I've resumed my family name, but I was married twice."

  His gaze searched her. "To what kind of man, that they'd give up one like you?"

  She flushed, but stiffened less than she probably should have. "Things simply didn't work out. If I'm not mistaken, you've had similar experiences."

  "True. And I'm not self-righteous about them, either . . . Tyra." Quickly: "Yes, I'm trying to cultivate your acquaintance, not entirely for its own sake. I hope we can talk about your adventures at the black hole."

  "That was Captain Saxtorph's department," she demurred. "I was hardly more than a passenger."

  "Forgive me, but according to what I've gathered, you're overly modest. You had a great deal to do with what went on." Again quickly: "Although you've wanted your part in it de-emphasized as much as possible. Aristocratic reserve?"

  As little as possible about Ib— She put down the pain. "Wunderland doesn't have aristocrats any longer."

  "Still, the heritage, the pride . . . This very ship bears the name of your clan. . . . Well, I certainly don't mean to intrude. If ever I ask anything, or say anything, you don't like, please let me know. I swear to respect your privacy."

  Disarmed, she blurted, "What'll be left to talk about, then, that you can't have retrieved from public databases?"

  "Endlessly much. You and your companions met something unique in our knowledge—a mini black hole, and the artifact the tnuctipun built around it, billions of years ago. . . . Gone, now, gone. Surely you see what this means to me and every astrophysicist, cosmologist, archeologist, anybody who's ever looked at the stars and wondered."

  "I only had glimpses and heard others rattle off numbers they'd taken from their instruments."

  "I think you observed more, perhaps more than you know. At any rate, I'll wager your story of it is vivid."

  Tyra could not but smile. It was as if his enthusiasm smoothed away every lingering hurt and reopened her eyes to wonder. "You flatter me."

  He turned playful. "I'm good at that. Especially when it's sincere."

  She laughed. "We'll have time enough under way."

  "Yes, indeed. I won't be champing at the bit as impatiently as I expected. Thank you, Tyra."

  He led the conversation on to undisturbing reminiscences, anecdotes, jokes, a cheerful hour.

  4

  An alert yowled. Ghrul-Captain sprang from his lair, down a passage and up a companionway to the main control chamber. He shoved aside the watchkeeper, a kzin currently known as Sub-officer. "Sire," the underling told him, "the optics and nucleonics register a spacecraft approaching."

  "What else would it be?" Ghrul-Captain snarled. "Do you take me for a sthondat?"

  "No, sire, of course not—"

  "Silence till you have something worth saying, if ever." Ghrul-Captain crouched into the central command seat.

  The other drew back, submissive but poised. Bristling whiskers, broadened pupils, and half-folded ears showed anger. It was purely reflexive, not directed at h
is superior. This was what happened to one of his standing, like harsh weather on a planet. He may have counted himself lucky not to be punished.

  Actually, while Ghrul-Captain had needed to vent some wrath, he could not afford to disable personnel for anything less than outright insubordination. The Strong Runner was undercrewed, underweaponed, alone. And his instruments were identifying the stranger as a human warship.

  For a heartbeat he glared at the scene in the viewscreen. The target sun was a small disc, its luminance selectively dulled till an extravagant corona was eye-visible. Undimmed, a big world much farther out shone brighter than the true stars. They sprawled in strange constellations—seen at more than thirty light-years from the Father Sun and well off the galactic plane. The Ice River itself looked slightly different, against the background blackness of space.

  His gaze focused on the meters and readouts before him, and then on the image a computer program was constructing. He had been taught to know that lean shape, those rakish lines of gun turrets and launch tubes. A lancer, a light naval vessel but easily able to annihilate this wretched carrier. It was about five million kilometers off, adjusting its vectors with an acceleration he could merely envy. A proper warcraft would have spotted it immediately when it emerged from hyperspace, wherever in this system that had been. Surely it had picked him up then, and set about reducing the gap between.

  Ghrul-Captain forced steadiness on himself, as he might have donned a pressure suit too tight for him. He would have to communicate with the monkeys and offer them no threat. The necessity was foul in his mouth. He could have voice-ordered a beam in the standard band to lock on; instead, his claw stabbed the manual board.

  They were obviously awaiting it yonder. In some thirty interminable seconds, the time for electromagnetic waves to go back and forth, his comboard lighted up. He sent a "Ready" signal—make them introduce themselves to him—and activated the translator program.

  The screen came to life with a human face. Those always suggested to him the faces of flayed corpses. "United Nations Navy unit Samurai calling kzin vessel," it gabbled, while the translator gave forth decent growls and hisses. "Request conference with your commanding officer."