Their uninvited passenger had settled after jump—cocooned in blankets and sedated for the trip, now let go again, to huddle in that heap of blankets in the corner of the washroom. It had curled up in a knot and thrown one of the blankets over its head, showing nothing but the motions of its breathing to prove it was under there.
“The ankle restraint is back on it,” Chur said as they watched it from the doorway. “It’s been docile all along. . . but let me call Geran and we’ll be sure of it.” Chur was smallest of the crew, smaller than Geran her sister, who was herself of no great stature—with a thin beard and mane and a yellowish tint to her fur: delicate, one might say, who did not know Chur.
“There are three of us,” Pyanfar said, “already. Let’s see how it reacts.” She walked into the washroom and came near that heap of breathing blankets. Coughed. There was movement in the blankets, the lifting of a corner, a furtive look of a pale eye from beneath them. Pyanfar beckoned.
It stopped moving.
“It quite well understands me,” she said. “I think, Chur, you’re going to have to get Geran. We may have to fetch it out and I don’t want to hurt it.”
Chur left. Hilfy remained. The blankets stirred again, and the creature made a faltering effort to get its back into the angle of the corner made by the shower stall and the laundry.
“It’s just too weak,” Hilfy said. “Aunt, it’s just too weak to fight.”
“I’ll stand here,” Pyanfar proposed. “There’s a mahendo’sat symbol translator and some manuals and modules—Haral said she put it in lowerdeck ops; I want the elementary book. Here. Gods forbid someone put it into cargo.”
Hilfy hesitated, cast a look at the Outsider, then scurried off in haste.
“So,” Pyanfar said. She dropped to her haunches as she had before, put out a forefinger and traced numbers from one to eight on the flooring. Looked up from time to time and looked at the creature, who watched her. It reached out of its nest of blankets and made tentative movements of writing on the floor, drew back the arm and watched what she was doing until she stopped at sixteen. It tucked the blankets more closely about itself and stared, from bleak, blue eyes. Washed, it looked better. The mane and beard were even beautiful, silken, pollen-gold. But the naked arm outthrust from the blankets bore ugly bruises of fingered grips. There had been a lot of bruises under the dirt, she reckoned. It had a reason for its attitude. It was not docile now, just weak. It had drawn another line, staked out its corner. The blue eyes held a peculiar expression, analysis, perhaps, some thought proceeding at length.
She stood up, hearing Chur and Geran coming, their voices in the corridor—turned and motioned them to wait a moment when they arrived. She watched the Outsider’s pale eyes take account of the reinforcements. And Hilfy came back with the manual. “It was in the—” Hilfy broke off, in the general stillness of the place.
“Give it here,” Pyanfar said, holding out her hand without looking away from the Outsider.
Hilfy gave it. Pyanfar opened the book, turned the pages toward the Outsider, whose eyes flickered with bewilderment. She bent, discarding her dignity a moment in the seriousness of the matter, and pushed the manual across the tiles to the area the creature could reach. It ignored the open book. Another ploy failed. Pyanfar sat still a moment, arms on her knees, then stood up and brushed her silk breeches into order. “I trust the symbol translator made it intact.”
“It’s fine,” Hilfy said.
“So let’s try that. Can you set it up?”
“I learned on one.”
“Do it,” Pyanfar said; and motioned to Geran and Chur. “Get it on its feet. Be gentle with it.”
Hilfy hurried off. Geran and Chur moved in carefully and Pyanfar stepped out of the way, thinking it might turn violent, but it did not. It stood up docilely as they patted it and assisted it to its feet. It was naked, and he was a reasonable guess, Pyanfar concluded, watching it make a snatch after the blankets about its feet, while Chur carefully unlocked the chain they had padded about its ankle, Geran holding onto its right arm. Pyanfar frowned, disturbed to be having a male on the ship, with all the thoughts that stirred up. Chur and Geran were being uncommonly courteous with it, and that was already a hazard.
“Look sharp,” Pyanfar said. “Take it to ops and mind what you’re doing.” She stooped and gathered up the symbol book herself as they led it out toward the door.
The Outsider balked of a sudden in the doorway, and Chur and Geran patted its hairless shoulders and let it think about it a long moment, which seemed the right tack to take. It stood a very long moment, looked either way down the corridor, seemed frozen, but then at a new urging—“Come on,” Geran said in the softest possible voice and tugged very slightly—the Outsider decided to cooperate and let itself be led into the hall and on toward operations. Pyanfar followed with the book under her arm, scowling for the cost the Outsider had already been to them, and with the despondent feeling that she might yet be wrong in every assumption she had made. They had paid far too much for that.
And then what? Give it back to the kif after all, and shrug and pretend it had been nothing?
The Outsider balked more than once in being moved, looked about it at such intervals as if things were moving too fast for it and it had to get its bearings. Chur and Geran let it stop when it would, never hurrying it, then coaxed it gently. It walked for them—perhaps, Pyanfar thought sourly, biding its time, testing their reflexes, memorizing the corridors, if it had the wit to do so.
They brought it into ops, in front of all the boards and the glowing lights, and it balked again, hard-breathing, looking about. Now, Pyanfar thought, they might have trouble; but no, it let itself be moved again and let itself be put into one of the cushions at the dead cargo-monitor console, near the counter where Hilfy worked over the translator, running a series of figures over the screen. The Outsider slumped when seated, dazed-looking and sweating profusely, tucked in its blanket which it clutched about itself. Pyanfar walked up to the arm of the cushion; its head came up instantly at her presence and the wariness came back into its eyes. More than wariness. Fear. It remembered who had hurt it. It knew them as individuals, past a clothing change. That at least.
“Hai,” Pyanfar said in her best friend-to-outsiders manner, patted its hairless, sweating shoulder, swept Hilfy aside in her approach to the translator, a cheap, replaceable stickered keyboard unit linked by cable into one of their none so cheap scanners. She pushed wipe, clearing Hilfy’s figures, then the Bipedal Sentient button, with a stick figure of a long-limbed being spread-eagled on it. The same figure appeared on the screen. She pushed the next which showed a hani in photographic image, and indicated herself.
It understood. Its eyes were bright with anxiety. It clutched its blanket tighter and made a faltering attempt to get its feet back on the floor and to stand, reaching toward the machine. “Let it loose,” Pyanfar said, and Chur helped it up. It ignored them all, leaned on the counter and poised a trembling hand over the keyboard. The whole arm shook. It punched a button.
Ship. It looked up, its eyes seeking understanding.
Pyanfar carefully took its alien hand, oh, so carefully, but it allowed the touch. She extended its forefinger and guided it to the wipe button, back to the ship button again. It freed its hand and searched, the hand shaking violently as it passed above the keys. Figure Running, it keyed. Ship. Figure Running. Ship again. Hani. Wipe. It looked about at her.
“Yes,” she said, recognizing the statement. Motioned for it to do more.
It turned again, made another search of the keys. Figure Supine, it stated. It found the pictorial for kif. That long-snouted gray face lit the screen beside the Figure Supine.
“Kif,” Pyanfar said.
It understood. That was very clear. “Kif,” it echoed. It had a voice full of vibrant sounds, like purring. It was strange to hear it articulate a familiar word. . . hard to pick that word out when the tongue managed neither the kif click nor the hani cough.
And the look in its eyes now was more than apprehensive. Wild. Pyanfar put her claws out and demonstratively rested her hand over the image. Pushed wipe. She put the hani symbol back on, punched in voice-record; hani, the audio proclaimed, in hani mode. She picked up the cheap mike and spoke for the machine’s study-tape, with the machine recording her voice. “Hani.” She called up another image. “Stand.” A third. “Walk.”
It took a little repetition, but the Outsider began to involve itself in the process and not in its trembling hysteria over the kif image. It started with the first button. . . worked at the system, despite its physical weakness, recorded its own identification for all the simple symbols on the first row, soberly, with no joy in its discovery, but not sluggishly either. It began to go faster and faster, jabbed keys, spoke, one after the other, madly rapid, as if it were proving something. There were seventy-six keys on that unit and it ran through the lot, although toward the end its hand was hardly controllable.
Then it stopped and turned that same sullen look on them and reached for the seat it had left. It barely made it, sank down in the cushion and wrapped its blanket up about its shoulders, pale and sweating.
“It’s gone its limit,” Pyanfar said. “Get it some water.”
Chur brought it from the dispenser. The Outsider accepted it one-handed, sniffed the paper cup, then drained it. It gave the empty cup back, pointed at itself, at the machine on the counter, looked at Pyanfar, correctly assessing who was in charge. It wanted, Pyanfar read the gestures, to continue.
“Hilfy,” Pyanfar said, “the manual, on the counter. Give it here.”
Hilfy handed it over. Pyanfar searched through the opening pages for the precise symbols of the module in the machine at present. “How many of those modules do we have?”
“Ten. Two manuals.”
“That ought to carry us into abstracts. Good for Haral.” She set the opened book into the Outsider’s lap and pointed at the symbols it had just done, showed it how far the section went. Now it made the connection. It gathered the book against itself with both arms, intent on keeping it. “Yes,” Pyanfar said, and nodded confirmation. Maybe nodding was a gesture they shared; it nodded in return, never looking happy, but there was less distress in its look. It clutched its book the tighter.
Pyanfar looked at Hilfy, at Geran and Chur, whose expressions were guarded. They well knew now what level of sentient they had aboard. How much they guessed of their difficulties with the kif was another matter: a lot, she reckoned—they picked up things out of the air, assembled them themselves without having to ask. “A passenger compartment,” she said. “I think it might like clothes. Food and drink. Its book. Clean bedding and a bed to sleep in. Civilized facilities. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful with it. Let’s move it, shall we, and let it rest.”
It looked from Chur to Geran as the two closed in, grew distressed when Chur took its arm to get it on its feet. It pointed back at the machine. . . wanted that, its chance to communicate. Perhaps there was more it planned to say, in the symbols. Surely it expected to go back to the washroom corner. Pyanfar reached and touched its shoulder from the other side, touched the book it held and pressed its hand the tighter against it, indicating it should keep the book, the best promise she could think of that might tell it they were not done with talking. It calmed itself, at least, let itself be drawn to its feet and, once steadied, led out.
Pyanfar looked at the machine on the counter, walked over and turned it off. Hilfy was still standing there. “Move the whole rig,” Pyanfar said. “We’ll risk the equipment.” She unplugged the keyboard module, which was no burden at all, but awkward. “Bring the screen.”
“Aunt,” said Hilfy, “what are we going to do with him?”
“That depends on what the kif had in mind to do with him. But we can hardly ask them, can we?” She followed after the Outsider and Chur and Geran, down the side corridor to one of the three rooms they kept for The Pride’s occasional paying passengers, up the curve into the area of the crew’s private quarters. They were nicely appointed cabins. The one Chur and Geran had selected was in fresh greens with woven grass for the walls and with the bed and chairs in pale lime complement. Pyanfar counted the damage possible and winced, but they had suffered far worse in the cause than torn upholstery.
And the Outsider seemed to recognize a major change in its fortunes. It stood in the center of the room clutching its book and its blanket and staring about with a less sullen expression than before. . . seemed rather dazed by it all, if its narrow features were at all readable. “Better show it the sanitary facilities first,” Pyanfar said. “I hope it understands.”
Chur took it by the arm and drew it into the bath, carefully. Hilfy brought the screen in and Pyanfar added the module as she set it on the counter and plugged it into the auxiliary com/comp receptacle. From the bath there came briefly the sound of the shower working, then the toilet cycling. Chur brought the Outsider back into the main room, both looking embarrassed. Then the Outsider saw the translator hookup sitting on the counter, and its eyes flickered with interest.
Not joy. There was never that.
It said something. Two distinct words. For a moment it sounded as if it were speaking its own language. And then it sounded vaguely kif. Pyanfar’s ears pricked up ad she drew in a breath. “Say again,” she urged it in kif, and made an encouraging motion toward her ear, standard dockside handsign.
“Kif. . . companion?”
“No.” She drew a deeper breath. “Bastard! You do understand.” And again in kif: “Who are you? What kind are you?”
It shook its head, seeming helpless. Evidently who was not part of its repertoire. Pyanfar considered the anxious Outsider thoughtfully, reached and set her hand on Chur’s convenient shoulder. “This is Chur,” she said in kif. And in hani: “You do me a great favor, cousin: you sit with this Outsider on your watch. You keep it going on those identifications, change modules the minute you’ve got one fully identified, the audio track filled. Keep it at it while it will but don’t force it. You know how to work it?”
“Yes,” Chur said.
“You be careful. No knowing what it’s thinking, what it’s been through, and I don’t put deviousness beyond its reach either. I want it communicative; don’t be rough with it, don’t frighten it. But don’t put yourself in danger either. Geran, you stay outside, do your operations monitor by pager so long as Chur’s inside, hear?”
Geran’s ears—the right one was notched, marring what was otherwise a considerable beauty—flicked in distress, a winking of gold rings on the left. “Clearly understood,” she said.
“Hilfy.” Pyanfar motioned to her niece and started out the door. The Outsider started toward them, but Chur’s outflung arm prevented it and it stopped, not willing to quarrel. Chur spoke to it quickly, gingerly touched its bare shoulder. It looked frightened, for the first time outright frightened.
“I think it wants you, aunt,” Hilfy observed.
Pyanfar laid her ears back, abhorring the thought of fending off a grab at her person, walked out with Hilfy unhurried all the same. She looked back from the doorway. “Be careful of it,” she told Chur and Geran again. “Ten times it may be gentle and agreeable. . . and go for your throat on the eleventh.”
She walked off, the skin of her shoulders twitching with distaste. Hilfy trailed her, but Pyanfar jammed her hands into the back of her waistband and took no notice of her niece until they had gotten to the lift. Hilfy pressed the button to open the door and they got in. Pressed central; it brought them up and still without a word Pyanfar walked out into the bridgeward corridor.
“Aunt,” Hilfy said.
Pyanfar looked back.
“What shall we do with it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Pyanfar said tartly. Her ears were still back. She purposely put on a better face. “Not your fault, niece. This one is my own making.”
“I’d take some of the slack; I’d help, if I knew what to do. With
the cargo gone—”
Pyanfar frowned and the ears went down again. You want to relieve me of worry? she thought. Then don’t do anything stupid. But there was that face, young and proud and wanting to do well. Most that Hilfy knew how to do on the ship had gone when cargo blew and scan shut down. “Youngster, I’ve gotten into a larger game than I planned, and there’s no going home until we’ve gotten it straightened out. How we do that is another question, because the kif know our name. Have you got an idea you’ve been sitting on?”
“No, aunt—being ignorant about too much.”
Pyanfar nodded. “So with myself, niece. Let it be a lesson to you. My situation precisely, when I took the Outsider in, instead of handing it right back to the kif.”
“We couldn’t have given him to them.”
“No,” Pyanfar agreed heavily. “But it would certainly have been more convenient.” She shook her head. “Go rest, whelp, and this time I mean it. You were sick during jump; you’ll be lagging when I do need you. And need you I will.” She walked on, into the bridge, past the archway. Hilfy did not follow. Pyanfar sat down at her place, among all the dead instruments, listened to the sometime whisper of larger dust over the hull, called up all the record which had flowed in while she was gone, listening to that with one ear and the current comflow with the other.
Bad news. A second arrival in the system. . . more than one ship. It might be kif, might be someone else from the disaster at Meetpoint. In either case it was bad. The ones already here were on the hunt beyond question—kif were upset enough to have dumped cargo to get here from Meetpoint: no other ships had cause to hunt The Pride, or to call them thief. They were the same kif, beyond doubt, upset enough to have banded together in a hunt. Bad news all the way.
Urtur Station was into the comflow now. . . bluster, warning the kif of severe penalties and fines. That was very old chatter, from the beginning of the trouble, a wavefront just now reaching them. Threats from the kif—those were more current. The mahendo’sat ship. . . harassed, made its way stationward. The kif turned their attention to the new arrivals, to other things. They would begin to figure soon that the freighters last arrived had jumped behind The Pride. That The Pride had to have tricked them and gone elsewhere into stsho territories, or had to be here. . . doing precisely what they were doing; and very probably a nervous kif would play the surmise he had already staked his reputation on. They would start hunting shadows once they reached that conclusion, having questioned a few frightened mahe. They would fan out, prowl the system, stop miner ships, ask close questions, probably commit small piracy at the same time, not to waste an opportunity. The station could do nothing—a larger one might, but not Urtur, which was mostly manufacturing and scarcely defended. No mahendo’sat ship would be willing to be stopped—but there was no hope for them of outrunning that hyped kif ship, no chance at least which an ordinary mahendo’sat captain was equipped to take.