slime-bugger see reason.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Tregennis, shocked.
“Markham.” Dorcas grinned. “Sorry. You haven’t been toe-to-toe with him, over and over, the way Bob and I have. Never mind. Don’t let him or a quantum-beaded kzin spoil our evening. Let’s enjoy. We’re going!”
The office of Ulf Reichstein Markham was as austere as the man himself. Apart from a couple of chairs, a reference shelf, and a desk with little upon it except the usual electronics, its largeness held mostly empty space. Personal items amounted to a pair of framed documents and a pair of pictures. On the left hung his certificate of appointment to the Interworld Space Commission and a photograph of his wife with their eight-year-old son. On the right were his citation for extraordinary heroism during the war and a portrait painting of his mother. Both women showed the pure bloodlines of Wunderland aristocracy, the older one also in her expression; the younger looked subdued.
Markham strove to maintain the same physical appearance. His father had been a Belter of means, whom his mother married after the family got in trouble with the kzinti during the occupation and fled to the Swarm. At age 50 he stood a slender, swordblade-straight 195 centimeters. Stiff gray-blond hair grew over a narrow skull, above pale eyes, long nose, outthrust chin that sported the asymmetric beard, a point on the right side. Gray and closefitting, his garb suggested a military uniform. “I trust you have recovered from your experience, Captain Saxtorph,” he said in his clipped manner.
“Yah, I’m okay, aside from puzzlement.” The spaceman settled back in his chair, crossed shank over thigh. “Mind if I smoke?” He didn’t wait for an answer before reaching after pipe and tobacco pouch.
Markham’s lips twitched the least bit in disdain of the uncouthness, but he replied merely, “We will doubtless never know what caused the incident. You should not allow it to prey on your mind. The resident kzinti are under enormous psychological stress, still more so than humans would be in comparable circumstances. Besides uprootedness and culture shock, they must daily live with the fact of defeat. Acceptance runs counter to an instinct as powerful in them as sexuality is in humans. This individual, whoever he is, must have lashed out blindly. Let us hope he doesn’t repeat. Perhaps his friends can prevail on him.”
Saxtorph scowled. “I thought that way, too, at first. Afterward I got to wondering. I hadn’t been near any kzinti my whole time here, this trip. They don’t mingle with humans unless business requires, and then they handle it by phone if at all possible. This fellow was way off the reservation. He lurked till I arrived, in that empty place. He was wearing a phone. Somebody else, shadowing me, could have called to tell him I was coming and the coast was clear.”
“Frankly, you are being paranoid. Why in creation should he, or anyone, wish you harm? You specifically, I mean. Furthermore, conspiracy like that is not kzin behavior. It would violate the sense of honor that the meanest among them cherishes. No, this poor creature went wandering about, trying to walk off his anger and despair. When you chanced by, like a game animal on the ancestral planet passing a hunter’s blind, it triggered a reflex that he lost control of.”
“How can you be sure? How much do we really know about that breed?”
“I know more than most humans.”
“Yah,” drawled Saxtorph, “I reckon you do.”
Markham stiffened. His glance across the desk was like a leveled gun. For a moment there was silence.
Saxtorph got his pipe lit, blew a cloud of smoke, and through it peered back in more relaxed wise. He could afford to; somatic presence does make a difference. Barely shorter than the Wunderlander, he was hugely broader of shoulders and thicker of chest. His face was wide, craggy-nosed, shaggy-browed, with downward-slanted blue eyes and reddish hair that, at age 45, was getting thin. Whatever clothes he put on, they soon looked rumpled, but this gave the impression less of carelessness than of activity.
“What are you implying, Captain?” Markham asked low.
Saxtorph shrugged. “Nothing in particular, Commissioner. It’s common knowledge that you have quite a lot to do with’em.”
“Yes. Certain among the rabble have called me ’kzin-lover.’ I did not believe you shared their sewer mentality.”
“Whoa, there.” Saxtorph lifted a palm. “Easy, please. Of course you’d take a special interest. After all, the kzin empire, if that’s what we should call it, it’s still out yonder, and we still know precious little about it. Besides handling matters related to kzin comings and goings, you have to think about the future in space. Getting a better handle on their psychology is a real service.”
Markham eased a bit. “Learning some compassion does no harm either,” he said unexpectedly.
“Hm? Pardon me, but I should think that’d be extra hard for you.” Markham’s history flitted through Saxtorph’s mind. His mother had apparently married his commoner father out of necessity. Her husband died early, and she raised their son in the strictest aristocratic and martial tradition possible. By age 18 Markham was in the resistance forces. As captain of a commando ship, he led any number of raids and gained a reputation for kzin-like ruthlessness. He was 30 when the hyperdrive armada from Sol liberated Alpha Centauri. Thereafter he was active in restoring order and building up a Wunderland navy. Finally leaving the service, he settled on the planet, on a restored Reichstein estate granted him, and attempted a political career; but he lacked the needful affability and willingness to compromise. It was rumored that his appointment to the Space Commission had been a way of buying him off—he had been an often annoying gadfly—but he was in fact well qualified and worked conscientiously.
The trouble was, he had his own views on policy.
With his prestige and connections, he had managed in case after case to win agreement from a voting majority of his colleagues.
Saxtorph smiled and added, “Well, Christian charity is all the more valuable for being so rare.”
Markham pricked up his ears. The pale countenance flushed. “Christian!” he snapped. “A religion for slaves. No, I learned to respect the kzinti while I fought them. They were valiant, loyal, disciplined and in spite of the propaganda and horror stories, their rule was by no means the worst thing that ever happened to Wunderland.”
He calmed, even returned the smile. “But we have drifted rather far off course, haven’t we? I invited you here for still another talk about your plans. Have I no hope of persuading you the mission is wasteful folly?”
“You’ve said the same about damn near every proposal to do any real exploring,” Saxtorph growled.
“You exaggerate, Captain. Must we go over the old, trampled ground again? I am simply a realist. Ships, equipment, trained crews are in the shortest supply. We need them closer to home, to build up interstellar commerce and industry. Once we have that base, that productivity, yes, then of course we go forward. But we will go cautiously, if I have anything to say about it. Was not the kzin invasion a deadly enough surprise? Who knows what dangers, mortal dangers, a reckless would-be galaxy trotter may stir up?”
Saxtorph sighed. “You’re right, this has gotten to be boringly familiar territory. I’ll spare you my argument about how dangerous ignorance can be. The point is, I never put in for anything much. For a voyage as long as we intend, we need adequate supplies, and our insurance carrier insists we carry double spares of vital gear. The money Professor Tregennis wangled out of his university for the charter won’t stretch to it. So we all rendezvoused here to apply for a government donation of stuff sitting in the warehouses.
“It just might buy you a scientific revolution.”
He had rehashed this with malice, to repay Markham for the latter’s own repetition. It failed to get the man’s goat. Instead, the answer was, mildly, “I saw it as my duty to persuade the Commission to deny your request. Please believe there was no personal motive. I wish you well.”
Saxtorph grinned, blew a smoke ring, and said, “Thanks. Want to come wave goodbye? Because we are going.”
Markham took him off guard with a nod. “I know. Stefan Brozik has offered you a grant.”
“Huh?” Saxtorph grabbed his pipe just before it landed in his lap. He recovered his wits. “Did you have the hyperwave monitored for messages to members of our party?” His voice roughened. “Sir, I resent that.”
“It was not illegal. I was… more concerned than you think.” Markham leaned forward. “Listen. A man does not necessarily like doing what duty commands. Did you imagine I don’t regret choking off great adventures, that I do not myself long for the age of discovery that must come? In my heart I feel a certain gratitude toward Brozik. He has released me.
