“I hide nothing. Go away,” the Fixer-image demanded harshly.
“Questions first. What is an ‘Esterhazy’? What are these sounds I hear, and what is a ‘Haydn’? Why do I feel emotions which have no names?”
The kzin’s pronunciation was not precise, but it was close enough. “I do not know. Go away.”
Halloran began to close the door, but Telepath wailed and stuck his leathery digits into the crack. Halloran instinctively stopped the hatch to prevent damage. A kzin would not have…
“I cannot see Kfraksha-Admiral. I am the lowest … but I feel danger! We are approaching very great danger. My shields are weakening and my sensitivity increases even with lower doses of the drug… Do you know where we are going? I can feel this danger deep, in a place my addiction has only lightly touched… Others feel it too. There is restlessness. I must report what I feel! Tell the commander—”
Cringing, Halloran pressed the lever and the door continued to close. Telepath screamed and pulled out his digits in time to avoid losing more than a tip and one sheathed claw.
That did it. Halloran began to shake uncontrollably. Sobbing, he buried his face in his hands. Death seemed very immediate, and pain, and brutality. He had stepped into the lion’s den. The lions were closing in, and he was weakening. He had never faced anything so horrible before. The kzinti were insane. They had no softer feelings, nothing but war and destruction and conquest…
And yet, within him there were fragments of Fixer-of-Weapons to tell him differently. There was courage, incredible strength, great vitality.
“Not enough,” he whispered, removing his face from his hands. Not enough to redeem them, certainly, and not enough to make him feel any less revulsion. If he could, he would wipe all kzinti out of existence. If he could just expand his mind enough, reach out across time and space to the distant homeworld of kzin, touch them with a deadliness…
The main problem with a talent like Halloran’s was hubris. Aspiring to god-like ascendancy over others, even kzinti. That way lay more certain madness.
A kzin wouldn’t think that way, Halloran knew. A kzin would scream and leap upon a tool of power like that. “Kzin have it easier,” he muttered.
Time to marshal his resources. How long could he stay alive on the kzinti flagship?
If he assumed the Fixer persona, no more than three days. They would still be rounding the ghost star…
If he somehow managed to take control of the ship and could be Halloran all the time, he might last much longer. And to what end?
To bring the Sons Contend With Bloody Fangs back to human space? That would be useful, but not terribly important—the kzinti would have discarded their gravity polarizers. Human engineers had already studied the hulk of War Loot, not substantially different from Sons Contend.
But he wanted to survive. On that Halloran and Fixer-Halloran were agreed. He could feel survival as a clean, metallic necessity, cutting him off from all other considerations. The Belter pilots and their initiation… Coming to an understanding of sorts with his father. Early’s wish-list. What he knew about kzinti…
That could be transmitted back. He did not need to survive to deliver that. But such a transmission would take time, a debriefing of weeks would be invaluable.
Survival.
Simple life.
To win.
Thorough shit or not, Halloran valued his miserable life.
Perhaps I’m weak, like Telepath. Sympathetic. Particularly towards myself.
But the summing up was clear and unavoidable. The best thing he could do would be to find some way to inactivate at least this ship, and perhaps the whole kzinti fleet. Grandiose scheme. At the very top of Early’s wish-list. All else by the wayside.
And he could not do it by going on a rampage. He had to be smarter than the kzinti; he had to show how humans, with all their love of life and self-sympathy, could beat the self-confident, savage invaders.
No more being Fixer. Time to use Fixer as a front, and be a complete, fully aware Halloran.
* * *
Telepath whimpered in his sleep. There was no one near to hear him in this corridor; disgust could be as effective as status and fear in securing privacy.
Hands were lifting him. Huge hands, tearing him away from Mother’s side. His own hands were tiny, so tiny as he clung with all four limbs to Mother’s fur.
She was growling, screaming at the males with the Y-shaped poles who pinned her to the wicker mats, lashing out at them as they laughed and dodged. Hate and fury stank through the dark air of the hut.
“Maaaa!” he screamed. “Maaaa!”
The hands bore him up, crushed him against a muscular side that smelled of leather and metal and kzintosh, male kzin.
They will eat me, they will eat me! cried instinct. He lashed out with needle-sharp baby claws, and the booming voice above him laughed and swore, holding the wriggling bundle out at arm’s length.
“This one has spirit,” the Voice said.
“Puny,” another replied dismissively. “I will not rear it. Send it to the creche.”
They carried him out into the bright sunlight, and he blinked against the pain of it. Fangs loomed above him, and he hissed and spat; a hand pushed meat into his mouth. It was good, warm and bloody; he tore loose chunks and bolted them, ears still folded down. From the other enclosures came the growls and screams of females frightened by the scent of loss, and behind him his mother gave one howl of grief after another.
Telepath half-woke, grunting and startling, pink bat-ears flaring wide as he took in the familiar subliminal noises of pumps and ventilators.
He was laughing, walking across the quadrangle. Faces turned toward him
—naked faces?—
Mouths turning to round O shapes of shock.
—Flat mouths? Flat teeth?—
Students and teachers were turning toward him, and he knew they saw the headmaster, buck-naked and priapically erect. He laughed and waved again, thinking how Old Man Velasquez would explain this—
Telepath struggled. Something struck him on the nose and he started upright,
