Man-Kzin Wars V by Larry Niven (people reading books txt) 📕

creed, that God had created Man in His own image.

"Naw," Jonah said. "I talked to the boss, she don't care anything but you can do the job. Or wouldn't have hired me, with a black mark next to my discharge. C'mon—bring the bottle. Talk to her tomorrow."

"You are right!" Spots bellowed, standing to his full two meters and a half of massive, orange-furred height. His naked pink tail lashed. "We will fight against debt and empty-accountness. We leap and rip the throat of circumstance. We will conquer!"

From the other side of the long room beads rustled as a tall black-skinned human stuck his head through the curtain. He was dressed in archaic white tie and tuxedo, but there was a fully functional military-grade stunner in his fist. Behind the bar several other employees reached down and came up with shockrods as guests' heads turned toward the booth.

"Shhhhh!" Jonah said, tugging recklessly at the felinoid alien's fur. "The bouncers."

"Rrrrr. True." There was no dignity in being stunned and thrown out in the gutter. "Where shall we go? Our quarters are far outside Munchen, and transport for kzin costs much." Sleeping outside would not be very wise, given the number of exterminationist fanatics ready to attack a helpless kzin.

"C'mon. I know a doss where they don't care 'bout anything but your coin, and it's cheap."

They weaved their way to the door, Spots half-carrying his brother and Jonah lifting the unconscious kzin's tail with exaggerated care.

CHAPTER FIVE

". . . still worth lookin', oh, yes," the old man said.

Jonah yawned and looked over at him. The two kzin were unrolling their pallets up a level in the framework; the human had a stack of blankets and a pillow instead, all natural fiber in the rather primitive way of Wunderland, and all smelling dubious and looking worse. It must be even more difficult for the felinoids, with their sensitive noses.

"Look at 'er this way," the man was saying. "You take hafnium—"

It was hard to estimate his age; he could be as young as seventy or as old as one-fifty, depending on how much medical care he had been able to afford during the occupation.

"—good useful industrial metal; or gold, likewise, and we use it as monetary backing. Usually don't pay to mine it anywhere but in the Swarm, in normal times. But there ain't been any normal times, not since the pussies came, no sirree. So people've been out in the Jotuns for a dog's age now, finding deposits. Don't pay to bring in heavy equipment; deposits are rich but small. You can make yourself rich that way, and that's not counting salvage on all the equipment the pussies abandoned out there, all very salable these days. I'd go myself, don't you doubt it, go again like a shot."

"Hey," Jonah called. "You sound like you've done that before; what're you doing here?"

The great room was noisy with the sounds of humans settling down to sleep, snores, snatches of drunken song. There were still tens of thousands of displaced from the war years.

"Made me a fortune, oh, yes, more than one," the old man said. His wrinkled-apple face looked over at Jonah, eyes twinkling. "Lost 'em all. Some the government took, and I spent the others going back and looking for a bigger strike. Most people get into that game don't know where to stop. Get thirty thousand crowns worth, they want sixty. Get sixty, spend it trying to find half a million. Stands to reason, of course; that's why the heavy metals are so valuable. Value of 'em includes all the time and labor and money spent by those who don't find anything, you see."

"Wouldn't be like that with me," Jonah said, unrolling the blankets. Finagle, but I'm tired of being poor, he thought. Odd; poverty had never come up before he got to Alpha Centauri. Before then he'd been a Navy pilot, or a rockjack asteroid prospector. The Navy fed you, and rockjacks generally made enough to get by—certainly during the war, with industry sucking in all the materials it could find. "Just enough to set me up. Software business." He had a first-rate Solarian education in it, and the locals were behind. "That's all I'd want."

"Likely so, stranger, likely so," the old man said. "Well, don't signify, does it?"

* * *

"Finagle!" Jonah swore, as the beam jerked backward towards him. He heaved at the bight of control line. "Get it, Spots!"

"Hrrrrr," Spots growled, and caught the end of it. His pelt laid itself flat under the harness, and the long steel balk slowed and then touched gently on the junction-point. A little less power in the stubby plump-cat limbs and they would both have been crushed against the uprights of the frame.

"Slack off!" Jonah called down.

Large-Son flapped his ears in amusement thirty meters below and turned the control rheostat of the winch. The woven-wire cable slacked, and together man and kzin guided the end of the beam into its slot. Jonah clamped the sonic melder's leads to the corners and stepped back onto the scaffolding.

"Sound on the line," he called, and keyed his belt unit.

That flashed the alarm and began the process of sintering the beam into a single homogenous unit with the rest of the frame; it worked by vibrational generation of a heat-interface, and Spots winced and crouched beside him, hands clamped firmly over furled ears. The human took the opportunity to flip up his sight goggles and take a mouthful of water from his canteen; when he noticed the kzin's dangling tongue he poured some into a saucer the felinoid had clipped to his harness. Around them the complex geometries of the retrieval rig were growing into a latticework around the hill. Humans and the odd alien—there was a kdatlyno, and a couple of unbelievably agile five-armed Jotoki, and the brothers Kzinamaratsov, as he had named them in a private joke. Beyond was a flat terrain of swamp, livid-green Terrestrial reeds and mangrove, olive-green palmlike things native