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

do, it were best he acted quickly. Nyawk-Captain was beginning to understand what processes had eaten away everything but the hull of this human ship.

Suddenly, the huge pale body trembled, bulged upward—then blossomed outward in a mist of blood. Bright, red drops of it coalesced on the transparent surface through which Nyawk-Captain was looking. These were followed by strings and streamers of red flesh that slid and fell out of the blood cloud.

When the dripping and pattering of raw flesh stopped, Nyawk-Captain and Navigator climbed out of their hiding place. The stench of organic chemicals had disappeared in the aroma of fresh, warm meat. Navigator swung up his visor and mask, pulled a gooey strand off the outside of the Leaf-Eater hull, and sucked it off his fingers.

"Delicious!"

Nyawk-Captain, who had been studying the flank of Cat's Paw which emerged from the garland of meat and bones, stopped to try his own taste. After weeks of eating reconstituted meat and artificial proteins, the flavor was wonderful. Delicate, like grik-grik caught in mid-spring, so that the first flush of adrenaline barely touched it. Satisfying, like a haunch of oolerg that had been fed on grain and then run until the acids of fatigue had fully flavored the meat. Sweet as . . . It was, Nyawk-Captain decided, whatever flavor he wanted it to be. That was how the Whitefoods had been engineered to taste.

"Enough. We waste time," he told Navigator, then switched to the comm link. "Weaponsmaster? That was quick—"

"I abase myself, Nyawk-Captain!"

"Explain."

"In dislodging the Whitefood, I used too much force for proximity to such an inert mass. I have damaged our ship."

"Catalog the damages."

"Primary and secondary lifting plates, short-range weapons, long-range communications, navigational and sensory antennas."

"Can you effect repairs?"

"Eventually, if we carry the right spares."

"Can you defend against another attack by the Whitefoods?"

"With warning—and I shall guard against their approach—the long-range weapons should be more than effective."

"Begin working on the ship, then. Navigator will assist you. Out."

"And what will you be doing while we repair the ship?" Navigator asked in a tone that bordered on insolence. "Sir."

"I will go after the Thrintun box."

"Yes, the box. That most important box. For which you have jeopardized our mission and put at risk an entire kzinti fleet!"

Nyawk-Captain felt his armor turning, almost of its own volition, to face this errant crew member. It was bending to assume a defensive crouch, conforming to his will almost without conscious command. "Do you have more to say?" he asked stiffly, fully expecting a shrill scream of challenge.

"No, Nyawk-Captain."

"Then understand this. If we are late for the rendezvous, all three of us will be whistling vacuum—unless we have a suitable peace offering for Admiral Lehruff. That box is now our life. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Nyawk-Captain."

"Good. You should start on your work. The ship must be ready to lift by the time I return."

The chastened kzin began the process of climbing in through the airlock.

Nyawk-Captain tongued his comm switch. "Weaponsmaster. Give me bearing and range to the second hardsight contact."

"Those systems are currently inoperative, sir."

"Curse it," Nyawk-Captain said mildly. "Can you rig a hand-held unit?"

"I can modify a ranging sight."

"Do so at once, and pass it through the airlock."

"Yes, sir, but I cannot guarantee its accuracy within a thousand cubits."

"It need only give the container's general direction and a sense of its proximity."

"You will have that, at least, sir."

While he waited for the new tool, Nyawk-Captain used the suit's claw to cut fillets from the ring of blasted meat girdling Cat's Paw.

* * *

Watching from his hanging point in the forest canopy, Cuiller almost cheered when the Bandersnatch slid over the dome of the kzinti ship. And he blinked back tears of rage mixed with envy when the kzinti weapons blew the creature apart. There, but for the few milliseconds that had padded Jook's reaction time, might stand Callisto, ready to fly.

Cuiller noted that one kzin remained on guard outside the ship, clad in efficient-looking armor, while the other returned inside on some business. Then the first retrieved something through the hatch and headed off through the trees.

Although Cuiller's sense of direction had suffered somewhat from remaining suspended in his spider harness, twisting among the branches, for almost an hour, he had no doubt what heading the kzin was taking. The Patriarchy possessed its own form of deep radar.

Time to begin thinking like a soldier, he told himself, instead of a tourist.

The first problem was to coordinate his team without radio transmissions or—given that the walking kzin's armor was probably enhanced—too much shouting. He dropped cautiously down through the leaf screen into the clear space below the canopy. The whirr of his winder motor must have signaled the others, for first Krater, then Gambiel and Jook, also dropped into view.

"Now what, Boss?" Jook asked conversationally.

"We're going to keep out of the Big Guy's way, aren't we?" from Krater.

"Not if we want to get that stasis-box," Cuiller answered, trying not to whisper.

"Get it—and take it where?" Krater asked. "And how?"

"First things first."

"What I can't figure," from Gambiel, "is why the Bandersnatchi on this planet are so hostile. It's not their pattern. And they can't evolve."

"You're assuming we've seen more than one specimen," Cuiller said. "The one the kzinti blasted down there may be the same that ate Callisto, coming back for dessert. Anyway, that's something to think about later. Right now, we've got a fully armed and alerted kzin on the loose. . . . Did anyone see climbing gear on that body armor?"

"He doesn't need it," Gambiel replied. "With his power-driven claws, he can go up one of these tree trunks at a dead run."

"How much does that suit weigh?" Cuiller asked.

"Seventy-five kilos."

"That means kzin and suit together mass almost three hundred kilos." Cuiller experimentally flexed his knees and pumped his back sharply—and bobbed like a toy on his almost invisible thread. "He won't have much mobility among these springy branches and vines, will he?"

"Then he'd better pick exactly the right tree to climb," Gambiel agreed.

"I have a decision