Catalyst_ A Tale of the Barque Cats - Anne McCaffrey [61]
“Molly Daise, our new passenger just came out of his hole,” Kibble said into her com. “He looks healthy and seems to be having no problem breathing.”
“Have you checked your O2 levels, Janina?” the captain asked.
“Uh—no. We’re suited up, though.”
“If you click the second button on your suit’s wrist monitor three times and hold,” Indu told her, “a menu will appear in the window. One of the submenus will be marked ENV for Environmental Control. One of its submenus will be atmospheric conditions—three more clicks, same button. One more click on its submenu under ‘cab’ for cabin. Three more will take you to O2, and if you click that once the level will show up on the screen. If that’s okay, click on the other gases and make sure there’s nothing toxic.”
“O2 level is in the middle of the gauge,” Kibble told her after following the lengthy instructions, “and the COB seems to be healthy.”
“Check the temperature. Though if the cat on board can tolerate it, it’s probably fine for you and Chester as well.”
What a ponderous and primitive procedure, the skinny-faced ship’s cat said. Did I not say the atmosphere is wholesome?
You did not, not exactly, I said. And I am very valuable, and Kibble is sworn to look after me so she can’t take any chances, can she? Besides, she can’t take your word for it. She can’t hear your words.
You could convey them unto her.
No, I can’t.
Have you no link with her?
Nothing but this hose I was telling you about, I said, wagging it as a dog would his tail.
Kibble said, “Thanks, Indu. That will make this much easier. They’ve changed the way you read these since I trained for this sort of mission. Come here, Chester.”
She pulled off her helmet and gloves and plucked me from the air, then removed my helmet and peeled off the stupid suit—and the hose that attached us. Now I was truly free.
Once she’d done that, Kibble opened the packet of fishie treats and shook it, sending their aroma throughout and making me salivate. The other cat was not unaffected. Quick as a wink he shot out of his hole, grabbed the packet in—well, I thought it was his teeth—and darted back into the hole.
“No, kitty, come back!” Kibble cried.
Halt, you treat thief! I commanded him, growling ferociously. He had miscalculated, I thought. Now I was free to track him into his lair and reclaim the fishie treats. They rightfully belonged to the feline crew members of the Molly Daise. He couldn’t just take my—our—treats and run.
Pshaw-Ra extracts his tribute and retires to his chamber where he will deal doom to all who dare intrude.
Wrong! I cried, cat-paddling through the twisting cat-sized corridor. Even then I was beginning to wonder about the ship’s derelict status. Low light of undetermined origin illuminated the catwalk beneath—well, usually beneath—my paws, and I could see the tunnels spiraling out in widening triangulations behind me. Those fishie treats are not tribute. They’re mine! Kibble only gave you some to get you to come out so we could rescue you. So either come out and get rescued or, preferably, give me back the fishie treats.
Foolish kitten, Pshaw-Ra the Mariner never relinquishes the prizes that fall into his paws.
They didn’t fall into your paws. You filched them! Under false pretenses too. You sent that pathetic dream pretending you were scared of running out of air, but this ship isn’t in trouble, is it? And neither are you.
I was beginning to feel peckish, he argued, and I heard crunching noises and smelled the seductive fragrance of tender juicy fishie treats as they surrendered to his teeth and dissolved into deliciousness in his mouth. If you’ll cease your complaints, I will grant you a