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Leaping from the cat hatch to land heavily on Jubal’s shoulder, Chester licked the fingers that scratched his fur and took a couple of long swipes at his chest fur for good measure.

Jubal dug into his pocket for the treats. They weren’t Chester’s favorites, but he accepted them after a preliminary sniff, eating them from Jubal’s hand.

Once the treats restored his strength, he gave greater consideration to Jubal’s question. Could Pshaw-Ra do what all of those cat-less ships full of people had been unable to do?

Finally he came to the conclusion, which he shared with Jubal, that probably Pshaw-Ra did know something that would help. It would only be fair if he did, in Chester’s opinion, because the skinny cat and something called the kefer-ka—Jubal picked up the image of one of the shiny beetles—had created the basis for the panic to begin with.

If he flies his own ship and tricks people into bringing him supplies, he must be a pretty smart kitty, Jubal replied. He thought he was being encouraging but realized his mistake when Chester bristled, jealous that the boy he considered his offered praise of the other cat. Not as handsome as you, of course, and nowhere near as nice, definitely less fluffy, and he doesn’t look nearly as soft, but still, really smart. I don’t suppose he ever mentioned what his plan might be?

Before Chester could respond, footsteps came running down the corridor from the shuttle bay. “Jubal, Beulah says to tell you we’re stuck,” Sosi said. “The docking bay hatch won’t open and the Ranzo has disappeared from the sensors.”

“It’s okay, Sosi,” Jubal said, not knowing for sure if it was but thinking it was a good idea to help his crewmates see their predicament in a positive light—as he, despite Chester’s reservations, was beginning to do. “Chester’s buddy, the short-haired cat, is a superior sort of alien being named Pshaw-Ra. He, uh—watches over cats, and he’s going to do something to try to help the impounded cats now. I think he may need us and the shuttle to do it.”

“You are so full of it, Jubal,” Sosi began, then seeing his serious expression, asked, “Really? You’re not kidding?”

“I’d never kid about something like that and neither would Chester.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he and I talk,” Jubal said. He’d never told Sosi the nature of his bond with Chester, but now seemed like a good time.

“Hadley talks. He says ‘meow,’ ‘yow,’ ‘rrrowl,’ ‘prrrt,’ and a lot of other stuff.”

“No, I mean, Chester and I can understand each other’s words and hear and see what’s happening in each other’s lives. We’ve been able to since he was a baby kitten.”

“No, you haven’t!” she scoffed. “That’s just silly. Sure you can tell what a kitty means by his expression and how he holds his tail and ears and stuff, but even the smartest, best bred ships’ cats don’t talk Standard.”

“I didn’t say they did. Chester doesn’t actually speak in human words—his vocal cords wouldn’t handle it. But you don’t need language to read thoughts. It’s experience, you know? You can think something in one language or another, but what you mean is always in there in the thought, regardless.”

“Well, Beulah doesn’t need words right now to say what she means either, but she’s saying a lot of them and they aren’t fit for my delicate childlike ears. So you and the cats had better fill her in before she tries to blast our way out of here.”

The GHA inspection team took Klinger’s farm by surprise. As the nephew and namesake of GHA head councilman P. B. Klinger, Secretary of Agriculture, Phillip B. Klinger considered himself immune from harassment by what he considered his uncle’s agency.

And yet, when Phil and his latest bride dismounted following their morning ride, there was the team of white-suited, clipboard-wielding technobureaucrats, claiming they’d come to inspect his stock. They actually called his expensive, beautifully bred horses “stock.”

“Mr. Klinger,” said the older of the two men, a rugged-looking and, judging from the latest Mrs. Klinger’s reaction to him, handsome fellow. He possessed a deep authoritative voice.