“But if they lived?”

“If they lived. Yeah. The Hindmost did the actual programming. I couldn’t go into that section of the Repair Center. It was infested with tree-of-life. I made it possible for him to spray a plasma jet from the sun across five percent of the Ringworld. If he didn’t do that, then I can… live. So the Hindmost owns me again. And that’s important, if I’m the reason he doesn’t own you.”

“Exactly.”

“So show Louis an old recording and say it’s a live broadcast—”

The wind was rising, gusts drowning the voices. Chmeee: “What if… numbers…”

“…Hindmost to drop it…”

“…brain is aging faster than the rest of you!” The Kzin lost patience, dropped to all fours and bounded away down the deck. It didn’t matter. They were out of range.

The Hindmost screamed like the world’s biggest espresso device tearing itself apart.

In his scream were pitches and overtones no creature of Earth or Kzin could hear, with harmonics that held considerable information. Lineages for two species barely out of the veldt, down from the trees. Designs for equipment that would cause a sun to flare, then cause the flare to lase, a cannon of Ringworld scale. Specs for computer equipment miniaturized to the quantum level, sprayed across the Hindmost’s cabin like a coat of paint. Programs of vast resiliency and power.

You twisted rejects from half-savage, half-sapient breeds! Your pitiful protector, your luck-bred Teela, hadn’t the flexibility or the understanding, but you don’t even have the wit to listen. I saved them all! I, with software from my ship!

One shriek and the Hindmost was calm again. He hadn’t missed a step. Back one, bow, while the Moment’s Leader engages the Brides in quadret: a chance to get a drink of water, badly needed. One head lowered to suck, one raised to watch the dance: sometimes there were variations.