Man-Kzin Wars V Larry Niven (e novels to read .txt) 📖

the pre-War status quo can be accomplished," Montferrat said dryly. "Absurd. For a variety of reasons, good and bad, the Families were too closely involved in running the planet during the Occupation. Their rule is doomed, even if the Provisional Government's Gendarmerie has stopped the rioting and looting against them."

"You haven't thrown in with the Democrats, either," Early pointed out.

"No, because I recognize a certain fine Terrestrial hand behind them—you've been puppeting the new Radical Democrat party too—financing it, in fact."

"You'll never prove a word of that," Early replied.

"Of course not; I'm not entirely sure what you and your masters are after, but you're certainly no fool. There isn't even enough evidence to convince Markham, and he's a clinical paranoid, I wonder his autodoc doesn't fix him. My best guess is that you want to use Markham to restore order, infiltrating our military in the process—then use him to discredit the aristocrats completely with his ham-handed repression. Thus leaving the field to the Radical Democrats, who want a constitution that's a carbon copy of Earth's—complete with a technological police. Which the experience of the UN shows is equivalent to handing the government over to the technological police, since to control technology in a modern society you have to control everything."

For a moment the mask of affability slipped on Early's face, and Montferrat felt a slight prickling along his spine. How much of that is genuine? he thought. The man is ancient, for Gott's sake. At least three times older than himself . . . and he ought to be sitting wheezing in a computerized wheelchair in the Struldbrug's Club back on Earth. Secrets of the ARM.

"You are ambitious," Early said softly. "I'd hoped to talk you out of this party you're promoting."

"Many people are involved with the Centrists," Montferrat corrected; Early waved his hand.

"Please, I know the signs of secret influence when I see them." For some reason he grinned at that. "Separatism is not a viable alternative."

"Independence is," Montferrat said. "And Wunderland—the Alpha Centauri system—is going to be independent. Of the kzin, and of Earth and the UN."

"You'd better be sure you've got ample bargaining power before you sit down to bargain with me," Early warned.

"Oh, exactly, my dear General. Which is why, as you will have noticed, I'm not bargaining with you now."

Unexpectedly, Early laughed; it was a deep rich sound, thick as chocolate. "You aren't, are you?" He took another sip of the brandy. "Well, in that case—perhaps you could expand on the remark you made at dinner, about local performance techniques and classical Meddlehoffer?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"He's not human," Jonah gasped, flopping down on a rock and watching Hans swing along up the mountainside.

Bigs rolled a baleful eye at him as he lay prone in the track, twitching expressive eyebrows; Spots carefully poured water from a plastic container over his body, from head to the base of his tail. Then he trudged down to the small stream and poured several more over his own head before returning to repeat the process with his brother: Both kzin were panting, their tongues lolling, the palms of their hands and feet and their tails oozing sweat. Those were the only ways kzinti had to shed excess heat; Kzin was a cooler planet than Earth or Wunderland. Besides . . .

"If—" Spots stopped, thrust his muzzle into the plastic container and lapped down a torrent "—if I remember my instructors, you monk-hrrreaow, you Men evolved into omnivores by taking to running down your prey in long chases."

"Think so," Jonah replied.

His feet hurt, and he felt dizzy from the amount he'd sweated. A swallow from his canteen to wash down salt tablets, and he poured more on a neckerchief and wiped his face and neck. The hollow where they had halted was shady at least, big gum trees and whipsticks, but the steep rock to either side concentrated the sunlight, and it was humid as well. The air hummed and buzzed with insects, drawn to sweat, landing and biting and stinging. The human ignored them; there was no relief until they made camp and set up the sonics—and those had to be turned low or the sensitive ears of the kzin found them unbearable in frequencies humans could not hear.

"Well, we Heroes evolved from stalk-and-leap hunters!" Spot snapped. Literally: his jaws closed on the word with a wet clomp. "Of course we don't shed heat as well. We don't chase prey that escapes our ambush! We never needed to! We developed brains cunning enough to catch meat without following it for days!"

There was a teeth-gritting whine in the kzin's voice. Bigs was in worse shape, heavier and thicker-pelted; he simply lay with his tongue hanging out on the ground. Jonah nodded wordlessly, stumbling down to the stream and refilling his canteen. He had never had the slightest interest in chasing prey of any sort, except kzinti Vengeful Slasher-class fighters during the War—and that could be done in the decent comfort of a crashcouch, right next to a good food synthesizer and autodoc. Fighting in space was war for gentlemen: either you won or you died, usually quickly, and you did it in climate-conditioned comfort. There had been a couple of boarding actions when the Fourth Fleet was smashed, but even those had been done in space armor.

He shuddered slightly, swallowing hard. There had been tubing in the meat last night.

The water looked cool and inviting as he dipped his head once more. The pebbles in the bottom were unusual—he noticed the dull glitter of them through the rippling water, and idly lifted a handful. Heavy, he thought, and threw them skipping across the surface. One struck a shovel lashed to the pack-saddle of a mule, startling the animal out of its torpor and into a brief bucking frenzy. The sound of pebble on steel was a dull, metallic clunk . . .

"Wait a minute," Jonah whispered. He scrabbled at his belt for the sample spectroscope and scooped again for more