Man-Kzin Wars XIII-ARC by Larry Niven

herself, partly prodded by a couple of Otto Bismarck’s beefiest security officers. Then he sat and refused to answer any questions.
    The next part was very unpleasant. Jenni was told to absent herself. She did so, but judging from the kzin’s reaction when later she went to check him over and take him for his usual exercise, Otto Bismarck’s methods of persuasion had not been solely verbal. There were no obvious marks or scars, but a blood chemistry reading showed a high level of stress hormones. The kzin was also quite jumpy—something not exactly pleasant in a creature nearly three meters tall and increasingly muscular beneath the loose orange-black-striped fur.
    So matters continued for several days. Jenni found mild burns beneath the kzin’s fur, making her suspect some form of electrical stimulus was being used. The kzin’s appetite began to slacken. Then, on the very day that Jenni had resolved she must protest, a sleek and satisfied Otto Bismarck summoned her.
    “I thought,” he said, leading her down the tunnel toward the cave in which the holographic representation of the kzinti ship’s cockpit was displayed, “you would like to see this. We have sound-dampening screens up, but still, keep your voice low.”
    Jenni did so. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or saddened by what she saw. The kzin sat restrained in an oversized chair in front of the display, obviously attempting to answer the questions put to him by the member of Otto’s staff who sat in a much smaller chair next to him.
    “Why the restraints?” Jenni asked. “He seems cooperative enough.”
    “We had a bad moment when one of my team members forgot himself and smiled after the kzin offered the solution to a problem we’d been stumped by for weeks. The kzin only nicked him, but it was a warning. I think the kzin actually prefers being restrained to otherwise. I believe he sees it as being protected from himself.”
    Or from what you’ll do to him if he slips up, Jenni guessed, but didn’t vocalize her thought. There was something uncomfortable in Miffy’s body language, a sense that because he believed himself in control, he was more dangerous than before.
    She’d seen the like back in pre-War days. Earth’s culture had followed a creed of pacifism, but although a combination of acculturation, psychiatric counseling, and judicious use of chemical cocktails had maintained this creed, still there had been those who kept big pets—huge dogs or spirited horses—and clearly found an outlet for forbidden aggressive behaviors in their ability to dominate their pets.
    She looked at Miffy. Not a horse person. In any case, making horses do precisely what you wanted was more a female kink. She decided that before the war, Miffy had probably had a dog or two, probably Rottweilers or pit bulls, maybe Doberman pinchers, but she suspected the more overtly muscular breeds would have been his type.
    And now he has a kzin of his very own . . . How long before he begins to resent my relationship with the creature? I’ve overheard some of the guards referring to me as the lion-tamer because the kzin will walk with me. I had better take measures . . .
    So she said, “I think using restraints is very wise. The kzin’s bloodwork shows that he cannot take too much more of the tranquilizing drugs without suffering a set-back. At the very least, his mental processes would be dulled and you need those. I’d been thinking about changing my own safeguards during physical therapy.”
    Miffy nodded, clearly pleased by her approval.
    If I’m not careful, he’s going to come after me next. How better to deal with the lion-tamer who is making you feel inadequate than by taming her? I’ve got to be careful.
    And for the first time, Jenni was not completely happy with her lovely labs and the isolated base, for she realized she was at the mercy of a man who would be ruthless if his dominance was threatened.
    * * *
    The kzin had not enjoyed being