the Secret Service of the Eye of the Patriarch; he had messages from his grandfather and his father that it was his sacred duty to deliver to the Patriarch. He had his own messages to report. And he was stranded. At the least he had to get back to W’kkai, where his father’s network would still be in place.
Hiss also carried the added burden of Kdapt’s teachings, his own self-imposed burden, important teachings which he must spread to the stars to ensure the victory of the kzin over this race favored by God. Who but Kdapt- Captain had understood the defeat at Wunderland and the path that must be traveled henceforth?
The gagrumpher trophy was not a good replacement for Leiter Obensim Frankhausen, who should be up there staring down at his masters. He had been captured during a kzinti foray into the Serpent’s Swarm. Times were deplorable!
Long ago, while Tiamat was being sieged from within by maddened man-slaves, the Club had shredded its mounted guerrilla leader, Obensim Frankhausen, disposing of him hastily down the excrement turbines. The Club had only survived because of the need for a holding area to confine kzinti prisoners. It had been the logical place to put them. As times mellowed and honor agreements were accepted by released kzin, the Club became the nucleus of the future Tigertown.
Leiter Obensim Frankhausen was never replaced in the Club’s main display room, although there was now a superbly stuffed kz’eerkt discreetly located in the urinal, where it served the same purpose. The grinning kz’eerkt was frozen in the act of reaching from the branch of a fruit tree for a luscious persimmon. These days it was affectionately referred to as “Ulf Reichstein Markham,” never in the presence of humans.
After an endless groveling petition to Markham, in which he’d had to concentrate to suppress his lip twitching to the point where he sometimes couldn’t even think straight, Hwass had been granted passage on a UNSN ghostship to Kzin. A hope since dashed. Markham had been a devious sore, more devious than any other monkey this miserable kzin had ever dealt with, frustrating, enraging. Finally Hwass had extracted passage from him by accepting an exchange offer that seemed to work.
It didn’t make sense-he was to deliver a message of goodwill and peace to the Patriarch-but it was something he could do. Still, the Ferocious Father would wiggle his ears in amazement to hear that humans were offering subservience to the Patriarch and tribute to seal the offer. Before the offer had been withdrawn, he had been hoping the Patriarch could take such a joke calmly and not execute the messenger!
Peace from Markham!-a man who had harassed and slaughtered kzin all his adult life, who had been the abject slave of a thrintun, and who now treacherously professed to admire kzinti discipline. The monkeys not only lied, they didn’t even understand that their lies were transparent. He had put up with it out of loyalty to the Patriarch. So much humiliation, now suddenly for naught!
Vegetable-eaters beneath dignity, these humans-and yet the God was on their side.
It was a kind of torture-by-false-word, unknown to an honest well-bred kzin of integrity These men told a lie to kindle hope-then layered on a new lie to douse the hope. Such low treachery and teasing and lying continued like malicious play without rules. They tortured in teams. As soon as repatriation passage had been granted by Markham, the arrangements made, the humiliating medical tests completed, another monkey with the unpronounceable name of Yankee Clandeboye had appeared to cancel his papers.
Markham had apologized. He pleaded “higher authority” Evidently monkey field commanders did not have field authority. Would the endless play repeat-promise and then betrayal? “Bullfighting,” they called it tease with banderillas and lance until the bull was weak enough for the cowardly matador to kill it-a game that only kz’eerkt could enjoy, because they had no self-respect. Tonight God required special supplication. God must be masochist to so love these hairless wonders.
He didn’t mind delays. Heroic journeys were always delayed by hardship. He belonged to a race that was impulsive at short range but patient over distance. A Hero was made steadfast by the agonies of trial, if he couldn’t carry out his duty, he could pass that duty onto his sons. If his Kdapt revelations reached only clogged noses, his Sons would still be able to smell. But it wasn’t in his nature to deal with the duplicity lying, inefficiency and inconsistency of monkeys to whom he had shown his throat in defeat. They brought out the irrational choleric in him. It displeased him that such creatures should have been given the true form.
There was no help for it. It was God’s way of speaking to kzin in the Dominant Tense. One could only reply in the Dominated Tense. Truth was truth. An earlier generation of kzinti had been equally shocked to discover that Kzinhome was not the center of the universe.
Killing Markham was no solution. He was Dominant. It was God’s challenge to Hwass that he find other means to circumvent this man’s treachery.
The Club-Master approached him. “Hwass, honored Dominance.”
Hwass-Hwasschoaw growled acknowledgment. He was not in a good mood.
“The humans are here.”
“Here? Throw them out!”
“Sire.” Club-Master stood his ground. It was clear that he was not going to obey this impulsive order.
“Then keep them confined below. In the holding room. Who is it this time? That breakable pink pole who would steal our knowledge of gravity? He’s become like a tigripard after the sheep.” Hwass had grown up in the sheep ranching territories of Wunderland.
Club-Master spoke in the most respectful tense. “Not to contradict your Dominance, but they have requested only drink. They are drunk already.”
Hwass swiveled on his attendant “Learn that they lie with their every breath! They are not honest warriors like you and me! They are weak in gravities and seek to improve their skills so that they can kill more kzin. Their ghostships do not operate near the mass of stars and it is only the gravitic superiority of our warcraft that keeps them at bay. They control only interstellar space. We still dominate the stellar realms. I have spoken with this man before.”
“There are two. One is the lean monkey known to you. The other is a Major Yankee Clandeboye.” Club-Master had a hard time with the name because it did not translate properly into the hisses and sibillated snarls of the Hero’s Tongue.
“That one?” Now the play was clear in Hwass. To obtain his freedom he would not only have to deliver a message of peace to Kzinhome, which would cost him nothing (maybe), but he must also act as a hunt guide in the hills of gravity, which would cost him dearly. What else would they demand-his hide for a rug? “Bring them here,” he said reluctantly.
“What shall I offer them to drink?”
“Banana pulp mixed with orange juice!” At this reply, Club-Master’s membranous ears went into shock Hwass remembered that this servant had no sense of humor. “They will take Kailua with cream. Charge them triple.” He tapped his furless tail three times.
When Club-Master departed via the dropway, Hwass surveyed the great room to see that it was in presentable order. Much kzin carousing went on here and it wasn’t always tidy, but the present hour was a quiet one with few celebrants. These simians could be entertained with some propriety. The Hwasschoaw family still retained some of the more elegant manners of the inner worlds, spot-worn like the rugs but serviceable.
He stooped at the entrance to view the room from a dwarf’s height to see it as a kz’eerkt might see it. He straightened the kudlotlin hide rugs, all of which had been imported in the holds of Chuut-Riit’s armada and now showed signs of wear They could not be replaced. There were no furry kudlotlin to hunt on Wunderland-the planet was everywhere too warm for that beast. No matter. How would he seat such midgets? Kits were not allowed in this room of Heroes and so there were no proper sized furnishings. His membranous ears waggled. It would do these monkeys good to look silly with their feet dangling.
When they finally arrived, after Club-Master had delayed them as long as one could possibly delay a Dominant, the tall pole with the pink eyes was his usual disgustingly ingratiating self. The lesser man showed all the signals and smells of monkey fear that Hwass had learned to read from years of owning human slaves. He did not look like the hero of 59 Virginis who had “defeated” a local kzin fleet, but that’s what the records said.
Hwass had carefully researched this major since finding his name on the orders that countermanded those of Markham. “Defeated” was probably the usual primate exaggeration. Humans lied even in their records. Their dishonest officers routinely told their commanders whatever the commander wanted to hear. The record probably meant that Major Clandeboye had “escaped.”
“And how iss that I must serve you?” He was frustrated that he could not put irony in his voice but was relieved that he did not have to speak the Hero’s Tongue- the humiliating circumstances would have required him
