Niven, Larry - Man-Kzin Wars 3

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MAN-KZIN WARS III

Larry Niven with

Poul Anderson, J.E. Pournelle, and

S.M. Stirling

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises EO. Box 1403 Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-72008-2 Cover art by Steve Hickman

First Printing, August 1990 Second Printing, August 1991

Printed in the United States of America

Distributed by Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

CONTENTS

MADNESS HAS ITS PLACE, Larry Niven

THE ASTEROID QUEEN, J.E. Pournelle & S.M. Stirling

INCONSTANT STAR, Poul Anderson

MADNESS HAS ITS PLACE

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man-kzin3

Larry Niven

Chapter I

A lucky few of us know the good days before they’re gone.

I remember my eighties. My job kept me in shape, and gave me enough variety to keep my mind

occupied. My love life was imperfect but interesting. Modern medicine makes the old fairy tales look

insipid; I almost never worried about my health.

Those were the good days, and I knew them. I could remember worse.

I can remember when my memory was better too. That’s what this file is for. I keep it updated for that

reason, and also to maintain my sense of purpose.

The Monobloc had been a singles bar since the 2320s.

In the ‘30s I’d been a regular. I’d found Charlotte there. We held our wedding reception at the

Monobloc, then dropped out for twenty-eight years. My first marriage, hers too, both in our forties. After

the children grew up and moved away, after Charlotte left me too, I came back.

The place was much changed.

I remembered a couple of hundred bottles in the hologram bar display. Now the display was twice as

large and seemed more realistic—better equipment, maybe—but only a score of bottles in the middle

were liquors. The rest were flavored or carbonated water, high-energy drinks, electrolytes, a thousand

kinds of tea; food to match, raw vegetables and fruits kept fresh by high-tech means, arrayed with low-

cholesterol dips; bran in every conceivable form short of injections.

The Monobloc had swallowed its neighbors. It was bigger, with curtained alcoves, and a small gym

upstairs for working out or for dating.

Herbert and Tina Schroeder still owned the place. Their marriage had been open in the ‘30s. They’d

aged since. So had their clientele. Some of us had married or drifted away or died of alcoholism; but

word of mouth and the Velvet Net had maintained a continuous tradition. Twenty-eight years later they

looked better than ever… wrinkled, of course, but lean and muscular, both ready for the Gray Olympics.

Tina let me know before I could ask: she and Herb were lockstepped now.

To me it was like coming home.

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For the next twelve years the Monobloc was an intermittent part of my life.

I would find a lady, or she would find me, and we’d drop out. Or we’d visit the Monobloc and

sometimes trade partners; and one evening we’d go together and leave separately. I was not evading

marriage. Every woman I found worth knowing, ultimately seemed to want to know someone else.

I was nearly bald even then. Thick white hair covered my arms and legs and torso, as if my head hairs

had migrated. Twelve years of running construction robots had turned me burly. From time to time some

muscular lady would look me over and claim me. I had no trouble finding company.

But company never stayed. Had I become dull? The notion struck me as funny.

* * *

I had settled myself alone at a table for two, early on a Thursday evening in 2375. The Monobloc was

half empty. The earlies were all keeping one eye on the door when Anton Brillov came in.

Anton was shorter than me, and much narrower, with a face like an axe. I hadn’t see him in thirteen

years. Still, I’d mentioned the Monobloc once or twice; he must have remembered.

I semaphored my arms. Anton squinted, then came over, exaggeratedly cautious until he saw who it was.

“Jack Strather!”

“Hi, Anton. So you decided to try the place?”

“Yah.” He sat. “You look good.” He looked a moment longer and said, “Relaxed. Placid. How’s

Charlotte?”

“Left me after I retired. Just under a year after. There was too much of me around and I… maybe I was

too placid? Anyway. How are you?”

“Fine.”

Twitchy. Anton looked twitchy. I was amused. “Still with the Holy Office?”

“Only citizens call it that, Jack.”

“I’m a citizen. Still gives me a kick. How’s your chemistry?”

Anton knew what I meant and didn’t pretend otherwise. “I’m okay. I’m down.”

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“Kid, you’re looking over both shoulders at once.”

Anton managed a credible laugh. “I’m not the kid any more. I’m a weekly.”

The ARM had made me a weekly at forty-eight. They couldn’t turn me loose at the end of the day any

more, because my body chemistry couldn’t shift fast enough. So they kept me in the ARM building

Monday through Thursday, and gave me all of Thursday afternoon to shed the schitz madness. Twenty

years of that and I was even less flexible, so they retired me.

I said, “You do have to remember. When you’re in the ARM building, you’re a paranoid schizophrenic.

You have to be able to file that when you’re outside.”

“Hah. How can anyone—”

“You get used to the schitz. After I quit, the difference was amazing. No fears, no tension, no ambition.”

“No Charlotte?”

“Well… I turned boring. And what are you doing here?”

Anton looked around him. “Much the same thing you are, I guess. Jack, am I the youngest one here?”

“Maybe.” I looked around, double-checking. A woman was distracting me, though I could see only her

back and a flash of a laughing profile. Her back was slender and strong, and a thick white braid ran

down her spine, centered, two and a half feet of clean, thick white hair. She was in animated

conversation with a blond companion of Anton’s age plus a few.

But they were at a table for two: they weren’t inviting company. I forced my attention back. “We’re gray

singles, Anton. The young ones tend to get the message quick. We’re slower than we used to be. We

date. You want to order?”

Alcohol wasn’t popular here. Anton must have noticed, but he ordered guava juice and vodka and drank

as if he needed it. This looked worse than Thursday jitters. I let him half finish, then said, “Assuming

you can tell me—”

“I don’t know anything.”

“I know the feeling. What should you know?”

A tension eased behind Anton’s eyes. “There was a message from the Angel’s Pencil.”

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“Pencil… oh.” My mental reflexes had slowed down. The Angel’s Pencil had departed twenty years ago

for… was it Epsilon Eridani? “Come on, kid, it’ll be in the boob cubes before you have quite finished

speaking. Anything from deep space is public property.”

“Hah! No. It’s restricted. I haven’t seen it myself. Only a reference, and it must be more than ten years

old.”

That was peculiar. And if the Belt stations hadn’t spread the news through the solar system, that was

peculiar. No wonder Anton was antsy. ARMs react that way to puzzles.

Anton seemed to jerk himself back to here and now, back to the gray singles regime. “Am I cramping

your style?”

“No problem. Nobody hurries in the Monobloc. If you see someone you like—” My fingers danced over

lighted symbols on the rim of the table. “This gets you a map. Locate where she’s sitting, put the cursor

on it. That gets you a display… hmm.”

I’d set the cursor on the white-haired lady. I liked the readout. “Phoebe Garrison, seventy-nine, eleven or

twelve years older than you. Straight. Won a Second in the Gray Jumps last year… that’s the America’s

skiing Matches for seventy and over. She could kick your tail if you don’t watch your manners. It says

she’s smarter than we are, too.

“Point is, she can check you out the same way. Or me. And she probably found this place through the

Velvet Net, which is the computer network for unlocked lifestyles.”

“So. Two males sitting together—”

“Anyone who thinks we’re bent can check if she cares enough. Bends don’t come to the Monobloc

anyway. But if we want company, we should move to a bigger table.”

We did that. I caught Phoebe Garrison’s companion’s eye. They played with their table controls,

discussed, and presently wandered over.

Dinner turned into a carouse. Alcohol was involved, but we’d left the Monobloc by then. When we split

up, Anton was with Michiko. I went home with Phoebe.

Phoebe had fine legs, as I’d anticipated, though both knees were teflon and plastic. Her face was lovely

even in morning sunlight. Wrinkled, of course. She was two weeks short of eighty and wincing in

anticipation. She ate with a cross-country skier’s appetite. We told of our lives as we ate.

She’d come to Santa Maria to visit her oldest grandson. In her youth she’d done critical work in

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man-kzin3MAN-KZINWARSIIILarryNivenwithPoulAnderson,J.E.Pournelle,andS.M.StirlingThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©1990byLarryNivenAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbook...

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