“No reason.” After a moment of rumination, Scarface put on his best negotiation face again. “If I teach you to be an expert pilot, would you let me disable the hyperwave comm set?”

  Locklear thought hard for a similar time. “Yes, if you swear to leave its local functions intact. Look, fella, we may want to talk to one another with it.”

  “Agreed, then,” said the kzin commander. That night, Locklear slept poorly. He lay awake for a time, wondering if Newduvai had its own specimen cave, and whether he could find it if one existed. The fact was that Kzersatz simply lacked the kind of company he had in mind. Not even the right kind of cathouse, he groused silently. He was not enormously heartened by the prospect of wooing a Neanderthal nymphet, either. Well, that was what field research was for. Please, God, at least a few Cro-Magnons! Patience, Locklear, and earplugs, because he could not find sleep for long.

  It was not merely that he was alone, for the embers near his pallet kept him as toasty as kzinrret fur. No, it was the infernal yowling of those cats somewhere below in the ravine.

  Briar Patch

  by Dean Ing

  If Locklear had been thinking straight, he never would have stayed in the god business. But when a man has been thrust into the Fourth Man-Kzin War, won peace with honor from the tigerlike kzinti on a synthetic zoo planet, and released long-stored specimens so that his vast prison compound resembles the kzin homeworld, it’s hard for that man to keep his sense of mortality.

  It’s hard, that is, until someone decides to kill him. His first mistake was lust, impure and simple. A week after he paroled Scarface, the one surviving kzin warrior, Locklear admitted his problem during supper. “All that caterwauling in the ravine,” he said, refilling his bowl from the hearth stewpot, “is driving me nuts. Good thing you haven’t let the rest of those kzinti out of stasis; the racket would be unbelievable!”

  Scarface wiped his muzzle with a brawny forearm and handed his own bowl to Kit, his new mate. The darkness of the huge Kzersatz region was tempered only by coals, but Locklear saw those coals flicker in Scarface’s cat eyes. “A condition of my surrender was that you release Kit to me,” the big kzin growled. “And besides: do humans mate so quietly?”

  Because they were speaking Kzin, the word Scarface had used was actually “ch’rowl”—itself a sexual goad. Kit, who was refilling the bowl, let slip a tiny mew of surprise and pleasure. “Please, milord,” she said, offering the bowl to Scarface. “Poor Rockear is already overstimulated. Is it not so?” Her huge eyes flicked to Locklear, whom she had grown to know quite well after Locklear waked her from age-long sleep.

  “Dead right,” Locklear agreed with a morose glance. “Not by the word; by the goddamn deed!”

  “She is mine,” Scarface grinned; a kzin grin, the kind with big fangs and no amusement.

  “Calm down. I may have been an animal psychologist, but I only have letches for human females,” Locklear gloomed toward his kzin companions. “And every night when I hear you two flattening the grass out there,” he nodded past the half-built walls of the hut, “I get, uh,…” He did not know how to translate “horny” into Kzin.

  “You get the urge to travel,” Scarface finished, making it not quite a suggestion. The massive kzin stared into darkness as if peering across the force walls surrounding Kzersatz. Those towering invisible walls separated the air, and lifeforms, of Kzersatz from other synthetic compounds of this incredible planet, Zoo. “I can see the treetops in the next compound as easily as you, Locklear. But I see no monkeys in them.”

  Before his defeat, Scarface had been “Grraf-Commander.” The same strict kzin honor that bound him to his surrender, forbade him to curse his captor as a monkey. But he could still sharpen the barb of his wit. Kit, with real affection for Locklear, did not approve. “Be nice,” she hissed to her mate.

  “Forget it,” Locklear told her, stabbing with his Kzin wtsai blade for a hunk of meat in his stew. “Kit, he’s stuck with his military code, and it won’t let him insist that his captor get the hell out of here. But he’s right. I still don’t know if that next compound I call Newduvai is really Earth-like.” He smiled at Scarface, remembering not to show his teeth, and added, “Or whether it has my kind of monkey.”

  “And we must not try to find out until your war wounds have completely healed,” Kit replied.

  The eyes of man and kzin warrior met. “Whoa,” Locklear said quickly, sparing Scarface the trouble. “We won’t be scouting over there; I will, but you won’t. I’m an ethologist,” he went on, holding up a hand to bar Kit’s interruption. “If Newduvai is as completely stocked as Kzersatz, somebody—maybe the Outsiders, maybe not, but damn certain a long time ago—somebody intended all these compounds to be kept separate. Now, I won’t say I haven’t played god here a little…”

  “And intend to play it over there a lot,” said Kit, who had never yet surrendered to anyone.

  “Hear me out, I’m not going to start mixing species from Kzersatz and Newduvai any more than I already have, and that’s final.” He pried experimentally at the scab running down his knife arm. “But I’m pretty much healed, thanks to your medkit, Scarface. And I meant it when I said you’d have free run of this place. It’s intended for kzinti, not humans. High time I took your lifeboat over those force walls to Newduvai.”

  “Boots will miss you,” said Kit.

  Locklear smiled, recalling the other kzin female he’d released from stasis in a very pregnant condition. According to Kit, a kzin mother would not emerge from her birthing creche until the eyes of her twins had opened—another week, at least. “Give her my love,” he said, and swilled the last of his stew.

  “A pity you will not do that yourself,” Kit sighed.

  “Milady.” Scarface became, for the moment, every inch a Grraf-Commander. “Would you ask me to ch’rowl a human female?” He waited for Kit to control her mixed expression. “Then please be silent on the subject. Locklear is a warrior who knows what he fights for.”

  Locklear yawned. “There’s an old song that says, ‘Ain’t gonna study war no more,’ and a slogan that goes, ‘Make love, not war.’”

  Kit stood up with a fetching twitch of her tail. “I believe our leader has spoken, milord,” she purred.

  Locklear watched them swaying together into the night, and his parting call was plaintive. “Just try and keep it down, okay? A fellow needs his sleep.”

  The kzin lifeboat was over ten meters long, well-armed and furnished with emergency rations. In accord with their handshake armistice, Scarface had given flight instructions to his human pupil after disabling the hyperwave portion of its comm set. He had given no instructions on armament because Locklear, a peaceable man, saw no further use for anything larger than a sidearm. Neither of them could do much to make the lifeboat seating comfortable for Locklear, who was small even by human standards in an acceleration couch meant for a two-hundred-kilo kzin.

  Locklear paused in the air lock in midmorning and raised one arm in a universal peace sign. Scarface returned it. “I’ll call you now and then, if those force walls don’t stop the signal,” Locklear called. “If you let your other kzinti out of stasis, call and tell me how it works out.”

  “Keep your tail dry, Rockear,” Kit called, perhaps forgetting he lacked that appendage—a compliment, of sorts.

  “Will do,” he called back as the air lock swung shut. Moments later, he brought the little craft to life and, cursing the cradle-rock motion that branded him a novice, urged the lifeboat into the yellow sky of Kzersatz.

  Locklear made one pass, a “goodbye sweep,” high above the region with its yellow and orange vegetation, taking care to stay well inside the frostline that defined those invisible force walls. He spotted the cave from the still-flattened grass where Kit had herded the awakened animals from the crypt and their sleep of forty thousand years, then steepened his climb and used aero boost to begin his trajectory. No telling whether the force walls stopped suddenly, but he did not want to find out by pl
owing into the damned things. It was enough to know they stopped below orbital height, and that he could toss the lifeboat from Kzersatz to Newduvai in a low-energy ballistic arc.

  And he knew enough to conserve energy in the craft’s main accumulators because one day, when the damned stupid Man-Kzin War was over, he’d need that energy to jump from Zoo to some part of known space. Unless, he amended silently, somebody found Zoo first. The war might already be over, and certainly the warlike kzinti must have the coordinates of Zoo…

  Then he was at the top of his trajectory, seeing the planetary curvature of Zoo, noting the tiny satellite sunlets that bathed hundred-mile-diameter regions in light, realizing that a warship could condemn any one of those circular regions to death with one well-placed shot against its synthetic, automated little sun. He was already past the circular force walls now, and felt an enormous temptation to slow the ship by main accumulator energy. A good pilot could lower that lifeboat down between the walls of those force cylinders, in the hard vacuum between compounds. Outsiders might be lurking there, idly studying the specimens through invisible walls.

  But Locklear was no expert with a kzin lifeboat, not yet, and he had to use his wristcomp to translate the warning on the console screen. He set the wing extensions just in time to avoid heavy buffeting, thankful that he had not needed orbital speed to manage his brief trajectory. He bobbled a maneuver once, twice, then felt the drag of Newduvai’s atmosphere on the lifeboat and gave the lifting surfaces full extension. He put the craft into a shallow bank to starboard, keeping the vast circular frostline far to portside, and punched in an autopilot instruction. Only then did he dare to turn his gaze down on Newduvai.

  Like Kzersatz it boasted a big lake, but this one glinted in a sun heartbreakingly like Earth’s. A rugged jumble of cliffs soared into cloud at one side of the region, and green hills mounded above plains of mottled hues: tan, brown, green, Oh, God, all that green! He’d forgotten, in the saffron of Kzersatz, how much he missed the emerald of grass, the blue of sky, the darker dusty green of Earth forests. For it was, in every respect, perfectly Earthlike. He wiped his misting eyes, grinned at himself for such foolishness, and eased the lifeboat down to a lazy circular course that kept him two thousand meters above the terrain. If the builders of Zoo were consistent, one of those shallow creekbeds would begin not in a marshy meadow but in a horizontal shaft. And there he would find—he dared not think it through any further.

  After his first complete circuit of Newduvai, he knew it had no herds of animals. No birds dotted the lakeshore; no bugs whacked his viewport. A dozen streams meandered and leapt down from the frostline where clouds dumped their moisture against cold encircling force walls. One stream ended in a second small lake with no obvious outlet, but none of the creeks or dry washes began with a cave.

  Mindful of his clumsiness in this alien craft, Locklear set it down in soft sand where a dry wash delta met the kidney-shaped lake. After further consulting between his wristcomp and the ship’s computer, he punched in his most important queries and listened to the ship cool while its sensors analyzed Newduvai.

  Gravity: Earth normal. Atmosphere, solar flux, and temperature: all Earth normal. “And not a critter in sight,” he told the cabin walls. In a burst of insight, he asked the computer to list anything that might be a health hazard to a kzin. If man and kzin could make steaks of each other, they probably should fear the same pathogens. The computer took its time, but its most fearsome finding was of tetanus in the dust.

  He waited no longer, thrusting at the air lock in his hurry, filling his lungs with a rich soup of odors, and found his eyes brimming again as he stepped onto a little piece of Earth. Smells, he reflected, really got you back to basics. Scents of cedar, of dust, of grasses and yes, of wildflowers. Just like home—yet, in some skinprickling way, not quite.

  Locklear sat down on the sand then, with an earthlike sunlet baking his back from a turquoise sky, and he wept. Outsiders or not, any bunch that could engineer a piece of home on the rim of known space couldn’t be all bad.

  He was tasting the lake water’s very faint brackishness when, in a process that took less than a minute, the sunlight dimmed and was gone. “But it’s only noontime,” he protested, and then laughed at himself and made a notation on his wristcomp, using its faint light to guide him back to the air lock.

  As with Kzersatz, he saw no stars; and then he realized that the position of Newduvai’s sun had been halfway to the horizon when—almost as it happened on Kzersatz—the daily ration of sunlight was quenched. Why should Newduvai’s sun keep the same time as that of Kzersatz? It didn’t; nor did it wink off as suddenly as that of Kzersatz.

  He activated the still-functioning local mode of the lifeboat’s comm set, intending to pass his findings on to Scarface. No response. Scarface’s handset was an allband unit; perhaps some wavelength could bounce off of debris from the kzin cruiser scuttled in orbit—but Locklear knew that was a slender hope, and soon it seemed no hope at all. He spent the longest few hours of his life then, turning floodlights on the lake in the forlorn hope of seeing a fish leap, and with the vague fear that a tyrannosaur might pay him a social call. But no matter where he turned the lights he saw no gleam of eyes, and the sand was innocent of any tracks. Sleep would not come until he began to address the problem of the stasis crypt in logical ways.

  Locklear came up from his seat with a bound, facing a sun that brightened as he watched. His wristcomp said not quite twelve hours had passed since the sunlet dimmed. His belly said it was late. His memory said yes, by God, there was one likely plan for locating that horizontal shaft: fly very near the frostline and scan every dark cranny that was two hundred meters or so inside the force walls. On Kzersatz, the stasis crypt had ended exactly beneath the frostline, perhaps a portal for those who’d built Zoo. And the front entrance had been two hundred meters inside the force walls.

  He lifted the lifeboat slowly, ignoring hunger pangs, beginning to plot a rough map of Newduvai on the computer screen because he did not know how to make the computer do it for him. Soon, he passed a dry plateau with date palms growing in its declivities and followed the ship’s shadow to more fertile soil. Near frostline, he set the aeroturbine reactor just above idle and, moving briskly a hundred meters above the ground, began a careful scan of the terrain because he was not expert enough with kzin computers to automate the search.

  After three hours he had covered more than half of his sweep around Newduvai, past semidesert and grassy fields to pine-dotted mountain slopes, and the lifeboat’s reactor coolant was overheating from the slow pace. Locklear set the craft down nicely near that smaller mountain lake, chopped all power systems, and headed for scrubby trees in the near distance. Scattered among the pines were cedar and small oak. Nearer stood tall poplar and chestnut, invaded by wild grape with immature fruit. But nearest of all, the reason for his landing here, were gnarled little pear trees and, amid wild shoots of rank growth, trees laden with small ripe plums. He wolfed them down until juice dripped from his chin, washed in the lake, and then found the pears unripe. No matter: he’d seen dates, grapes, and chestnut, which suggested a model of some Mediterranean region. After identifying juniper, oleander and honeysuckle, he sent his wristcomp scurrying through its megabytes and narrowed his opinion of the area: a surrogate slice of Asia Minor.

  He might have sat on sunwarmed stones until dark, lulled by this sensation of being, somehow, back home without a care. But then he glanced far across the lower hills and saw, proceeding slowly across a parched desert plateau many miles distant, a whirlwind with its whiplike curve and bloom of dust where it touched the soil.

  “Uh-huh! That’s how you reseed plants without insect vectors,” he said aloud to the builders of Zoo. “But whirlwinds don’t make honey, and they’ll sting anyway. Hell, even I can play god better than that,” he said, and bore a pocketful of plums into the lifeboat, filled once more with the itch to find the cave that might not even exist on Newduvai.

&nb
sp; But it was there, all right. Locklear saw it only because of the perfect arc of obsidian, gleaming through a tangle of brush that had grown around the cave mouth.

  He made a botch of the landing because he was trembling with anticipation. A corner of his mind kept warning him not to assume everything here was the same as on Kzersatz, so Locklear stopped just outside that brush-choked entrance. His wtsai blade made short work of the brush, revealing a polished floor. He strode forward, wtsai in one hand, his big kzin sidearm in the other, to the now-familiar luminous film that flickered, several meters inside the cave mouth, across an obsidian portal. He thrust his blade through the film and saw, as he had expected to see, stronger light flash behind the portal. Then he stepped through and stopped, listening.

  He might have been back in the Kzersatz crypt: a quiet so deep his own breathing made echoes; the long obsidian central passage, with nine branches on each side, ending in a frost-covered force wall that filled the passageway. And the clear plastic containers ranked in the side passages were of three sizes on smooth metal bases, as expected. But Locklear took one look at the nearest specimen, spinning slowly in its stasis cage, and knew that here the resemblance to Kzersatz ended forever.

  The monster lay in something like a fetal crouch, tumbling slowly in response to the grav polarizer as it had been doing for many thousands of years. It was black, with great forward-curving horns and heavy shoulders, and when released—if anyone dared, he amended—it would stand six feet at the shoulder. Locklear figured its weight at a ton. Some European zoologists had once tried to breed cattle back to this brute, but with scant success, and Locklear had not seen so much as a sketch of it since his undergrad work. It was a bull aurochs, a beast which had survived on Earth into historic times; and counting the cows, Locklear realized there were over forty of them.