Man-Kzin Wars XIII-ARC by Larry Niven

so much in reproof, rather as if she valued accuracy, “and some muscular response and nostril flaring. However, at no other time have the physical motions been accompanied by this much brain activity.”
    “So is he playing ‘possum’?” Roscoe’s tone was guarded, tense.
    “Perhaps. Perhaps he is merely coming conscious, but not fully alert. Let us not assume malicious intent where what we are encountering may be nothing more than confusion.”
    Roscoe gave a sort of dry laugh that had nothing to do with humor.
    “This is a kzin, Doctor. A live kzin, a trained member of a warship’s crew. Of course it’s malicious!”
    “Perhaps . . . I’ll sit here for a while with him, see if he comes around and tries to communicate. Would you bring me a reader and the tapes of his vitals over the last couple of hours?”
    The kzin recognized that although this was phrased as a question it was actually a command. So did Roscoe. Immediately, there was the sound of feet against a floor made from some hard material.
    Roscoe paused. “Shall I bring you something to eat, Doctor? Some coffee?”
    “That would be nice.”
    Roscoe’s feet moved again. The door slid open, then shut. The kzin heard breath indrawn then exhaled in a long sigh. Of annoyance? Frustration? Some other emotion?
    Recorded birds sang. Water splashed over rocks. The wind joined the doctor in a duet of sighs.
    * * *
    “He’s been conscious for a week,” Miffy said, his voice tight with frustration, “and he hasn’t spoken a single word. We’ve interrogated him in both Interworld and the Heroes’ Tongue, but not a single word. Why won’t he talk?”
    They were seated in Miffy’s office, he behind his desk, Jenni in a comfortable chair, a cup of spiced chai in her hand. Despite the tension radiating from the man she supposed she must consider her boss, Jenni was enjoying the opportunity to relax. There had been very little time for such since the kzin came around—nor, now that she considered it, in the weeks before while she had struggled to save his life.
    There were times Jenni longed for those days when all the kzinti had been to her were slices of tissue on slides and dismembered body parts. Dealing with a living alien was much more complicated.
    She thought Miffy’s question had been rhetorical, but he was glowering at her impatiently, so she said the obvious.
    “Well,” Jenni replied patiently, “why should he talk? You wouldn’t expect a human captive to speak to interrogators in a similar situation, would you?”
    “Not if he was a trained soldier, no,” Miffy admitted. “And all the kzinti we meet are trained soldiers. Tell me, do you think he understands Interworld?”
    “I do, actually,” Jenni said. “I’ve studied the tapes and the spikes show activity similar to when he is spoken to in the Heroes’ Tongue. I can show you . . .”
    She reached to activate her portable screen, but Miffy waved her down.
    “I’ll take your word for it. This isn’t a case where the squiggles will mean more to me than your interpretation.”
    He thumped his fist against his thigh, a gesture Jenni suspected he thought was hidden by the bulk of his desk.
    For all his skills in reading others, Miffy forgets that the body’s muscles are connected. I wonder if he’s a very good poker player or a very bad one? This led to another question. Or does he expect me to interpret the gesture and react? Does he expect me to be frightened by his impatience?
    Jenni decided that Miffy did expect her to be afraid. Now that was interesting. Why did he think fear would get him anywhere?
    What should I be afraid of? Physical violence? Not likely. Losing this job? Possibly. However, Intelligence would find me difficult to replace and even if they did, what would that matter? I have material enough for dozens of papers. While they could keep me from publishing, they can’t stop me from sharing the information with the small handful of people who would actually be