'Gotta have a tight ship,' said Schmidt, banging his head on the duralloy as he retrieved the fax and balled it up with one hand. He tossed the wadded fax into a flush-mounted waste receptacle, slid the cubicle door open for Locklear, and managed a passable salute. 'Have a good one, pal. You know how to adjust your rubberlady?'
Locklear saw that the mattresses of the two bunks were standard models with adjustable inflation and webbing. 'No problem,' he replied, and slid the door closed. He washed up at the tiny inset sink, used the urinal slot below it, and surveyed his clothes after removing them. They'd all seen better days. Maybe he could wangle some new ones. He was sleepier than he'd thought, and adjusted his rubberlady for a soft setting, and was asleep within moments.
He did not know how long it was before he found himself sitting bolt-upright in darkness. He knew what was wrong, now: everything. It might be possible for a little escort ship to plunder records from a derelict mile-long Kzin battleship. It was barely possible that the same craft would be sent to check on some big Kzin secret-but not without at least a cruiser, if the Kzinti might be heading for Zoo.
He rubbed a trickle of sweat as it counted his ribs. He didn't have to be a military buff to know that ordinary privates do not have access to medical lockers, and the commander had told Gazho to get that brandy from med stores. Right; and all those motley shoulder patches didn't add up to a picked combat crew, either. And one more thing: even in his halfblotted condition, Schmidt had snatched that fax sheet up as though it was evidence against him. Maybe it was…
He waved the overhead lamp on, grabbed his ratty flight suit, and slid his cubicle door open. If anyone asked, he was looking for a cleaner unit for his togs.
A low thrum of the ship's sleeping hydraulics; a slightly louder buzz of someone sleeping, most likely Schmidt while on sentry duty. Not much discipline at all. I wonder just how much commanding Stock ton really does. Locklear stepped into the passageway, moved several paces, and eased his free hand into the waste receptacle slot. Then he thrust the fax wad into his dirty flight suit and padded silently back, cursing the sigh of his door. A moment later he was colder than before.
The fax was labeled, 'PRISONER RIGHTS AND PRIVILEGES,- and had been signed by some Provost Marshall-or a doctor, to judge from its illegibility. He'd bet anything that fax had fallen, or had been torn, from those duralloy bars. Rust-colored crusty stains on the floor; a similar stain near the ship's bridge; but no obvious damage to the ship from Kzin weapons.
It took all his courage to go into the passageway again, flight suit in hand, and replace the wadded fax sheet where he'd found it. And the door seemed much louder this time, almost a sob instead of a sigh.
Locklear felt like sobbing, too. He lay on his rubberlady in the dark, thinking about it. A hundred scenarios might explain some of the facts, but only one matched them all: the Anthony Wayne had been a prisoner ship, but now the prisoners were calling themselves 'commander' and 'sergeant,' and the real crew of the Anthony Wayne had made those stains inside the ship with their blood.
He wanted to shout it, but demanded it silently: So why would a handful of deserters fly to Zoo? Before he fell at last into a troubled sleep, he had asked it again and again, and the answer was always the same: somehow, one of them had learned of the Kzin records and hoped to find Zoo's secret before either side did.
These people would be deadly to anyone who knew their secret. And almost certainly, they'd never buy the truth, that Locklear himself was the secret because the Kzinti had been so sure he was an Interworld agent.
Locklear awoke with a sensation of dread, then a brief upsurge of joy at sleeping in modern accommodations, and then he remembered his conclusions in the middle of the night, and his optimism fell off and broke.
To mend it, he decided to smile with the innocence of a Candide and plan his tactics. If he could get to the Kzin lifeboat, he might steer it like a slow battering ram and disable the Anthony Wayne. Or they might blow him to flinders in midair-and what if his fears were wrong, and despite all evidence this combat team was genuine? In any case, disabling the ship meant marooning the whole lot of them together. It wasn't a plan calculated to lengthen his life expectancy; maybe he would think of another. The crew was already bustling around with breakfasts when he emerged, and yes, he could use the ship's cleaning unit for his clothes. When he asked for spare clothing, Soichiro Lee was first to deny it to him. 'Our spares are still-contaminated from a previous engagement,' he explained, with a meaningful look toward Gomulka.
I bet they are, with blood, Locklear told himself as he scooped his synthesized eggs and bacon. Their uniforms all seemed to fit well. Probably their own, he decided. The stylized winged gun on Gomulka's patch said he could fly gunships. Lee might be a medic, and the sensuous Grace might be a real intelligence officer-and all could be renegades.
Stockton watched him eat, friendly as ever, arms folded and relaxed. 'Gomulka and Gazho did a recon in our pinnacle at dawn,' he said, sucking a tooth. 'Seems your apemen are already rebuilding at another site; a terrace at this end of the lake. A lot closer to us.'
'I wish you could think of them as people,' Locklear said. 'They're not terribly bright, but they don't swing on vines.'
Chuckling: 'Bright enough to be nuisances, perhaps try and burn us out if they find the ship here,' Stockton said. 'Maybe bright enough to know what it is the tabbies found here. You said they can talk a little. Well, you can help us interrogate'em.'
'They aren't too happy with me,' Locklear admitted as Gomulka sat down with steaming coffee. 'But I'll try on one-condition.'
Gomulka's voice carried a rumble of barely hidden threat. 'Conditions? You're talking to your commander, Locklear. '
'It's a very simple one,' Locklear said softly. 'No more killing or threatening these people. They call themselves 'gentles,' and they are. The New Smithson, or half the Interworld University branches, would give a year's budget to study them alive.'
Grace Agostinho had been working at a map terminal, but evidently with an ear open to their negotiations. As Stockton and Gomulka gazed at each other in silent surmise, she took the few steps to sit beside Locklear, her hip warm against his. 'You're an ethologist. Tell me, what could the Kzinti do with these gentles?'
Locklear nodded, sipped coffee, and finally said, 'I'm not sure. Study them hoping for insights into the underlying psychology of modem humans, maybe. '
Stockton said, 'But you said the tabbies don't know about them.' 'True; at least I don't see how they could. But you asked. I can't believe the gentles would know what you're after, but if you have to ask them, of course I'll help.'
Stockton said it was necessary, and appointed Lee acting corporal at the cabin as he filled most of the pinnacle's jumpseats with himself, Locklear, Agostinho, Gomulka, and the lank Parker. The little craft sat on downsloping delta wings that ordinarily nested against the Wayne's hull, and had intakes for gas-reactor jets. 'Newest piece of hardware we have,' Stockton said, patting the pilot's console. It was Gomulka, however, who took the controls.
Locklear suggested that they approach very slowly, with hands visibly up and empty, as they settled the pinnacle near the beginnings of a new gentles camp site. The gentles, including their women, all rushed for primitive lances but did not flee, and Anse Parker was the only one carrying an obvious weapon as the pinnacle’s canopy swung back. Locklear stepped forward, talking and smiling, with Parker at their backs.
He saw Ruth waiting for old Gimp, and said he was. much happy to see her, which was an understatement. Minuteman, too, had survived the firing on their village.
Cloud had not. Ruth told him so immediately. 'Locklear make many deaths to gentles,' she accused. Behind her, some of the gentles stared with faces that were anything but gentle. 'Gentles not like talk to Locklear, he says. Go now. Please,' she added, one of the last words he'd taught her, and she said it with urgency. Her glance toward Grace Agostinho was interested, not hostile but perhaps pitying.
Locklear moved away from the others, farther from the glaring Gimp. 'More new people come,' he called from a distance, pleading. 'Think gentles big, bad animals. Stop when they see gentles; much much sorry. Locklear say not hurt gentles more.'
With her head cocked sideways, Ruth seemed to be testing his mind for lies. She spoke with Gimp, whose face registered a deep sadness and, perhaps, some confusion as well. Locklear could hear a buzz of low conversation between Stockton nearby and Gomulka, who still sat at the pinnacle controls. 'Locklear think good, but bad things happen,' Ruth said at last. 'Kill Cloud, many more. Gentles not like fight. Locklear know this,' she said, almost crying 'now Please go!'
