No guard. No sound at all—and then a distant hollow slam, as of a great box closing. They split up then, moving down each side corridor, returning to the main shaft silently, exploring side corridors again. After four of these forays, they knew that no one would be at their backs.
Locklear was peering into the fifth when, glancing back, he saw Scarface’s gesture of caution. Scuffing steps down the side passage, a mumble in Kzin, then silence. Then Scarface resumed his hold on his friend’s neck and, after one mutual glance of worry, shoved Locklear into the side passage.
“Ho, see the beast I captured,” Scarface called, his voice booming in the wide passage, prompting exclamations from two surprised kzin males.
Stasis cages lay in disarray, some open, some with transparent tops ripped off. One kzin, with the breast scars and bandoliers of a priest, hopped off the cage he used as a seat, and placed a hand on the butt of his sharp wtsai. The other bore scabs on his breast and wore no bandolier. He had been tinkering with the innards of a small stasis cage, but whirled, jaw agape.
“It must have escaped after we left, yesterday,” said the priest, looking at the “captive,” then with fresh curiosity at Scarface. “And who are—”
At that instant, Locklear saw what levitated, spinning, inside one of the medium-sized cages; spinning almost too fast to identify. But Locklear knew what it had to be, and while the priest was staring hard at Scarface, the little man lost control.
His cry was in Interworld, not Kzin: “You filthy bastard!” Before the priest could react, a roundhouse right with the massive barrel of a kzin pistol took away both upper and lower incisors from the left side of his mouth. Caught this suddenly, even a two-hundred-kilo kzin could be sent reeling from the blow, and as the priest reeled to his right, Locklear kicked hard at his backside.
Scarface clubbed at the second kzin, the corridor ringing with snarls and zaps of warrior rage. Locklear did not even notice, leaping on the back of the fallen priest, hacking with his gun barrel until the wtsai flew from a smashed hand, kicking down with all his might against the back of the priest’s head. The priest, at least twice Locklear’s bulk, had lived a life much too soft, for far too long. He rolled over, eyes wide not in fear but in anger at this outrage from a puny beast. It is barely possible that fear might have worked.
The priest caught Locklear’s boot in a mouthful of broken teeth, not seeing the sidearm as it swung at his temple. The thump was like an iron bar against a melon, the priest falling limp as suddenly as if some switch had been thrown.
Sobbing, Locklear dropped the pistol, grabbed handfuls of ear on each side, and pounded the priest’s head against cruel obsidian until he felt a heavy grip on his shoulder.
“He is dead, Locklear. Save your strength,” Scarface advised. As Locklear recovered his weapon and stumbled to his feet, he was shaking uncontrollably. “You must hate our kind more than I thought,” Scarface added, studying Locklear oddly.
“He wasn’t your kind. I would kill a man for the same crime,” Locklear said in fury, glaring at the second kzin who squatted, bloody-faced, in a corner holding a forearm with an extra elbow in it. Then Locklear rushed to open the cage the priest had been watching.
The top levered back, and its occupant sank to the cage floor without moving. Scarface screamed his rage, turning toward the injured captive. “You experiment on tiny kittens? Shall we do the same to you now?”
Locklear, his tears flowing freely, lifted the tiny kzin kitten—a male—in hands that were tender, holding it to his breast. “It’s breathing,” he said. “A miracle, after getting the centrifuge treatment in a cage meant for something far bigger.”
“Before I kill you, do something honorable,” Scarface said to the wounded one. “Tell me where the other kitten is.”
The captive pointed toward the end of the passage. “I am only an acolyte,” he muttered. “I did not enjoy following orders.”
Locklear sped along the cages and, at last, found Boot’s female kitten revolving slowly in a cage of the proper size. He realized from the prominence of the tiny ribs that the kitten would cry for milk when it waked. If it waked. “Is she still alive?”
“Yes,” the acolyte called back. “I am glad this happened. I can die with a less-troubled conscience.”
After a hurried agreement and some rough questioning, they gave the acolyte a choice. He climbed into a cage hidden behind others at the end of another corridor and was soon revolving in stasis. The kittens went into one small cage. Working feverishly against the time when another enemy might walk into the crypt, they disassembled several more stasis cages and toted the working parts to the scooter, then added the kitten cage and, barely, levitated the scooter with its heavy load.
An hour later, Scarface bore the precious cage into the cave and Locklear, following with an armload of parts, heard the anguish of Boots. “They’ll hear you from a hundred meters,” he cautioned as Boots gathered the mewing, emaciated kittens in her arms.
They feared at first that her milk would no longer flow but presently, from where Boots had crept into the darkness, Kit returned. “They are suckling. Do not expect her to be much help from now on,” Kit said.
Scarface checked the magazine of his sidearm. “One priest has paid. There is no reason why I cannot extract full payment from the others now,” he said.
“Yes, there is,” Locklear replied, his fingers flying with hand tools from the cache. “Before you can get ’em all, they’ll send devout fools to be killed while they escape. You said so yourself. Scarface, I don’t want innocent kzin blood on my hands! But after my old promise to Boots, I saw what that maniac was doing and—let’s just say my honor was at stake.” He knew that any modern kzin commander would understand that. Setting down the wiring tool, he shuddered and waited until he could speak without a tremor in his voice. “If you’ll help me get the wiring rigged for these stasis units, we can hide them in the right spot and take the entire bloody priesthood in one pile.”
“All at once? I should like to know how,” said Kit, counting the few units that lay around them.
“Well, I’ll tell you how,” said Locklear, his eyes bright with fervor. They heard him out, and then their faces glowed with the same zeal.
* * *
When their traps lay ready for emplacement, they slept while Kit kept watch. Long after dark, as Boots lay nearby cradling her kittens, Kit waked the others and served a cold broth. “You take a terrible chance, flying in the dark,” she reminded them.
“We will move slowly,” Scarface promised, “and the village fires shed enough light for me to land. Too bad about the senses of inferior species,” he said, his ear umbrellas rising with his joke.
“How would you like a nice cold bath, tabby?” Locklear’s question was mild, but it held an edge.
“Only monkeys need to bathe,” said the kzin, still amused. Together they carried their hardware outside and, by the light of a glowlamp, loaded the scooter while Kit watched for any telltale glow of eyes in the distance.
After a hurried nuzzle from Kit, Scarface brought the scooter up swiftly, switching the glowlamp to its pinpoint setting and using it as seldom as possible. Their forward motion was so slow that, on the two occasions when they blundered into the tops of towering fernpalms, they jettisoned nothing more than soft curses. An hour later, Scarface maneuvered them over a light yellow strip that became a heavily trodden path and began to follow that path by brief glowlamp flashes. The village, they knew, would eventually come into view.
It was Locklear who said, “Off to your right.”
“The village fires? I saw them minutes ago.”
“Oh shut up, supercat,” Locklear grumped. “So where’s our drop zone?”
“Near,” was the reply, and Locklear felt their little craft swing to the side. At the pace of a weed seed, the scooter wafted down until Scarface, with one leg hanging through the viewslot of his craft, spat a short, nasty phrase. One quick flash of the lamp guided him to a level landing spot and then, with admirable panache, Scarface let the scooter settle without a creak.
If they were surprised now, only Scarface could pilot his scooter with any hope of getting them both away. Locklear grabbed one of the devices they had prepared and, feeling his way with only his feet, walked until he felt a rise of turf. Then he retraced his steps, vented a heavy sigh, and began the emplacement.