Man-Kzin Wars XI, Hal Colbatch [story books to read .txt] 📗

October of 2899 CE; I'd hoped to celebrate my fiftieth birthday next year, when the century turned. I planned to quit the safari business and write.

Then again, who could turn this down? They were paying twice the going rate in Interworld stars, but that was nothing compared to the publicity value. I was wearing some recording gear. We'd have the whole safari on tape, right up to my death, if it broke that way, and my daughters would hold the rights. If I lived, I'd have a tale worth writing.

Waldo was examining Legal Entity Bruce Bianci Bannett, a tall, long-headed black human male forty-nine years old, with yellow tattoos around the eyes and ears that make me look just a bit like a leopard. I guessed what else he was looking for, and I said, "I don't have any really gaudy scars except for the tattoos. It's because I'm careful."

"I should be glad of that. LE Bannett, our permissions still haven't come through, and I see no kind of a caravan forming."

"We'll have our permissions." This trip I wouldn't even need bribes; the United Nations had spoken. "I'm having trouble getting bearers."

"Offer more money?"

"Money isn't as powerful an argument here in Nairobi. I think they've lived too long with governments that can just snatch it away. They're all a combination of socialist and bandit. A good story, that's a lure, but a man only needs one fortune and one good story.

"But traveling with . . . there are four of you? With four kzinti, that's bad enough. You're not using guns?"

"No, not on a hunt. On a hunt we use only the w'tsai. You, though, you'll take a gun?"

"Several."

"Do not shoot another hunter's prey," Waldo told me.

"My point was, bearers would usually count on all of us, me or any of my clients, to shoot a, say, a leopard before he gets to the bearers. But there's only one of me, and you—you can't throw a w'tsai, can you?"

Again Waldo waved sheathed claws: a shrug.

"So it's not even a spear. I've hunted with natives who use spears. They have a point. A spear doesn't jam. So my bearers would risk you not being fast enough to save them, plus anything you might do in a rage because you missed your prey."

"But we have these," Waldo said, and I saw his claws, three or four inches long, exposed only for a moment. "Not just the w'tsai."

"What do you want out of this, Waldo?"

"Wave Rider and Long Tracks and I, we are brothers," Waldo said, "part of Starsieve's crew. Starsieve seeks treasures of the cosmos using ship's instruments. I operate the waldos, of course, the little hand-and-jaw-guided robots. It can be very dull work. We seek an adventure out of the ordinary here on Earth. Kashtiyee-First has been our teacher and First Officer under Prisst-Captain. Both would gain honor if we three gained partial names."

Names are important to kzinti. Most bear only the names of their professions. "Would this—"

"It would help. A hero's hunt is the story that defines him."

"What do you want to kill?"

"What have you got?" he asked.

"Not much. The Greater Africa government is solid Green. They tell me what they can spare. Some species are grown beyond the limits of the Refuge." I fished my sectry out of my pocket and tapped at it, summoning the current list, just in case it had changed in the past two hours. Sure enough— "Cape buffalo is off the list. If a Cape buffalo charges you, you hope you can duck. Elephants are out, of course. We can have a lion . . . or all the leopards we want. Crocs don't offer much of a trophy, but again—"

"Why are the, rrr, Greens so free with leopards?"

"We used to think leopards were scarce, even endangered. They're not. They're just shy, and really well camouflaged, and they're everywhere. If a lion turns to human prey, he's generally got a reason. Maybe he's hurt his mouth and can't hunt anything difficult. But a leopard, he kills for fun. Antelope, zebra, man, woman, whatever turns up," I babbled, and suddenly realized— "Of course none of that might apply to kzinti."

"What are the rules for kzinti?"

"Nobody's got the vaguest idea. We might not catch anything. Your scent might drive them all away." Waldo didn't smell unpleasant; just really different. "Or bring everything in from miles around. Kzinti have never hunted on Earth."

"More's the pity," Waldo said lightly.

October 31, 2899 CE

Waldo is the one who speaks Interworld. The other three have translators, and I carry one built into my sectry. In Africa everyone speaks a different language, but with kzinti involved—I'd better buy a spare.

Wave Rider and Long Tracks bear wildly different markings from Waldo, though they're near as tall and about as massive. Wave Rider's a darker marmalade with no noticeable scars; he keeps his sectry open a lot, reading whenever things turn slack. It's Singapore built, with oversized keys. Long Tracks is sheer yellow, barring minor scarring close to the eyes and a missing ear. He wears a thong with one ear on it. Kashtiyee-First is smaller and older, brown and orange marked with a lot of white. No thong.

We've packed everything on floaters. Floaters go almost anywhere, but there are places where we'll have to carry everything. These kzinti will be carrying their share and the bearers' too, because we've got no bearers.

I don't worry about their stamina. Most of the kzinti-occupied worlds have Earth gravity or higher, and my clients look tough. They can port their own weight, but will they? Will they follow orders? I always worry about that. There's no sane limit to what a man is likely to do with a charged gun.

But they aren't men. Should I worry about those blades? In a kzin hand a w'tsai looks like a long knife crudely forged. In mine, it's an overbuilt sword. If they started swinging wildly—well, we'll see.

They've brought more medical gear than I'd expected given their macho background. It