Catseye by Andre Norton

stretched out on it. If he could not find the kinkajou one way, there was a chance—just a very faint chance—another and more devious path might serve.

EIGHT
    Troy’s eyes were shut. He willed nerves and muscles to relax, trying to hit by chance, since he had no better guide, on the pattern that had aided him that other night to tune in upon the exchange that was not conversation. Through the corns all the usual noises from the bird and animal rooms reached him, and he tried not to listen.
    â€œâ€”here. Out—”
    Not really words, rather impressions—a signal, a plea. Troy’s eyes opened; he sat up—and that whisper of contact was gone. Angry at his own lack of control, he settled himself once more on the bunk, tried again to tap that band of communication.
    â€œOut—out—danger—”
    He lay, hardly breathing, trying to hold that line.
    â€œOut—”
    Yes, it was a plea; he was certain of that. But there was no way of discovering from whom or from where it came. He might have stumbled upon a small loop of rope in the middle of a large room, to be told to find the coil from which it had been cut.
    â€œWhere?” He tried to frame that word in his own mind, force the inquiry into the band he could not locate.
    Then he received an impression of surprise—so strong it was like an exclamation his ears could pick up.
    â€œWho? Who?” The query was eager, demanding.
    â€œTroy—” He thought his own name but was answered by a sense of bafflement, disappointment. Maybe names meant nothing in this eerie exchange. Troy tried to build up a mental picture of his own face as he had seen it in mirrors. He thought intensely of that face, of each detail of his own features.
    The sensation of bafflement faded, though he was sure he had not lost contact.
    â€œWho?” he asked silently in return, certain that he was communicating with the kinkajou.
    But instead an oddly shaped and distorted picture of a triangular mask, sharp-pointed nose, glittering eyes, pricked ears—the fox!
    Troy slipped out of his bunk. He did not foresee any trouble. If Kyger or Zul turned up, he could always say he was investigating some unusual sound. Yet he took the stunner from its wall niche before he left the small room and went as noiselessly as he could down the corridor to the animal room.
    There was a cover over the front of the fox cage. Troy raised that flap. Both animals sat there, watching him. He glanced about the room. Even in the dim night light he could see nothing amiss. This could not be a case of an intruder as it had been when the kinkajou’s warning had saved his life.
    â€œWhat is wrong?” At the moment there was nothing strange in his standing there thinking that question at a pair of Terran foxes.
    â€œThe big one—he threatens.”
    It was as if someone with a strictly curtailed number of words was trying to convey a complex thought. The big one—Kyger?
    â€œYes!” The assent was quick, eager.
    â€œWhat is wrong?”
    â€œHe fears—thinks better dead—”
    â€œWho is better dead?” Troy’s grip on the stunner tightened. He felt a cold stab between his shoulders giving birth to a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
    â€œThose who know—all those who know—”
    â€œMe?” Troy countered quickly. Though of what Kyger might suspect him or why he had no idea.
    There was no answer. Either he had presented them with a new puzzle, or, unable to give a definite reply, they gave none at all.
    â€œYou?”
    â€œYes—” But there was an element of doubt in that yes.
    â€œOthers like you?” Troy pushed.
    â€œYes!” now there was no mistaking the vehemence of that.
    He thought of the kinkajou. One of the foxes reared, put front paws against the screening of the cage. “It was here. Now it is there.”
    â€œWhere?” Troy tried to