But that kif was the only one who spoke to him, the only living being he had seen besides the mahen doctor, who had not had much to say to him, except what he knew, that he was in trouble. He had come even to look forward to the kif in the morning, because it did stay to talk; and he had stopped thinking it was going to take a piece out of him without a reason.
But it had not come this morning nor the morning before. And when the door opened, he thought it was lunch, which he wasn’t interested in, because his stomach could only tolerate the breakfasts, and no one cared, and no one changed the menu.
So he thought he could lie there on the bunk and not pay any attention and it would go away.
But it didn’t. Whoever it was didn’t make the ordinary sound of setting down a tray and leaving. Whoever it was just stood there.
He turned over and looked, and saw a kif like every other kif, except its black robes glistened and the border of its hood had silver cording. He could not see all of its face, just the snout. But he had the impression of its fixed stare as he sat up.
“Sir?” He had no idea of the proprieties, whether he should bow or stand there, but he decided on bowing. He thought it might be a station officer of some kind. It was even possible it was the kif he had hit, which had gotten him in here. He hoped it didn’t want a fight. He was considerably at a disadvantage, and besides, he had gotten in trouble that way in the first place.
“They tell me you’re refusing your food.”
It was an official of some kind. “It doesn’t agree with me, sir. I’m sorry.”
“A very respectful hani. Males of your kind have a reputation for violence. For strength—one can expect that. But they say you’re such a quiet, cooperative prisoner.”
“I didn’t mean to hit anybody. If it was you, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, not me. I assure you. In fact I’ve taken the liberty of contacting the governor in your case. A hani ship is in port. I thought it might agree to help you get home.”
All at once his pulse was racing. Everyone said never trust such a creature, and it had to want something—kif didn’t do you favors. Everyone said so. There had to be a catch.
“Who are they, sir?”
“Relatives of the mekt-hakkikt. Chanur clan. And they have agreed to take you in custody. I hope this is agreeable to you.”
Agreeable. He folded his arms to keep from shaking. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.” Chanur. Gods, oh, gods, if it could possibly be true …
“You wonder why one of my rank would be interested?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My name is Vikktakkht. Can you say that?”
“Vikktakkht.”
“Can you remember it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand gratitude.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then do me a favor. When it occurs to you … repeat my name where it seems appropriate.”
“I beg pardon-?”
The kif came close to him, and laid a black-clawed hand on his arm. It was as tall as he was, and he had a most uncomfortable look within the hood, into narrow, red-rimmed eyes that gazed deeply and curiously into his.
“Go with the officers. Cause no trouble. Remember my name. Never forget it. At some time you will want to ask me a question.”
Sheets dropped into the printout tray. One … two … three …
… ten … eleven. The thing was a monster.
… forty nine … fifty …
My gods, was the printer on a loop?
… one hundred … one hundred one …
Out of paper. Tarras reloaded the bin and Hilfy sat and stared glumly at the stack. She refused to start reading until it was done.
…two hundred twenty-six … two hundred twenty-seven.
The ready light went off. The binder whirred. She extracted from the bin a contract almost as heavy as the cargo it represented and flipped through the minuscule print.
The computer started into the translation program then, and started displaying the result. She was looking at the stsho script, page after closely written page.