Ringworld - Larry Niven Page 0,8
cool intellection, that was fine with Louis Wu.
“You have spoken of your own motives,” said Speaker. “Speak now of mine. What can it profit me to join your voyage?”
And they got down to business.
To the puppeteers, the quantum II hyperdrive shunt was a white elephant. It would move a ship a light year in one-and-a-quarter minutes, where conventional craft would cross that distance in three days. But conventional craft had room for cargo.
“We built the motor into a General Products Number Four hull, the biggest made by our company. When our scientists and engineers had finished their work, most of the interior was filled with the machinery of the hyperdrive shunt. Our trip outward will be cramped.”
“An experimental vehicle,” said the kzin. “How thoroughly has it been tested?”
“The vehicle has made one trip to the galactic core and back.”
But that had been its only flight! The puppeteers could not test it themselves, nor could they find other races to do the work; for they were in the middle of a migration. The ship would carry practically no cargo, though it was over a mile in diameter. Furthermore, it could not slow down without dropping back into normal space.
“We do not need it,” said Nessus. “But you do. We plan to turn the ship over to our crew, together with copies of the plans for making more. Doubtless you can improve the design yourselves.”
“That will buy me a name,” said the kzin. “A name. I must see your ship in action.”
“During our trip outward.”
“The Patriarch would give me a name for such a ship. I am sure he would. What name should I choose? Perhaps—” The kzin snarled on a rising note.
The puppeteer replied in the same language.
Louis shifted in irritation. He couldn’t follow the Hero’s Tongue. He considered leaving them to it, then had a better idea. He pulled the puppeteer’s holo from his pocket, scaled it across the room into the kzin’s furry lap.
The kzin held it delicately in his padded black fingers. “It appears to be a ringed star,” he observed. “What is it?”
“It relates to our destination,” said the puppeteer. “I cannot tell you more, not now.”
“How cryptic. Well, when may we depart?”
“I estimate a matter of days. My agents are even now searching for a qualified fourth member for our exploration team.”
“And so we wait upon their pleasure. Louis, shall we join your guests?”
Louis stood up, stretching. “Sure, let’s give ’em a thrill. Speaker, before we go out there, I have a suggestion. Now, don’t take this as an assault on your dignity. It’s just an idea…”
The party had split into sections: tridee-watchers, bridge and poker tables, lovers in pairs and larger groups, tellers of tales, victims of ennui. Out on the lawn, under a hazy early-morning sun, was a mixed group of ennui victims and xenophiles; for the outdoor group included Nessus and Speaker-To-Animals. It also included Louis Wu, Teela Brown, and an overworked bartender.
The lawn was one of those tended according to the ancient British formula: seed and roll for five hundred years. Five hundred years had ended in a stock market crash, after which Louis Wu had had money and a certain venerable baronial family had not. The grass was green and glossy, obviously the real thing; nobody had ever tampered with its genes in search of dubious improvements. At the bottom of the rolling green slope was a tennis court where diminutive figures ran and jumped and swung their oversized fly swatters with great energy.
“Exercise is wonderful,” said Louis. “I could sit and watch it all day.”
Teela’s laugh surprised him. He thought idly of the millions of jokes she had never heard, the old, old ones nobody ever told any more. Of the millions of jokes Louis knew by heart, 99 percent must be obsolete. Past and present mix badly.
The bartender floated next to Louis in tilted position. Louis’s head was in Teela’s lap, and his need to reach the keyboard without sitting up was responsible for the bartender’s tilt. He tapped an order for two mochas, caught the bulbs as they dropped from the slot, and handed one to Teela.
“You look like a girl I knew once,” he said. “Ever hear of a Paula Cherenkov?”
“The cartoonist? Boston-born?”
“Yah. Lives on We Made It, nowadays.”
“My great-great grandmother. We visited her once.”
“She gave me a severe case of whiplash of the heart, long ago. You could be her twin.”
Teela’s chuckle sent vibrations bouncing pleasantly along Louis’s vertebrae. “I promise not to give you a