The Man-Kzin Wars 01

“Males want only meat,” he shrugged.

“They would,” she snarled. “In my day, some select warriors did the same. They claimed it made them ferocious and that eaters of vegetation were mere kshativat, dumb herbivores; we prret claimed their diet just made them hopelessly aggressive.”

“The word's been shortened to kshat now,” he mused. “It's a favorite cussword of theirs. At least you don't have to start eating the animals in stasis to stay alive. That's the good news; the bad news is that the warriors who left me here may return at any time. What will you do then?”

“That depends on how accurate your words have been,” she said cagily.

“And if I'm telling the plain truth?”

Her ears smiled for her: “Take up my war where I left it,” she said.

* * *

Locklear felt his control slipping when Miss Kitty refused to wait before releasing most of the vatach. They were nocturnal with easily-spotted burrows, she insisted, and yes, they bred fast — but she pointed to specimens of a winged critter in stasis and said they would control the vatach very nicely if the need arose. By now he realized that this kzin female wasn't above trying to vamp him; and when that failed, a show of fang and talon would succeed.

He showed her how to open the cages only after she threatened him, and watched as she grasped waking vatach by their legs, quickly releasing them to the darkness outside. No need to release the (something) yet, she said; Locklear called the winged beasts “batowls.”

“I hope you know what you're doing,” he grumbled. “I'd stop you if I could do it without a fight.”

“You would wait forever,” she retorted. “I know the animals of my world better than you do, and soon we may need a lot of them for food.”

“Not so many; there's just the two of us.”

The cat-eyes regarded him shrewdly. “Not for long,” she said, and dropped her bombshell. “I recognized a friend of mine in one of those cages.”

Locklear felt an icy needle down his spine. “A male?”

“Certainly not. Five of us were executed for the same offense, and at least one of them is here with us. Perhaps those Outsiders of yours collected us all as we sank in that stinking water.”

“Not my Outsiders,” he objected. “Listen, for all we know they're monitoring us, so be careful how you fiddle with their setup here.”

She marched him to the kzin cages and purred her pleasure on recognizing two females, both prret like herself, both imposingly large for Locklear's taste. She placed a furry hand on one cage, enjoying the moment. “I could release you now, my sister in struggle,” she said softly. “But I think I shall wait. Yes, I think it is best,” she said to Locklear, turning away. “These two have been here a long time, and they will keep until—”

“Until you have everything under your control?”

“True,” she said. “But you need not fear, Rockear. You are an ally, and you know too many things we must know. And besides,” she added, rubbing against him sensuously, “you are (something).”

There was that same word again, t'rralap or some such, and now he was sure, with sinking heart, that it meant “cute.” He didn't feel cute; he was beginning to feel like a Pomeranian on a short leash.

More by touch than anything else, they gathered bundles of grass for a bower at the cave entrance, and Miss Kitty showed no reluctance in falling asleep next to him, curled becomingly into a buzzing ball of fur. But when he moved away, she moved too, until they were touching again. He knew beyond doubt that if he moved too far in the direction of his lance and axe, she would be fully awake and suspicious as hell.

And she'd call my bluff, and I don't want to kill her, he thought, settling his head against her furry shoulder. Even if I could, which is doubtful, I'm no longer master of all I survey. In fact, now I have a mistress of sorts, and I'm not too sure what kind of mistress she has in mind. They used to have a word for what I'm thinking. Maybe Miss Kitty doesn't care who or what she diddles; hell, she was a palace courtesan, doing it with males she hated. She thinks I'm t'r-ralap. Yeah, that's me, Locklear, Miss Kitty's trollop; and what the hell can I do about it? I wish there were some way I could get her back in that stasis cage… And then he fell asleep.

* * *

To Locklear's intense relief, Miss Kitty seemed uninterested in the remaining cages on the following morning. They foraged for breakfast and he hid his astonishment as she taught him a dozen tricks in an hour. The root bulb of one spiny shrub tasted like an apple; the seed pods of some weeds were delicious; and she produced a tiny blaze by rapidly pounding an innocent-looking nutmeat between two stones. It occurred to him that nuts contained great amounts of energy. A pile of these firenuts, he reflected, might be turned into a weapon…

Feeding hunks of dry brush to the fire, she announced that those root bulbs baked nicely in coals. “If we can find clay, I can fire a few pottery dishes and cups, Rockear. It was part of my training, and I intend to have everything in domestic order before we wake those two.”

“And what if a kzin ship returns and spots that smoke?”

That was a risk they must take, she said. Some woods burned more cleanly than others. He argued that they should at least build their fires far from the cave, and while they were at it, the cave entrance might be better disguised. She agreed, impressed with his strategy, and then went down on all-fours to inspect the dirt near a dry-wash. As he admired her lithe movements, she shook her head in an almost human gesture. “No good for clay.”

“It's not important.”

“It is vitally important!” Now she wheeled upright, impressive and fearsome. “Rockear, if any kzintosh return here, we must be ready. For that, we must have the help of others — the two prret. And believe me, they will be helpful only if they see us as their (something).”

She explained that the word meant, roughly, “paired household leaders.” The basic requirements of a household, to a kzin female, included sleeping bowers easily come by — and enough pottery for that household. A male kzin needed one more thing, she said, her eyes slitting: a w'tsai.

“You mean one of those knives they all wear?”

“Yes. And you must have one in your belt.” From the waggle of her ears, he decided she was amused by her next statement: “It is a— badge, of sorts. The edge is usually sharp but I cannot allow that, and the tip must be dull. I will show you why later.”

“Dammit, these things could take weeks!”

“Not if we find the clay, and if you can make a w'tsai somehow. Trust me, Rockear; these are the basics. Other kzinrett will not obey us otherwise. They must see from the first that we are proper providers, proper leaders with the pottery of a settled tribe, not the wooden implements of wanderers. And they must take it for granted that you and I,” she added, “are (something).” With that, she rubbed lightly against him.

He caught himself moving aside and swallowed hard. “Miss Kitty, I don't want to offend you, but, uh, humans and kzinti do not mate.”

“Why do they not?”

“Uhm. Well, they never have.”

Her eyes slitted, yet with a flicker of her ears: “But they could?”

“Some might. Not me.”

“Then they might be able to,” she said as if to herself. “I thought I felt something familiar when we were sleeping.” She studied his face carefully. “Why does your skin change color?”

“Because, goddammit, I'm upset!” He mastered his breathing after a moment and continued, speaking as if to a small child, “I don't know about kzinti, but a man can not, uh, mate unless he is, uh,—”

“Unless he is intent on the idea?”

“Right!”

“Then we will simply have to pretend that we do mate, Rockear. Otherwise, those two kzinrett will spend most of their time trying to become your mate and will be useless for work.”

“Of all the,” he began, and then dropped his chin and began to laugh helplessly. Human tribal customs had