“Good heavens! How do you get such terrible ideas?” said the puppeteer convincingly.
“Working with ARMs. They'll be doing a full scan on us, huh?” he asked the general.
The puppeteer looked itself in the eyes. The general said nothing, and pointedly looked at Gay.
“How big is this stasis box?” asked Gay, very politely.
“Large, but much smaller than the last one you investigated. Too small for there to be anything, ah, comparable inside.—I don't think the kzinti really mind that either.—It's quite a long trip, but not so long that you'll have to go into coldsleep again. Twenty-five light-years. A matter of about eighty days each way, counting in STL acceleration and deceleration time. The actual retrieval and opening of the box shouldn't take long.”
“And the pay will be?”
The general named a figure.
“That's hard to refuse,” said Richard. “We could always do with more capital.”
“Yes, I'd heard you'd taken up farming. But land's still cheap on Wunderland, isn't it?”
“Yes, but machines aren't. Farming needs sophisticated robotics to be competitive. Well, we'll think about it.”
“Don't think too long,” said the general. “Others would jump at the chance—making a name for themselves, a big hatful of stars in the bank.”
“Do tell. How many others are there in this unruly mob of volunteers? Within a factor of two, say?”
“Humans are brave,” said the puppeteer. “And curious. Many would jump at the opportunity.”
“But you wouldn't? You don't feel like going yourself, by any chance?” Richard asked innocently. If he had not known the puppeteer's heads contained no brains, its brain—an extremely large one—being located under a reinforced bony hump between its shoulders, he might have sworn a look of horror crossed the vapid faces. Certainly the creature flinched, and seemed to stop itself going into a crouch only with a great effort of will.
Richard felt a faint stab of guilt. Teasing a puppeteer about danger was too easy to be any achievement. Still, if the puppeteers were extremely averse to risking their own necks, they seemed to have few qualms about having others risk theirs. He waved a hand in apology and reassurance. This puppeteer had, by the standards of its kind, done a very brave thing by walking abroad on Wunderland at all, even if this was only a hologram of it. It would have to be barking mad, of course, which would make so much courage easier for it. All sane puppeteers had fled Known Space long before.
“There weren't many qualified volunteers,” the general said, oblivious to the exchange; an ARM's usual ration of empathy would be deemed a shortage if the same amount were detected in a brick.
“It does seem like a pretty narrow window of qualification,” Richard observed. “Smart enough to do a good job, but dumb enough to agree to it?”
The puppeteer looked itself in the eyes again, and the general said brusquely, “The expedition leaves from Kzin-aga. There's a commercial flight there leaving in three days.”
The puppeteer added hopefully, “You may also expect salvage fees for anything our distribution network may safely market.”
“As I said, we'll think about it.”
When they had privacy again, Gay shoved him in the shoulder. “How come I had to be the respectable one?” she said, laughing.
“Because I'm no good at it?” Richard suggested.
“Standard procedure will be followed,” said Charrgh-Captain. “There is a telepath with us. The instant the box is opened he must probe it. Should it contain live Slavers, experience suggests it will take them at least a few moments to orient themselves. In those moments Telepath must detect them and we must destroy them.
“Your cabin!” he announced, flinging open a kzin-scale door with a grand gesture. “Spacious enough, I take it? It is of course Hero-sized!”
“Thank you,” said Gay. Charrgh-Captain had obviously devoted some thought to making it not uncomfortable. Even the light was brighter and bluer than the kzinti used for themselves, and the cabin somewhat warmer than kzinti liked. Kzinti, though masters of gravity control, officially eschewed the decadent human luxury of sleeping plates, but a Hero-sized bunk made more than a double bed for humans. The monsters which Heroes battled and bloodily slew in the bulkhead pictures were not human or even simian—quite a rare piece of cultural sensitivity for kzinti interior decor. Marks on the bulkhead, however, suggested some less-tactful decorations might have been recently removed. There was also a versatile human-type kitchen/recycler and a library, part of the basic-maintenance human autodoc.
“The kzin is a generous host,” said Richard.
“I had some of your personnel from the embassy to advise.” Charrgh-Captain's ears twitched, corresponding to a slightly mischievous smile. “Apart from my previous experiences of you and other humans. You will note I am returning you the compliment of providing a lockable door. Unfortunately, in preparing your comfort there was no time to alter the sanitary facilities to human scale. You will have to sit and balance carefully, I think, if you do not want to fall backwards and down into the waste turbines. And here is a facility for water to immerse yourself—a sho-urr.”
“You have done us proud.” And had your little joke. But things could be a lot worse.
“We are companions,” said Charrgh-Captain. “In a companionship sealed by bonds that will not be broken lightly. In any case, this is a large ship, with a small crew. We all like what you call elbow room, and here we can be generous with living space.”
Yes, thought Richard, you kzinti always build ships larger than you need—as though you just might want them for something else one day. I'm sure this one is a lot more intricately subdivided than a simple trader needs to be, too. And lots of mountings and installations for very high-energy signaling devices, just in case your message laser fails, of course. Aloud he said: “How small a crew, Honored Charrgh-Captain?”
“Myself, a weapons officer who is second-in-command, two flyer/watchkeepers, a Slaverexpert, two engineers, four troopers, and the telepath.”
Twelve kzinti. If it comes to a fight over the stasis box, we wouldn't stand much chance against that lot. I don't suppose we're here to fight for the stasis box, though. We're really only here taking the role of canaries in ancient submarines or coal mines. As long as we live, things are okay. If the kzinti don't let us return to make a full report, humanity will assume the box contained a major weapon of the Slavers, and will hit the kzinti worlds with everything it's got.
“Leave your things here for the moment,” said Charrgh-Captain. The commonplace, domestic phrases of hospitality sounded strange from a nine-foot-tall felinoid with dagger fangs. “You are officially part of the crew and should familiarize yourselves with the ship.”
He escorted them through it from end to end. It turned out to be a refitted warship—most kzinti vessels were, not too surprisingly; a ship built entirely out of hardpoints doesn't tend to wear out very soon. The puppeteers were still running a few General Products outlets, to help with moving expenses, but aside from a yacht for the Patriarch, for the publicity, they weren't providing the kzinti with invulnerable hulls. (Which was a pity; one would have been nice now, under the circumstances.) Still, there were a lot of awfully tough merchant ships out there lately.
Slowly, the kzinti were becoming integrated into the great web of interstellar trade and commerce. Slowly, some kzinti were taking to the business and mercantile life and coming to appreciate the rewards it brought. At first they put a good face on it by saying to one another that it was a temporary expedient, until more Heroic times returned; but as time went on, and sons grew up in family businesses, this claim was made less often.