“Sure.” Richard unlocked, opened the door manually, tossed out the fist-sized fuzzy ball of twine, and sealed the door again.
They waited.
Shortly there was a thump from the wall.
It was followed, after a pause, by several more in quick succession. An intermittent series of further thumps moved off down the corridor over the next couple of minutes. All three listeners kept as quiet as possible. At one point Gay shifted her head as if to speak, but Telepath softly placed a fingertip against her lips. Then he took it away, gave her a sidelong look, and, while Gay tried desperately to keep her helpless laughter silent, wiped his perfectly dry finger repeatedly on his fur.
By and by Telepath said, “He's out of earshot.”
“What was that about?” Richard said, pointing at Telepath's hand.
Gay was still shaking, and made as if to grab something with her mouth. Telepath said, “She had a sudden urge to nibble on my finger. I believe the term is contact high. I think I had better block you two out for the duration; there appears to be feedback.”
Richard finally figured out something that had been bothering him on a subliminal level, and found he couldn't think of a courteous way to bring it up: Telepath was talking a lot more clearly.
“I'm less self-conscious,” Telepath said. “And I can detect the way you use your own vocal apparatus. I think perhaps sthondat lymph may not be an amplifier at all, but a tranquilizer—my mind is wandering. We will need Slaverexpert.”
“We will?” Richard said.
“I cannot fly a ship.”
“He can?” said Richard, just as Gay said, “Can't you read the others?”
“He can. I can read the others readily, if all I want to do is chase my tuft. First Engineer is currently the most rational of them.”
“Oh great,” Richard said. “Telepath, Slaverexpert must have gotten the biggest dose of all!”
“He can control his biological responses.”
“I thought you couldn't read his mind.”
“I can't. But nobody will duel with him.”
That was indicative, all right. Modern kzinti wouldn't fight unless they had a chance of winning. “Okay, how do we get to him?”
“We need to isolate the others. Charrgh-Captain first, so I only have to change the security codes once.” Telepath stopped talking, and suddenly his ears waggled as he turned to look at Gay. “I think that could work,” he said.
The procession started with a short figure in a pressure suit, followed by a larger figure in a similar suit, followed by a smallish kzin whose tail was generously decorated with silver ribbons tied into bows. A bell was tied to the tuft. In one hand the lead figure carried an object like a drumhead, with miniature cymbals set into the rim. This was shaken continuously except when it was struck with the other hand.
The procession set out from the observers' quarters. Progress was slow, as there were evidently rules concerning the length and rhythm of the paces taken: They were short, and often a step or two went backward. A good deal of noisemaking was clearly required as well. No fewer than five kzinti gave the group immediate and undivided attention on the trip to the bridge. Fourth Trooper seemed to consider joining in as they passed, but was distracted by a fragment falling off his chunk of vegetable.
Telepath buzzed for entrance, and they paraded in a little circle while awaiting a reply. It was not prompt. “I do not believe we're going through a shipful of Heroes in a conga line,” Richard said over the suit radio.
“Then where do you believe you are?” Telepath said interestedly.
Ignoring Gay's sudden laughter, Richard mused, “I suppose I could be in a tank with that ARM general doing synthetic-perception experiments on me.”
Gay said, still laughing, “Why would the ARM do that?”
“Why not?”
The hatch opened before Gay could think of a reply, and she banged her tambourine and marched through.
They stopped performing once the hatch was shut again, but Charrgh-Captain looked at them for a long time before speaking. Finally he said, “Why were you doing that?”
“To avoid attention, sir,” Richard said through the suit speaker.
One of the advantages of dealing with almost anyone of any intelligent species is that when you say something that makes no sense to him, he comes up with his own explanation. As expected, Charrgh-Captain thought this over, gave a brief snort of what he supposed to be comprehension, and said, “What do you want? I'm very busy.”
This was manifestly true. Charrgh-Captain had apparently been alone on the bridge. That is, there did not appear to be room for another kzin underneath the incredible quantity of shredded packing foam covering every available surface there, said surfaces including the top of the kzin's head.
“Noble Sir,” Telepath said, “we came seeking your wisdom to counsel us in a matter of grave importance to the security of this vessel and success of the mission.”
Charrgh-Captain's manner underwent a shift, and he said formally, “What is the trouble?”
“What is the proper procedure for addressing a very superior officer said to be severely intoxicated?” Telepath asked humbly.
Charrgh-Captain thought for a moment. Then he suddenly bristled all over and roared at an astonishing volume, “Who says I'm drunk?”
“He went in there,” Gay said quickly, pointing to the Captain's Battle Quarters.
The senior kzin's scream was not transliterable. He leapt through the hatchway without touching sides or deck, and Telepath hit the wall next to it an instant later and tapped out a security override on the keypad. “Nine to go,” he said.
“I cannot begin to imagine what he's going to say about this,” Richard said.
“I can hear him. Would you like me to tell you?” said Telepath.
“No,” Richard and Gay said in unison.
The next target was supposed to be Weapons Officer, but Fourth Trooper wasn't far from the bridge when they came out, so they formed up again and circled him until he joined in. They congaed down to his quarters, went in, Richard said, “Oops!” and dropped a ball of twine, and the three of them congaed back out and sealed the door.
Weapons Officer was in his quarters already, inspecting the dispenser. Telepath reported, “He's checking the tattoo settings.”
“Fine,” said Gay. “Lock up.”
“I feel I should interrupt him. He's not so bad as some.”
“If he wants a tattoo that's his decision,” Richard said.
“He's looking at pictures of butterflies,” Telepath said.
The two humans thought about what life would be like for a kzin with butterflies on his ears or tail or both. They looked at each other.
“No,” said Telepath.
“I'll go, I'm smaller and female and not a threat,” said Gay.
Telepath curled his ears partway and said, “You must not improvise anything. Just once through, doing one thing. Please.”
“All right.”
Weapons Officer was contemplating images of the monarch and viceroy butterflies. The viceroy was decidedly more refined, less baroque. On the other hand, the monarch was no good to eat, which was a matter of personal dignity.
He was somewhat distracted by the sudden opening of the door of his quarters. He had stunner and w'tsai out at once, but the human—the smaller one—who ran in never came near him; she just ran around the entryway twice, shouting, “Bats! Bats! Bats!” and waving her hands overhead until she ran out again.
Well, this was the kind of thing you had to expect from hunters who cremate their prey. He went over to the door, made sure it was locked, and went back to his screen, shaking his head. Bats. What were bats?
He looked them up.
In the corridor, Richard and Telepath were about equally worried. They tried to pass the time with talk, but it was no distraction: