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Chapter 39




“I HAVE THAT DAMNED prevision again,” he told the telepath. “The Ballad of Captain Kidd. I murdered William Moore, and all the rest of it.”

“I know,” said Mayhew.

“You would. But I don’t like it. There’re a few people aboard this ship who tempt me to commit murder—but Williams isn’t one of them.”

“But it’s not a certainty, Commodore. It’s no more than one of the many possibilities.”

“A probability, Mr. Mayhew.”

“But still not a certainty.”

“Then I’ll just have to hope for the best. Now, you’ve got your fingers on the pulse of the ship. Is everybody happy in the service?”

“At the moment, sir, yes. Even Her Highness the Countess of Walshingham.”

“She’s not a ‘highness.’ She’s only a Countess.”

Mayhew grinned. “Of course, sir, you are more familiar with aristocratic ranks and ratings than we low, common spacemen are. Oh, have you seen dear Wally’s pet yet?”

“No.”

“I have. The thing gives me the creeps. Outwardly it’s no more than a cat—a big one, black, with a white bib and socks. But the fur’s synthetic and the claws are razor-sharp steel and the skeleton is steel too. And the battery that powers its motors will deliver at maximum capacity for all of twelve standard months. The brain’s organic, though. A feline brain, modified, with absolute loyalty to the Countess. And it’s programed to kill—anybody or anything—to protect her or if she so orders it. And it’s programed to self-destruct if its mistress dies.”

“So there’s a bomb of some kind inside it,” said Grimes.

“That I don’t know, sir. I don’t possess X-ray vision.”

“Presumably dear Wally knows.”

“But unless she’s actually thinking about it there’s no way that I can tell.”

“What is she thinking about now?”

Mayhew looked pained.

“First you tell me that you do not approve of . . . snooping. Now you tell me to snoop.” He creased his brow in concentration. Suddenly and surprisingly he blushed. “Oh, no,” he muttered. “No . . .”

“What is it, Mr. Mayhew?”

“It’s embarrassing, that’s what. Ms. Connellan and the Countess are both off watch. How would you like to experience the sensation of that green, greasy skin against yours? Those fat, floppy breasts . . .”

“That will do, Mr. Mayhew.”

The telepath grinned. “Well, you asked for it, sir, and you got it. The trouble is that I did too.”







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Framed