Cathouse Page 7

  The return trip was longer. He taught her how to tack upwind and later, watching her soak fronds that night inside the cave, exulted because soon they would have maps of this curious country. In only one particular was he evasive.

  “Rockear, what is that thing I felt on your back under your clothing,” she asked.

  “It’s, uh, just a thing your warriors do to captives. I have to keep it there,” he said, and quickly changed the subject.

  In another few days, they had crude air maps and several candidate sites for the manor. Locklear agreed to Kit’s choice as they hovered above it, a gentle slope beneath a cliff overhang where a kzinrret could sun herself half the day. Fast-growing hardwoods nearby would provide timber and firewood, and the stream burbling in the throat of the ravine was the same stream where he had found that first waterfall down near the lake, and had conjectured on the age of Kzersatz. She rubbed her cheek against his neck when he accepted her decision.

  He steered toward the hardwood grove, feeling a faint dampness on his neck. “What does that mean?”

  “Why,—marking you, of course. It is a display of affection.” He pursued it. The ritual transferred a pheromone from her furry cheeks to his flesh. He could not smell it, but she maintained that any kzin would recognize her marker until the scent evaporated in a few hours.

  It was like a lipstick mark, he decided—”Or a hickey with your initials,” he told her, and then had to explain himself. She admitted he had not guessed far off the mark. “But hold on, Kit. Could a kzin warrior track me by my scent?”

  “Certainly. How else does one follow a spoor?”

  He thought about that awhile. “If we come to the manor and leave it always by air, would that make it harder to find?”

  Of course, she said. Trackers needed a scent trail; that’s why she intended them to walk in the nearby stream, even if splashing in water was unpleasant. “But if they are determined to find you, Rockear, they will.”

  He sighed, letting the airboat settle near a stand of pole-straight trees, and as he hacked with the dulled wtsai, told her of the new weaponry: projectiles, beamers, energy fields, bombs. “When they do find us, we’ve got to trap them somehow; get their weapons. Could you kill your own kind?”

  “They executed me,” she reminded him and added alter a moment, “Kzinrret weapons might be best. Leave it to me.” She did not elaborate. Well, women’s weapons had their uses.

  He slung several logs under the airboat and left Kit stone-sharpening the long blade as he slowly tacked his way back to their ravine. Releasing the hitches was the work of a moment, thick poles thudding onto yellow-green grass, and soon he was back with Kit. By the time the sun faded, the wtsai was biting like a handaxe and Kit had prepared them a thick grassy pallet between the cliff face and their big foundation logs. It was the coldest night Locklear had spent on Kzersatz, but Kit’s fur made it endurable.

  Days later, she ate the last of the kzin rations as he chewed a fishnut and sketched in the dirt with a stick. “We’ll run the shamboo plumbing out here I from the kitchen,” he said, “and dig our escape tunnel out from our sleep room parallel with the cliff. We’ll need help, Kit. It’s time.”

  She vented a long purring sigh. “I know. Things will be different, Rockear. Not as simple as our life has been.”

  He laughed at that, reminding her of the complications they had already faced, and then they resumed notching logs, raising the walls beyond window height. Their own work packed the earthen floors, but the roofing would require more hands than their own. That night, Kit kindled their first fire in the central room’s hearth, and they fell asleep while she tutored him on the ways of ancient kzin females.

  Leaning against the airboat alone near the cave, Locklear felt new misgivings. Kit had argued that his presence at the awakenings would be a Bad Idea. Let them grow used to him slowly, she’d said. Stand tall, give orders gently, and above all don’t smile until they understand his show of teeth. No fear of that, he thought, shifting nervously a half-hour after Kit disappeared inside. I don’t feel like smiling.

  He heard a shuffling just out of sight; realized he was being viewed covertly; threw out his chest and flexed his pectorals. Not much by kzin standards, but he’d developed a lot of sinew during the past weeks. He felt silly as hell, and those other kzinrret had not made him any promises. The wtsai felt good at his belt.

  Then Kit was striding into the open, with an expression of strained patience. Standing beside him, she muttered, “Mark me.” Then, seeing his frown: “Your cheek against my neck, Rockear. Quickly.”

  He did so. She bowed before him, offering the tip of her tail in both hands, and he stroked it when she told him to. Then he saw a lithe movement of orange at the cave and raised both hands in a universal weaponless gesture as the second kzinrret emerged, watching him closely. She was much larger than Kit, with transverse stripes of darker orange and a banded tail. Close on her heels came a third, more reluctantly but staying close behind as if for protection, with facial markings that reminded Locklear of an ocelot and very dark fur at hands and feet. They were admirable creatures, but their ear umbrellas lay flat and they were not yet his friends.

  Kit moved to the first, urging her forward to Locklear. After a few tentative sniffs the big kzinrret said, in that curious ancient dialect, “I am (some thing truly unpronounceable), prret in service of Rockear.” She bent toward him, her stance defensive, and he marked her as Kit had said he must, then stroked her tabby-banded tail. She moved away and the third kzinrret approached, and Locklear’s ryes widened as he performed the greeting ritual. She was either potbellied, or carrying a litter!

  Both of their names being beyond him, he dubbed the larger one Puss; the pregnant one, Boots. They accepted their new names as proof that they were members of a very different kind of household than any they had known. Both wore aprons of woven mat, Kit’s deft work, and she offered them water from bowls.

  As they stood eyeing one another speculatively, Kit surprised them all. “It is time to release the animals,” she said. “My lord Rockear-the-magician, we are excellent herders, and from your flying boat you can observe our work. The larger beasts might also distract the kzintosh, and we will soon need meat. Is it not so?”

  She knew he couldn’t afford an argument now—and besides, she was right. He had no desire to try herding some of those big critters outside anyhow, and kzinti had been doing it from time immemorial. Damned clever tactic, Kit; Puss and Boots will get a chance to work off their nerves, and so will I. He swept a permissive arm outward and sat down in the airboat as the three kzin females moved into the cave.

  The next two hours were a crash course in zoology for Locklear, safe at fifty meter height as he watched herds, coveys, throngs and volleys of creatures as they crawled, flapped, hopped and galumphed off across the yellow prairie. A batowl found a perch atop his mast, trading foolish blinks with him until it whispered away after another of its kind. One huge ruminant with the bulk of a rhino and murderous spikes on its thick tail sat down to watch him, raising its bull’s muzzle to issue a call like a wolf. An answering howl sent it lumbering off again, and Locklear wondered whether they were to be butchered, ridden, or simply avoided. He liked the last option best.

  When at last Kit came loping out with shrill screams of false fury at the heels of a collie-sized, furry tyrannosaur, the operation was complete. He’d half-expected to see a troop of more kzinti bounding outside, but Kit was as good as her word. None of them recognized any of the other stasized kzinti, and all seemed content to let the strangers stay as they were.

  The airboat did not have room for them all, but by now Kit could operate the polarizer levers. She sat ahead of Locklear for decorum’s sake, making a show of her pairing with him, and let Puss and Boots follow beneath as the airboat slid ahead of a good breeze toward their tacky, unfinished little manor. “They will be nicely exhausted,” she said to him, “by the time we reach home.”

  Home. My God, it may
be my home for the rest of my life, he thought, watching the muscular Puss bound along behind them with Boots in arrears. Three kzin courtesans for company; a sure ‘nough cathouse! Is that much better than having those effing warriors to return? And if they don’t, is there any way I could get across to my own turf, to Newduvai? The gravity polarizer could get him to orbit, but he would need propulsion, and a woven sail wasn’t exactly de rigueur for travel in vacuum, and how the hell could he build an airtight cockpit anyhow? Too many questions, too few answers, and two more kzin females who might be more hindrance than help, hurtling along in the yellow sward behind him. One of them pregnant.

  And kzin litters were almost all twins, one male. Like it or not, he was doomed to deal with at least one kzintosh. The notion of killing the tiny male forced itself forward. He quashed the idea instantly, and hoped it would stay quashed. Yeah, and one of these days it’ll weigh three times as much as I do, and two of these randy females will be vying for mating privileges. The return of the kzin ship, he decided, might be the least of his troubles.

  That being so, the least of his troubles could kill him.

  Puss and Boots proved far more help than hindrance. Locklear admitted it to Kit one night, lying In their small room off the “great hall,” itself no larger than five meters by ten and already pungent with cooking smokes. “Those two hardly talk to me, but they thatch a roof like crazy. How well can they tunnel?”

  This amused her. “Every pregnant kzinrret is an expert at tunneling, as you will soon see. Except that you will not see. When birthing time nears, a mother digs her secret birthing place. The father sometimes helps, but oftener not.”

  “Too lazy?”

  She regarded him with eyes that reflected a dim flicker from the fire dying in the next room’s hearth, and sent a shiver through him. “Too likely to eat the newborn male,” she said simply.

  “Good God. Not among modern kzinti, I hope.”

  “Perhaps. Females become good workers; males become aggressive hunters likely to challenge for household mastery. Which would you value more?”

  “My choice is a matter of record,” he joked, adding that they were certainly shaping the manor up fast. That, she said, was because they knew their places and their leaders. Soon they would be butchering and curing meat, making (something) from the milk of ruminants, cheese perhaps, and making ready for the kittens. Some of the released animals seemed already domesticated. A few vatach, she said, might be trapped and released nearby for convenience.

  He asked if the others would really fight the returning kzin warriors, and she insisted that they would, especially Puss. “She was a highly valued prret, but she hates males,” Kit warned. “In some ways I think she wishes to be one.”

  “Then why did she ask if I’d like to scratch her flanks with my wtsai,” he asked.

  “I will claw her eyes out if you do,” she growled. “She is only negotiating for status. Keep your blade in your belt,” she said angrily, with a metaphor he could not miss.

  That blade reminded him (as he idly scratched her flanks with its dull tip to calm her) that the cave was now a treasury of materials. He must study the planting of the fast-growing vines which, according to Kit, would soon hide the roof thatching; those vines could also hide the cave entrance. He could scavenge enough steel for lances, more of the polarizers to build a whopping big airsloop, maybe even— He sat up, startling her. “Meat storage!”

  Kit did not understand. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to. He would need wire for remote switches, which might be recovered from polarizer toroids if he had the nerve to try it. “I may have a way to keep meat fresh, Kit, but you must help me see that no one else touches my magics. They could be dangerous.” She said he was the boss, and he almost believed it.

  Once the females began their escape tunnel, Locklear rigged a larger sail and completed his mapping chores, amassing several scrolls which seemed gibberish to the others. And each day he spent two hours at the cave. When vines died, he planted others to hide the entrance. He learned that polarizers and stasis units came in three sizes, and brought trapped vatach back in large cages he had separated from their gravity and stasis devices. Those clear cage tops made admirable windows, and the cage metal was then reworked by firelight in the main hall.

  Despite Kit’s surly glances, he bade Puss sit beside him to learn metalwork, while Boots patiently wove mats and formed trays of clay to his specifications for papermaking. One day he might begin a journal. Meanwhile he needed awls, screwdrivers, pliers—and a longbow with arrows. He was all thumbs while shaping them.

  Boots became more shy as her pregnancy advanced. Locklear’s new social problem became the casual nuances from Puss that, by now, he knew were sexual. She rarely spoke unless spoken to, but one day while resting in the sun with the big kzinrret he noticed her tailtip flicking near his leg. He had noticed previously that a moving rope or vine seemed to mesmerize a kzin; they probably thought it fascinated him as well.

  “Puss, I—uh—sleep only with Kit. Sorry, but that’s the way of it.”

  “Pfaugh. I am more skilled at ch’rowl than she, and I could make you a pillow of her fur if I liked.” Her gaze was calm, challenging; to a male kzin, probably very sexy.

  “We must all work together, Puss. As head of the household, I forbid you to make trouble.”

  “My Lord,” she said with a small nod, but her ear-flick was amused. “In that case, am I permitted to help in the birthing?”

  “Of course,” he said, touched. “Where is Boots, anyway?”

  “Preparing her birthing chamber. It cannot be long now,” Puss added, setting off down the ravine.

  Locklear found Kit dragging a mat of dirt from the tunnel and asked her about the problems of birthing. The hardest part, she said, was the bower—and when males were near, the hiding. He asked why Puss would be needed at the birthing.

  “Ah,” said Kit. “It is symbolic, Rockear. You have agreed to let her play the mate role. It is not unheard-of, and the newborn male will be safe.”

  “You mean, symbolic like our pairing?”

  “Not quite that symbolic,” she replied with sarcasm as they distributed stone and earth outside. “Prret are flexible.”

  Then he asked her what ch’rowl meant.

  Kit vented a tiny miaow of pleasure, then realized suddenly that he did not know what he had said. Furiously: “She used that word to you? I will break her tail!”

  “I forbid it,” he said. “She was angry because I told her I slept only with you.” Pleased with this, Kit subsided as they moved into the tunnel again. Some kzin words, he learned, were triggers. At least one seemed to be blatantly lascivious. He was deflected from this line of thought only when Kit, digging upward now, broke through to the surface.

  They replanted shrubs at the exit before dark, and lounged before the hearthfire afterward. At last Locklear yawned; checked his wristcomp. “They are very late,” he said.

  “Kittens are born at night,” she replied, unworried.

  “But—I assumed she’d tell us when it was time.”

  “She has not said eight-cubed of words to you. Why should she confide that to a male?”

  He shrugged at the fire. Perhaps they would always treat him like a kzintosh. He wondered for the hundredth time whether, when push came to shove, they would fight with him or against him.

  In his mapping sorties, Locklear had skirted near enough to the force walls to see that Kzersatz was adjacent to four other compounds. One, of course, wits the tantalizing Newduvai. Another was hidden in swirling mists; he dubbed it Limbo. The others held no charm for him; he named them Who Needs It, and No Thanks. He wondered what collections of life forms roamed those mysterious lands, or slept there in stasis. The planet might have scores of such zoo compounds.

  Meanwhile, he unwound a hundred meters of wire from a polarizer, and stole switches from others. One of his jury-rigs, outside the cave, was a catapult using a polarizer on a sturdy frame. He could stand fifty me
ters away and, with his remote switch, lob a heavy stone several hundred meters. Perhaps a series of the gravity polarizers would make a kind of mass driver—a true space drive! There was yet hope, he thought, of someday visiting Newduvai.

  And then he transported some materials to the manor where he installed a stasis device to keep meat fresh indefinitely; and late that same day, Puss returned. Even Kit, ignoring their rivalry, welcomed the big kzinrret.

  “They are all well,” Puss reported smugly, paternally. To Locklear’s delighted question she replied in severe tones, “You cannot see them until their eyes open, Rockear.”

  “It is tradition,” Kit injected. “The mother will suckle them until then, and will hunt as she must.”

  “I am the hunter,” Puss said. “When we build our own manor, will your household help?”

  Kit looked quickly toward Locklear, who realized the implications. By God, they’re really pairing off for another household, he thought. After a moment he said, “Yes, but you must locate it nearby.” He saw Kit relax and decided he’d made the right decision. To celebrate the new developments, Puss shooed Locklear and Kit outside to catch the late sun while she made them an early supper. They sat on their rough-hewn bench above the ravine to eat, Puss claiming she could return to the birthing bower in full darkness, and Locklear allowed himself to bask in a sense of well-being. It was not until Puss had headed back down the ravine with food for Boots, that Locklear realized she had stolen several small items from his storage shelves.

  He could accept the loss of tools and a knife; Puss had, after all, helped him make them. What caused his cold sweat was the fact that the tiny zzrou transmitter was missing. The zzrou prongs in his shoulder began to itch as he thought about it. Puss could not possibly know the importance of the transmitter to him; maybe she thought it was some magical tool—and maybe she would destroy it while studying it.