That they could be reactivated had been firm policy, and every Wunderlander knew it. It was part of our history that when humanity's first interstellar colony was established, the pioneers laid down that the huge spaceships would be kept fully fueled and ready to fly if some unforeseen disaster on the new planet compelled evacuation. They were still there. Closed down and in orbit they required little maintenance, but it had been necessary at first to resist a temptation to cannibalize them. By the time it was obvious that we were here to stay and in any case the population had grown far too big to evacuate, we had factories supplying everything we needed without them. Besides, we might always want to get to Proxima or Alpha Centauri B. Why break up expensive assets unnecessarily?
“Do the Kzin know that?” asked Dimity.
“I think so. Their mind-readers know a lot… During the breathing-space, the happy time after the Swarm reinforcements came, we got crews and fuel into them,” he said. “It seemed the unforeseen disaster was well and truly upon us, and we could at least get several thousand people away. They're virtually useless as warships, anyway.”
“Where would they go?”
“Back to Sol, I guess. Sol System should have been able to cobble together better defenses than we have. They've had more time and they've more people and factories, and their Belt has good technology, even if flatlanders think like sheep.”
“Wouldn't the… Kzin just destroy the slowboats?”
“They haven't so far. But maybe it's a cat-and-mouse game. We found in one of our own old texts—Sun Tzu's Art of War—that an enemy should always be left with an apparent escape route as a disincentive to fighting with the courage of despair. But they're hard to understand. They fight without any concept of mercy, but they've also pulled their punches a few times. They could have smashed Wunderland's cities from space, or vaporized the major bases in the Swarm, but they've held off. They seem to be trying to do as little damage to infrastructure as possible. We don't know why.”
“What do you know,” asked Dimity, “about their concept of humans?”
“Very little.”
“You say they have no interest in negotiation. Do they accept surrenders?”
“They have, yes. They have taken human prisoners. We think… It's horrible and bizarre, but we think they eat them unless they've promised otherwise.”
“When do they do that? Promise otherwise, I mean.”
“Perhaps sometimes if the humans have useful skills. Once or twice when humans have been in relatively strong positions they have bargained and seem to have kept their bargains. But that hasn't been often.”
“So they don't look on humans simply as vermin to be exterminated?”
“That's hard to say. We've got a little of their language. Their word for human is kz'eerkt, which seems to mean 'monkey.' There must be monkeys or analogs on their homeworld. They refer to our ships as 'monkeyships.' ” Kleist closed his eyes for a moment and frowned as if remembering something difficult.
“There was one odd incident: One of our ships was cut off and surrounded by a kzin squadron. It had expended its major weapons and the kzin boarded it. It was a big ship, a Swarm passenger liner originally, and they fought from cabin to cabin for days. At the end the surviving humans made a last stand on the bridge deck. Some of the com-links were still working and broadcasting what was happening to the fleet. We saw and heard the last fight when the kzin broke through.
“They killed the humans pretty quickly. In hand-to-hand fighting we don't stand a chance against them. The last surviving human detonated a bomb. Only a small one, but he must have taken a lot of kzin with him.
“That put the picture out, but we still got sound for a while. We think we heard one of the kzin say something we translate like 'brave monkey' or 'worthy monkey.' But I'm not sure.
“As far as we can gather, they honor brave enemies, if not to the extent of sparing their lives. Is that what you mean?”
“Perhaps a little. But if you were about to get control of an industrialized world,” said Dimity, “would you smash up its factories and industrial plant?”
“No. Of course not.”
“And nor do they. That means they're coming to stay. Their build suggests they come from a world with heavier gravity than Earth, and a lot heavier than Wunderland. This would be pleasant for them. They can breathe the air. Of course they are coming to stay—what price a whole habitable planet with industrial development ripe for the taking, with light gravity and meat on the hoof as bonuses? They landed scouts. They know something about human biology and morphology. They want to keep our planet, and it follows that they also want humans to work it… Do you have any evidence, or any intuition, that they act more or less independently than humans?”
“More independently, definitely. Tactically they sometimes fail to cooperate with each other to a surprising degree. We'd all be long dead otherwise.”
“Cats are generally independent-minded. And you think they know what the slowboats are for?”
“I think they probably do. Does it matter?”
“It could. If they think they are industrial assets of some kind—major asteroid miners or something—they might be reluctant to destroy them. And if they think they are refugee ships…”
“Once they see them leaving the system they'll be after them,” I said.
“Not necessarily. Not if they got a long enough start. I'm trying to think like an intelligent cat, with a cat's independence. Go after a slowboat and yes, assuming you found it, you'd catch it. A slow obsolete ship technologically inferior to your own and useless except for its own specialized purpose. You might have a feed. But then you'd have to turn around and come back. Meanwhile, the other cats are all grabbing the choicest parts of the planet.
“Like terrestrial lions at a kill, or tigripards here: Would one leave a big kill that was already warm and bloody on the ground, with the rest of the pride lined up and feeding, to chase after a rabbit? Probably not. At least, we might as well think that way.”
“I hope you're right,” I said. “Anyway, you're going to be a slowboat passenger.”
“Me?”
“Your drive theory. Humanity's got to have it. The Kzin must not.”
“There was talk of drawing lots or something” said Kleist, “but I don't know if there will be time for that. What drive?”
“No, it may not work,” said Dimity. “Besides, if you don't know, you can't reveal it under torture.” I had been about to tell him what I knew of it.
“Yes,” he said. “They're good at torture, except they don't seem to understand shock. As far as we can gather they tend to kill the victims too soon. That annoys them. But I suppose they are learning.”
“So we head for München and the spaceport. And hope we get there before they do.”
“Fly as low as you can,” said Dimity. “We don't want to show up on radar and get shot down by our own people.” The subject of torture had left me rather preoccupied. “Don't head straight for the city. Hug the contours of the hills and trees.”
“We'll have to slow down,” I said.
“We should slow down anyway. Both sides will be looking for war craft, and they travel fast.” It was a relief to be moving again, anyway.
Sunset seemed unusually prolonged for the season. There were also sounds in the air that puzzled me. As we headed toward München we saw lights streaming up from the surrounding hills, lights in the sky, rising orange blossoms of fire, with the diffuse background glow of that strange slow sunset behind them.
It was like no light I had seen before: a wavering, pulsating orange glow.
Something moving in the sky against the glow, something black. Kleist grabbed my arm.
“Kzin aircraft!”