“How can you be sure? How much do we really know about that breed?”

“I know more than most humans.”

“Yah,” drawled Saxtorph, “I reckon you do.”

Markham stiffened. His glance across the desk was like a leveled gun. For a moment there was silence.

Saxtorph got his pipe lit, blew a cloud of smoke, and through it peered back in more relaxed wise. He could afford to; somatic presence does make a difference. Barely shorter than the Wunderlander, he was hugely broader of shoulders and thicker of chest. His face was wide, craggy-nosed, shaggy-browed, with downward-slanted blue eyes and reddish hair that, at age 45, was getting thin. Whatever clothes he put on, they soon looked rumpled, but this gave the impression less of carelessness than of activity.

“What are you implying, Captain?” Markham asked low.

Saxtorph shrugged. “Nothing in particular, Commissioner. It's common knowledge that you have quite a lot to do with'em.”

“Yes. Certain among the rabble have called me 'kzin-lover.' I did not believe you shared their sewer mentality.”

“Whoa, there.” Saxtorph lifted a palm. “Easy, please. Of course you'd take a special interest. After all, the kzin empire, if that's what we should call it, it's still out yonder, and we still know precious little about it. Besides handling matters related to kzin comings and goings, you have to think about the future in space. Getting a better handle on their psychology is a real service.”

Markham eased a bit. “Learning some compassion does no harm either,” he said unexpectedly.

“Hm? Pardon me, but I should think that'd be extra hard for you.” Markham's history flitted through Saxtorph's mind. His mother had apparently married his commoner father out of necessity.