of Heroes meant to be even more primitive, even more dedicated to the Fanged God, even more loyal to the Patriarch. Civilization breeds for rationality; but the kzin used gene mechanics to build in proof against that.
While they were at it, they altered their social customs, then changed their genes so the new customs would be stable. The result was a race of barbarians, culturally well below the level of the Holy Roman Empire, roaming through space in wars of conquest and slavery.
Fortunately they had also changed their genes to make themselves more Heroic; and to a kzin, Heroes were rarely subtle and never deceptive.
Heroes don’t lie, and they don’t steal. It should be enough, Jonah thought. So. “He’ll have a backer in mind,” Jonah said. “A beneath-the-grass patriarch. A silent partner.” Explaining the concept took a few minutes. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have talked to us at all.”
The huge kzinti heads turned toward each other.
“We need him,” Spots said. “Badly.”
“Truth,” Bigs replied morosely.
Each of them solemnly bared the skin on the inside of a wrist and scratched a red line with one claw, then stared at him expectantly.
Oh, Finagle, the human thought. “Can I use a knife?” he said aloud.
“I won’t take money from Harold Yarthkin,” Jonah said bluntly.
He stared narrow-eyed at the lean Herrenmann face across the table, with its arrogant asymmetric double spike of beard. The room was large, elegant, and airy in the manner of Old Munchen, on the third story of a townhouse overlooking the Donau and the gardens along its banks. Almost as elegant as Claude Montferrat-Palme in his tweeds and suede, looking for all the world like a squire just in from riding over the home farm. He lounged back in the tall carved-oak chair, framed against the bright sunlight and the wisteria and wrought iron of the balcony behind him. His smile was lazy and relaxed.
“Oh, I assure you, there’s no money of his in this. We’re… close, but not bosom companions, if you know what I mean.”
Ingrid, Jonah’s mind supplied. An old and tangled rivalry; resolved now, but the scratches must linger. His were about healed, but he hadn’t spent forty years brooding on them.
“Although he probably would back you up. You did save both their lives, there at the end.”
Jonah felt a cold shudder ripple his skin, but the sensation was fading. There are no more thrint, he told himself. None at all, except for the Sea Statue in the UN museum, and that was safely bottled in a stasis field until the primal monobloc recondensed. After an instant the sensation went away. A year ago the memory attacks had been overwhelming; now they were just very, very unpleasant. Progress, of a sort.
“Not interested,” he said flatly. For one thing, our dear friend Harold might have left me here for the pussies, f it wouldn’t have made him look bad in front of Ingrid. Harold Yarthkin was a hero of sorts; Jonah knew the breed, from the inside. As ruthless as a kzin, when he was crossed or almighty Principle was at stake.
“But as I said, it’s my money.”
“Why are you spending your time on this penny-ante stuff, then?” Jonah asked. His nod took in the room, the old paintings and wood shining with generations of labor and wax.
“I’m not as rich as all that,” Montferrat said to Jonah’s skeptical eyebrow. “Contrary to rumor, most of the money I, hmmm, disassociated from official channels during the occupation didn’t stick. Much of the remainder went after the liberation-my vindication wasn’t an automatic matter, you see. Too many ambiguous actions. And I’m not exactly in good odor with the new government. The ARM doesn’t like any of us who were involved in… that business, you know. Therefore the most lucrative investments, like buying up confiscated estates, are barred to me. But yes, backing an expedition like yours isn’t all that good abet. I’ve funded a number, and no more than broken even.”
“Why bother?”
“For some reason, the Provisional Government -our acquaintance Markham, and General Early-doesn’t really want exploration in that quarter. Among the many other things they dislike. Just to put a spoke in their wheels is satisfaction enough for me, so long as it doesn’t cost money. And besides, perhaps the horse will learn to sing.”
Jonah shrugged off the reference and sat in thought for a moment.
“Accepted,” he said, and leaned forward to press his palm to the recorder.
“…and that, my dear, was how Jonah Matthieson came to be prospecting in these hills,” Montferrat finished.
Night had fallen during the tale, and the outdoor patio was lit by the dim light of the town’s glowstrips. Insectoids fluttered around them, things the size of a palm with wings in swirling patterns of indigo and crimson; they smelled of burnt cinnamon and made a sound as of glass chimes. Tyra took a cigarette and leaned forward to accept the man’s offer of a light, she leaned back and blew a meditative puff at the stars before answering him.
“You certainly don’t believe in letting the left hand know what the right does, do you, Herr Montferrat Palme. Claude.”
His grin was raffish and his expression boyishly frank. “No,” he said. “But I’ll tell you everything…”
She raised a brow.
“…that I think you need to know. I’m still uncertain of Jonah-uncertain of what the psychists did to him. I need someone to watch him; to report back to me, if there’s any sign he’s not what he pretends to be. And unobtrusively check up on any attempt to sabotage his expedition. You’re the perfect choice, young and obscure… and Jonah is likely to trust you, if that’s necessary.”
“Well and good, and I can use the employment,” Tyra said, giving him a level stare. “But what are your purposes here, myn Herr?”
“Money.” After a moment he continued: “For a reason. I’ve got political plans. Not so much ambitions-with my history I’ll never hold office-but I have candidates in mind. Harry, for one… I intend, in the long run, to put a glitch in Herrenmann Reichstein-Markham’s program; he’d make a very bad caudillo, and I think he’s got ambitions in that direction.” Tyra nodded grimly. “Beyond that, I want to get the ARM out of Wunderlander politics-a long-term project-and ease the transition to democracy.
“Not,” he went on with a slight grimace, “the form of government I’d have chosen, but we have little choice in the matter, do we? In any case, I need money, and I need information, which is power. This business is just one gambit in a very complicated game.”
“I’ve never been called a pawn so graciously before,” Tyra said, rising and extending her hand. The older aristocrat clicked heels and bent over it. “Consider it a deal, Claude.”
CHAPTER NINE
The convoy was crowded and slow as it ground up the switchbacks of the mountain road. Hovercraft had a greasy instability in rocky terrain like this, setting Jonah’s teeth on edge. The speed was disconcerting, too. Insect-slow, in one sense, compared to the singleships and fighter stingcraft he had piloted in the War, but you could not see velocity in space. Uncomfortably fast in relation to the ground; he kept expecting a collision-alarm to sound. He ignored the sensation, as he ignored the now-familiar scent of kzin, and scrolled through the maps instead. The flatbed around them was crowded, with farmers and travelers and mothers nursing their squalling young, and a cage full of shoats that turned hysterical every time the wind shifted and they scented Bigs and Spots. The kzin were sleeping; they could do that eighteen hours a day when there was nothing else to occupy their time.
Hans tapped the screen. “No sense in looking anywhere near here, like I said,” he went on. “Surveyors found it all, and then when it got worth taking the contractors took it all out, twenty, thirty years ago. We’ll buy some animals in Gelitzberg and -“
An alarm did go off, up in the lead truck. Almost at once an explosion followed, and a slow tide of dirt and rock came down the hillslope to their right, with jerking trees riding atop it like surfboarders on a wave. The autogun on the truck pivoted with smooth robotic quickness and its multiple barrels fired with a noise like yapping
