"What ye see?" Rif asked, noting his sudden tension.
"Lord," Black Cal whispered, frozen. "What is she? Cal?"
He shoved the telescope into her hands, got up and scrambled toward the rigging. The mainsail snapped and rattled as he pulled it up from the boom. "Cat-whale," he panted. "Beached. And something . . something else . . ."
Rif, staring through the telescope, didn't hear him.
Yes, it was a sandbar. A cat-whale lay across it, long mottled-gray body struggling to roll free. The huge, catlike face bore an almost-human look of distress, and the long-toed flippers dug futilely into the wet sand. Another desperate rolling revealed the broad, pale underbelly lined with a double row of gray-furred breasts, some of them plainly abraded and sore from pressing on the sand.
Around the beached cat-whale, trying to help her roll off the sandbar, were . . . figures.
Clearly not human: short-legged, long-tailed, cat-faced, covered in mottled gray-black fur like their much larger . . . companion?
Mother?
But they had arms—and hands—almost like a human's. They pulled and pushed like a human work gang, and some of them held curved white sticks—no, bones from some big sea-creature—which they used like levers, trying to push and pry, trying to help the cat-whale back into the sea.
"Sweet Mother Jane," Rif gasped. "I think . . . Cal, I think those're her young! Nobody knows much about cat-whales. Maybe they go through stages, start with arms an' legs like that, then turn 'em ter flippers as they grow older . . ."
"They're using tools," Cal said, steering the trimaran toward the sandbar. "They're intelligent, and the . . . young can use tools. Lord, what if the young ones can walk around on land, live on beaches or tide-marshes? What if . . ."'
"We've got t'help 'er." Rif sat up, closed the telescope and put it away. "They've seen us comin'. Look, some o' the young ones're shakin' those bones at us, must be scared. Got ter show 'em we're here ter help ..."
"Careful!" Black Cal warned, wondering if the cat-whale young could throw those . . . tools very far, or if they'd swim out to attack the boat.
Rif climbed to her feet and stood at the bow, arms held wide, hands wide open and empty in the ancient sign of harmlessness. Surely any tool-using creature could understand that, and humans had never hurt nor hunted cat-whales during all their centuries on Mer-ovin.
The cat-whale cubs saw her, made no move to dive into the water, but darted up and down the sandbar squeaking among themselves. Their voices were high, catlike, oddly sweet and chirping, but didn't sound reassured.
Puzzled, Rif guessed. Don't know what to make of us. But they sing . . .
Inspired, Rif sang at them: a long, high, steady note that suggested greeting, calm, respect. Then another note that ended in falling trills, suggesting friendliness, sympathy.
Black Cal paused at the sail, watching the gap of water close, watching the cat-whale cubs, praying that their ears worked somewhat like a human's, that they'd understand the wordless meaning of the notes.
The cubs stood still, eyes and ears turned toward Rif, hands motionless. Their silvery whiskers quivered, and they chirped softly among themselves. If they didn't understand, at least they made no move to attack.
Sand gritted under the leading hull. Black Cal lowered the sail, grabbed an anchor and dropped it. So close now, less than ten meters from the mother cat-whale's broad spade-shaped tail—but even she was still now, head raised, watching.
Again Rif sang, another sympathetic trill. This time some of the cubs trilled back, imitating the sound.
First line of communication, Rif grinned. Very quietly she said: "Cal, gimme a long line, and anchor t'other end ter the stern."
Black Cal chewed his lip, but went to open the near hatch and pulled out a coil of rope. He could guess what she meant to do, but would the cubs understand? Had they ever seen something as simple as rope? He tied one end to a stay-bolt at the stern, and tossed the rest of the coil to Rif.
On the sandbar, the gray cubs flinched and muttered. Did they recognize the rope for a tool? Did they think it was a sea-snake, or a weapon?
Rif held up the coil, showing it to them, showing that it was inanimate, only a tool—and sang again: a lighter note, urging hope.
The cubs licked their chops with nervous pink tongues, watching.
Holding the free end of the rope, Rif stepped off the bow. She splashed lightly in the shallow water and waded toward the cat-whale's tail, trailing the line, singing steady soothing notes.
The cubs flattened their ears and crouched lower, ready to attack or run, as Rif strode calmly up to the cat-whale's side.
Black Cal quietly went to the pile of his clothes near the mast and pulled out his long-barreled revolver. If the cubs misunderstood, if they attacked Rif, he'd commit the first interspecies murder on the planet. Whatever that led to, whatever history would say of him, he'd not regret it.
Rif stopped, leaned forward, and gingerly patted the cat-whale's side. The wet fur was surprisingly soft under her hand. She sang quietly, soothing wordless notes, in time with the stroke of her hand.
The cat-whale raised her head further and watched, didn't move, didn't so much as twitch her three-meter-wide tail.
The cubs slowly raised their ears and stood up to watch.
Singing, patting, very slowly and carefully, Rif eased the end of the rope across the cat-whale's tail, just above the broad paddle. She paid out enough to drop in a coil on the other side, then stopped to sing and pet for a long moment.
Now comes the hard part, Black Cal thought, watching her.
Rif bent down and burrowed her hand under the thick column of the cat-whale's tail, trying to reach the rope on the other side.
She won't make it, Black Cal considered, measuring the distance with his eyes. The cat-whale's tail, at its narrowest point above the paddle, was thicker than Rif's body.
Still Rif dug, burrowed, reaching for the rope.
The cat-whale blinked her enormous dark eyes, mewed softly, and raised her tail off the sand.
Rif sang a note of joy, success, ducked under the lifted tail and reached for the rope. For a moment the tree-thick tail arched above her like a boulder about to fall, and Black Cal bit hard on his tongue to keep from moving or crying warning.
Rif rolled back with the other end of the rope in her hand, back to safety, still singing. She pulled in the slack and tied a sturdy double-shanked knot, tight enough to hold securely, easy to untie with the right pull.
The cat-whale slowly lowered her tail back to the ground.
Rif patted the smooth gray fur once more, then backed away. "Cal," she called, softly enough not to worry the cubs, "Turn 'round and start pullin' 'er out."
Black Cal put the gun away, pulled in the anchor and backed the trimaran's bow off the sand. "Come back aboard," he said.
"In a minute," she promised, wading out along the rope's tightening length. "I might have ter show 'em how ter help."
Black Cal gnawed his lip, but turned the boat and reset the sail. The I'm Alone Two tacked into deeper water, and the rope pulled tight.
"C'mon, ye boys; pull!" Rif called to the cubs, showing her intention by tugging on the rope.
The mother cat-whale lurched onto her belly and began shoving at the sand with her forepaws, pushing herself backward, toward the rope's pull, toward the sea. She trilled peremptorily at the gang of cubs.
The cubs, understanding at last, scrambled toward their mother and pushed, levered, heaved toward the sea, squeaking and mewing wildly among themselves.
"Not enough!" Cal shouted back at Rif. "I'll have to use the engines." He quick-tied the rudder, pulled open the hatch and scrambled below.
"That'll take time," Rif muttered, pulling futilely at the rope. The bottom had grown too deep for her feet to find purchase. "I hope the kids don't lose heart too soon."
A quiet rumbling echoed through the water as the engine on the main hull turned over and began to spin. Black Cal poppe
d out of the hatch and ran to the closed hatch on starboard hull.
"Aye, give 'er all three engines," Rif called, feeling the renewed tension in the rope.
On the sandbar, the mother cat-whale flailed harder with her paws.
Black Cal came up from below and ran to the last hatchway and engine.
The cat-whale heaved mightily, gaining a meter's distance toward the water. The sand boomed under her weight.
"That's it! She's comin'!" Rif whooped.
Groaning and mewing at the abrasion of sand on her belly, the cat-whale inched slowly backward into the water. The cubs' squeaking grew higher and fiercer as they levered and pushed. The cat-whale's tail and hind flippers sank into the welcome waves, and she heaved again, trilling in triumph.
On the boat, Black Cal listened to the engines' laboring, chewed his lip, let out more sail.
The cubs' squeaking took on rhythm as they pushed in chorus: heave, heave. The cat-whale gave another mighty shove with her forepaw-flippers, and splashed shoulder-deep into the sea.
"Again! Again!" Rif cheered to the cat-whale.
Again the cat-whale pushed, her back bowing with the effort. Water splashed up to her chin, and her fore-paws went under the surface.
The rope suddenly fell slack.
The I'm Alone Two jerked forward, then came up sharply at the end of the rope. Black Cal ran to cut the engines.
"She's free!" Rif howled, and pulled herself hand over hand down the rope toward the cat-whale.
"Get away from them!" Cal bellowed, scrambling for the last engine.
"Gotta cut 'er loose," Rif called back, swimming well within range of the huge tail.
The cubs splashed into the water, surrounding her.
Black Cal retained enough presence of mind to cut the engine and toss out the anchor before he dived into the water and swam after Rif.
Big as a small gray island, the mother cat-whale curled around in the waves and studied the woman approaching her. There was no readable expression on the huge furred face.
Swimming along the direction of the slack line, Black Cal felt a hand stroke his side. Thinking it was Rif, he surfaced—and found himself staring into a furry black catlike face, less than an arm's length away. The big dark eyes blinked, ears twitched, and a pink tongue absently licked a black button-nose.
It looked so much like a kitten that Black Cal automatically reached out to pet it.
The cub backed away, flicking its whiskers, and batted a paw at his hand.
For an instant, hand and forepaw met—and stopped in surprise.
I'm shaking hands with an alien, Black Cal marveled, feeling the leathery toe-pads, fuzzy skin, articulate muscle and intricate bone under the soft webbing.
Then the paw withdrew, the cub blinked at him, and ducked away in the water. Black Cal shook his head and went back to looking for Rif.
But where was the rope?
Black Cal dived, surfaced, searched while furred heads surfaced near him to watch, finally found the rope trailing loose in the water. It was dead slack. He swam along it, letting it play through his fingers, until abruptly he found the end. It wasn't cut; it had been untied.
"Rif!" he shouted, making several cubs dive away from the noise. "Where are you?"
"Here!" echoed across the water.
Black Cal turned toward the sound, and saw Rif bobbing in the water close to the cat-whale's enormous upturned belly. Her hands brushed over the abraded skin, wiping sand out of the wounds. "Come and help, Cal," she called brightly. "I think we've made some friends."
Almost dreamily, Black Cal swam toward her. Curious cubs darted through the water around him, poking their paws curiously at his bare skin. The mother cat-whale's gray body rose up before him like the side of a ship, and he caught up to Rif at last. "You all right?' he asked, though he could see that she was.
"Fine," she grinned. "Excep' one o' the cubs damn-near goosed me, lookin' ter see why I didn' have a tail. Ain't they cute, though?"
"Cute?" Black Cal mumbled, looking around him. Yes, come to think of it, those fuzzy kitten-faces were sort of cute. Under his hands he could feel the mother cat-whale purring like an enormous engine. "Nice kitties. Some damn kitties. What in the Lord and Ancestors' names have we stumbled on?"
"Friendly, intelligent aliens," said Rif, patting the last wound clean. "We should try ter keep 'em fer friends, Cal."
"Damn right," he started to say—then yelped in surprise as the cat-whale curled her bulk around him and ran her huge rough tongue across his leg.
"There, there ..." Rif stroked the long furry jaw. "We're all bein' friendly. And they like my singin'." To prove it, she sounded a long rippling arpeggio— once above the water, and once ducking her head below the surface.
The mother cat-whale mewed and rumbled back. The cubs chirped and meowed in chorus.
Black Cal gave himself up to marvels. He stretched out on his back and floated on the low waves, listening to Rif sing with the cat-whale and her young while the deepening sunlight sparkled off the Sundance Sea. He considered that he might be dreaming, until curious cubs swam closer, batted at his feet, nuzzled his hair, licked his outstretched arm and mewed in his ear. He stretched out his hands to pet them, and a few of the bolder cubs let him. Their fur was wondrously silky and soft, their whiskers wiry and long.
Eventually the singing stopped. The cat-whale gave a deep, commanding churrr, and sank under the surface. The cubs trilled briefly and dived after her, surfacing once or twice, farther out on the water, to look back and mew again.
"They're leavin'," Rif sighed. "Guess they've got ter go fetch dinner." She raised a hand to wave toward the departing troop.
"We should do the same," Black Cal reminded her, reluctant to part with the day's wonder. The I'm Alone Two rocked at anchor not far off, and he turned to stroke toward it.
Back on board they hauled in the trailing line, pulled up the anchor and set the sails to head them back toward land, saying nothing until the sun had dried them thoroughly. Almost reluctantly, they pulled their clothes on and poked about in the larder for any leftover food, finding only the half-bottle of wine. Rif solemnly poured it out into glasses.
"Ter the cat-whales," she toasted.
"And to many more days like this," Black Cal added, clinking the glasses. "Another intelligent species, and all this time we've never known it."
"So much we don't know 'bout our own world ..." Rif set the glass down, a wild glow coming into her eyes. "D'ye think the sharrh themselves knew 'bout the cat-whales?"
"Maybe ..." Black Cal looked up, startled. "Do you think that could be the reason they wanted our ancestors to leave here? Because they didn't want us to hunt or harm the cat-whales? Could that be it?"
"Maybe, maybe ..." Rif stared out over the empty sea. "But if this was s'posed ter be a—a game preserve fer the cat-whales, why didn' the sharrh ever come back ter see how their pets was gettin' along?
It's been six hundred years, Cal. Surely they would've come ter check up in all that time."
"Maybe not. Who can guess how they think?" Black Cal frowned. That didn't make sense to him, either.
"All the sharrh did was chase our ancestors off, then leave again. Never came back. Old story has it, nothin' but signs o' spaee-goin' tech drew their attention, and they don't care 'bout anythin' less. But why should that be?"
"They didn't want space-travel to or from Mer-ovin." Black Cal shrugged. "They seemed to want this world isolated—maybe to keep the cat-whales stuck on it, too. Who knows?"
"What if . . ." Rif sat up, a wide reckless smile showing her teeth. "What if this was a kind o' sharrh prison-planet? Maybe an exile-place fer . . . fer the cat-whales. What if the sharrh don't care 'bout humans; they just don't want the cat-whales gettin' technology, goin' inter space?!"
"Why the hell. . . ?" Black Cal pondered. "What grudge could the sharrh possibly have against the cat-whales? And ..." A sudden thought struck. "The cubs! The adults have to live in water, but the
cubs could live on land—use tools, build civilization, even get technology for themselves ..."
"—Unless there's somethin' they lack," Rif took up, "Somethin' they'd need ter build their own tech, but can't get here, had to have imported ..."
"But why—"
"Oh, think!" Rif stared out to sea, speculations darting behind her eyes. "What if the cat-whales ain't native ter Merovin? What if their ancestors were colonists, too—colonists what did somethin' ter stir up the sharrh, so the sharrh didn't want 'em gettin' back inter space again? What if the cat-whales are the descendants o' the sharrh?!"
Black Cal thought that over for long moments. "Wild, crazy guess," he finally said. "We've nothing to go on. Hell, there could be a million other reasons that have nothing to do with the cat-whales."
"Sure there could," Rif grinned. "But think o' the possibilities, Cal. Think what the Janes could make o' this."
Black Cal shaped a soundless whistle. "I think . . . your friends just might have an antidote for Crazy Cassie and the deathangel fad."
"Damn right." Rif narrowed her eyes in calculation. "What if the Janes can claim communication with the sharrh?"
APPENDIX
From the files of Anastasi Kalugin, Advocate Militiar
I
From Skit:
. . . Certainly Fon's Revolution has not moved as it held forth to do, to make Old Tech generally accessible to Nev Hettek. To a certain extent such attempts have been hampered by powerful interests and monopolies which fear the loss of their exclusivity: list A attached.
In part also the orthodox Adventist clergy have supported these objections, maintaining in closely held memos (document B) that to deregulate tech too rapidly would open the door to uncontrolled experimentation of a sort that might indeed attract sharrh notice.
II
From Diver:
Organized opposition to Fon is basically centered in the Adventist Orthodoxy, who have thus far remained untouchable, and who have taken extraordinary precautions against covert action and assassination: Fon's agents in the Sword and possibly in other clandestine groups have certainly attempted to gain control of the clergy and the brutal murder of Ellenby this summer is generally believed to be Sword action, but thus far the Moderates have maintained their influence in the Council.