Manexpert was taken by surprise, and didn't follow for a moment, by which time Peace was out of sight. He went back in and looked at the kzinti again, and said softly in Hero, "Gnyr-Captain, what do I do?"
And then his fur stood straight out, as Gnyr-Captain's relict slowly turned to face him. After a few seconds Gnyr-Captain's face took on an expression, as of someone trying to recall the right word, and twice he opened his mouth and closed it again. He opened it a third time, made eye contact, pointed at Manexpert, and said, "Name."
"I'm Manexpert," he whispered.
Gnyr-Captain flicked his ears wide and relaxed them, a dismissive gesture, and made two poking motions and said, "Name."
"I don't have . . . you mean, you want me to have a Name?"
Gnyr-Captain let out a little sigh, relaxed, and turned back to the instruments he was monitoring. He made no further response to Manexpert, not even when touched. It was apparently the last thing his brain had been able to manage.
Manexpert went outside and wandered in whatever direction his feet took him, until it got dark; then he lay down wherever it was he happened to be.
* * *
Peace found him when she had a few free minutes, and went to fetch him a haunch of what the Cockroach's computer claimed was gazelle—at least, that was what the genes were supposed to be. (Jan Corben had absconded with a very large database.) He woke when she returned with it, as she was coming from upwind to be polite. He came up to a combat stance at once, fur bristling, eyes and ears wide in the darkness. He looked adorable. "Here," she said, and waved the leg to be smelled, then tossed it. He snagged it out of the air, and grunted at the unexpected weight. "There are no animals worth hunting here," she added. "Plague victims ate them all. I made you a knife." She handed that over. "Don't touch the edge, those fingers are brand new."
"W'tsai," said the kzin, inspecting the blade appreciatively by starlight. He carved off chunks and gulped without much chewing; there was a respectable chemical plant inside a kzinti abdomen, as Peace had cause to know, but it still looked funny. He cracked the bone reflexively, licked his fingers in embarrassment, and then noticed that there was indeed marrow. The ripple in the littlest claw on the hand was just the right shape to scoop in the very last scraps of marrow; that Pak Protector must have just about wiped out Kzin's supply of prey for that trait to have become standard. Killing off a major prey species with a tailored disease that the kzinti could contract would explain their inability to tolerate the taste of carrion, too—it would kill off the kzinti that ate food that they'd found, rather than killed themselves. When he had the bone fragments clean, Peace handed over a parcel she'd made up. It included grooming supplies, a knife (w'tsai) sheath, and a toolkit of useful articles, such as string and bandages and an oxygen mask and so forth. The kit had a light, and the kzin looked over the contents with growing perplexity. "What's this for?" he said, holding up the whistle.
"It makes a loud noise that carries a long way."
"I know that. Why would I need to?"
"Who knows? But if you did, and you didn't have a whistle, wouldn't you feel foolish?" Peace said reasonably.
He completed his inspection in silence, less disturbed by this logic than by his agreement with it. After closing the kit, he said, "That tasted surprised."
"That's what I was trying for. I like meat to taste more exhausted, but then I used to be human."
"I thought so," he said sadly. "Should I have a Name?" he added, which would have given some people the impression he was changing the subject.
"Without a doubt," she replied. "Humans get them at birth, and you're practically human in some ways. You don't attack when there's no chance of success, for example. And you make conversation, which is how humans keep constantly apprised of everything."
The kzin needed time to get the implications of this, so Peace rose and ran to the next job. It wasn't immediately urgent, but nothing was at the moment, and it was important in the long run: producing a noncontagious Protector virus—that is, one that infected plants but not people—whose shell binding used a porphyrin nexus other than thallium. Cobalt looked good. According to Brennan, there had been cases of Pak Protectors dying of old age at 28,000 or so, but given the constant regeneration of tissues and reconstruction of the DNA therein this was obviously the result of cumulative trace thallium poisoning. Another tnuctip safety feature.
* * *
Manexpert had taken a lot of time to think, and the next morning he located Peace in yet another dome. It was a big dome, and it held an assembly that looked like an immense balloon tire, made of metal and lying on its side. The thing floated several feet off the ground, and Peace wore a harness that adjusted gravity so as to reach any part of the assembly. Manexpert was vaguely aware of the infeasibility of making a gravity planer that small, but by this point was so far beyond surprise at anything Peace could do that he would have accepted it without question if he'd been shown a groundcar and told that it was powered by its driver's sense of propriety. "Good morning," Peace called to him. "Come up on a cargo plate."
He saw what it meant, found the controls obvious, and went up to join it where it was working at
