SCat

out. That would give him even more rationale for the claim that SKitty had “chosen” her mate herself.

With an interested feline perching on each arm of the chair, he logged into the station’s databases, iden­tified himself and gave the station his billing information, then began his run.

There was nothing to do at that point but sit back and wait.

“I hope you realize all of the difficulties I’m going through for you,” he told the tom, who was grooming his face thoughtfully. “I’m doing without shore-leave to help you here. I wouldn’t do this for a fellow human!”

SCat paused in his grooming long enough to rasp Dick’s hand with his damp-sandpaper tongue.

The computer beeped just at that moment to let him know it was done. He was running all this through the Cargo dumb-set; he could have used the Brightwing’s Expert-System AI, but he didn’t want the AI to get curious, and he didn’t want someone wondering why he was using a Mega-Brain to access feline family-trees. What he did want was the appearance that this was a brainstorm of his own, an attempt to boost his standing with his Captain by providing further negotiable items for the Lacu’un contract. There was something odd about all of this, something that he couldn’t put his finger on, but something that just felt wrong and made him want to be extra-cautious. Why, he didn’t know. He only knew that he didn’t want to set off any tell-tales by acting as if this mate-search was a priority item.

 The computer asked if he wanted to use the holo-table, a tiny square platform built into the upper right hand corner of the desk. He cleared off a stack of hard-copy manifests, and told it “yes.” Then the first of his feline biographies came in.

He’d made a guess that SCat was between five and ten years old; shipscats lived to be fifty or more, but their useful lifespan was about twenty or thirty years. All too often their job was hazardous; alien vermin had poisonous fangs or stings, sharp claws and teeth. Cats suffered disabling injuries more often than their human crewmates, and would be retired with honors to the homes of retired spacers, or to the big “assisted living” stations holding the very aged and those with disabling injuries of their own. Shipscats were always welcome, anywhere in space.

And I can think of worse fates than spending my old age watching the stars with SKitty on my lap. He gazed down fondly at his furred friend, and rubbed her ears.

SKitty purred and butted her head into his hand. She paid very little attention to the holos as they passed slowly in review. SCat was right up on the desk, how­ever, not only staring intently at the holos, but splitting his attention between the holos and the screen.

You don’t suppose he can read . . . ?

Suddenly, SCat let out a yowl, and swatted the holoplate. Dick froze the image and the screen-bio­graphy that accompanied it.

He looked first at the holo—and it certainly looked more like SCat than any of the others had. But SCat’s attention was on the screen, not the holo, and he stared fixedly at the modest insignia in the bottom right corner.

Patrol?

He looked down at SCat, dumbfounded. “You were with the Patrol?” He whispered it; you did not invoke the Patrol’s name aloud unless you wanted a visit from them.

Yellow eyes met his for a moment, then the paw tapped the screen. He read further.

Type MF-025, designation Lightfoot of Sun Meadow. Patrol ID FX-003. Standard Military genotype, standard Military training. Well, that explained how he had known how to shut down the “pirate” equipment. Now Dick wondered how much else the cat had done, outside of his sight. And a military genotype? He hadn’t even known there was such a thing.

Assigned to Patrol ship DIA-9502, out of Oklahoma Station, designated handler Major Logan Greene.

Oklahoma Station—that was this station. Drug Inter­diction? He whistled softly.

Then a date, followed by the ominous words, Ship missing, all aboard presumed dead.

All aboard—except the shipscat.

The cat himself gave a mournful yowl, and SKitty jumped up on the desk to press herself against him comfortingly. He looked back down at SCat. “Did you jump ship before they went missing?”

He wasn’t certain he would get an answer, but he had lived with SKitty for too long to underestimate shipscat intelligence. The cat shook his head, slowly and deliberately—in the negative.

His mouth went dry. “Are you saying—you got away?”

A definite nod.

“Your ship was boarded, and you got away?” He was astonished. “But how?”

For an answer, the cat jumped down off the desk and walked over to the little escape pod that neither he nor SKitty ever forgot to drag with them. He seized the tether in his teeth and dragged it over to an access tube. It barely fit; he wedged it down out of sight, then pawed open the door, and dropped down, hidden, and now completely protected from what must have happened.

He popped back out again, and walked to Dick’s feet. Dick was thinking furiously. There had been rumors that drug-smugglers were using captured Patrol ships; this more-or-less confirmed those rumors. Disable the ship, take the exterior airlock and blow it. Whoever wasn’t suited up would die. Then they board and finish off whoever was suited up. They patch the lock, restore the air, and weld enough junk to the outside of the ship to disguise it completely. Then they can bring it in to any port they care to—even the ship’s home port.

This station. Which is where SCat escaped.

“Can you identify the attackers?” he asked SCat. The cat slowly nodded.

:They know he gone. He run, they chase. He try get home, they stop. He hear of me on dock, go