The Navigator

Book 7: The NUMA Files

by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos

Genres: Action & Adventure; Sea Adventures; Suspense

Synopsis

Years ago, an ancient Phoenician statue known as the Navigator was stolen from the Baghdad Museum, and there are men who would do anything to get their hands on it. Their first victim is a crooked antiquities dealer, murdered in cold blood. Their second very nearly is a UN investigator who, were it not for the timely assistance of Austin and Zavala, would now be at the bottom of a watery grave.

What's so special about this statue? Austin wonders. The search for answers will take the NUMA team on an astonishing odyssey through time and space, one that encompasses no less than the lost treasures of King Solomon, a mysterious packet of documents personally encoded by Thomas Jefferson, and a top-secret scientific project that could change the world forever.

And that's before the surprises really begin....

Rich with all the hair-raising action and endless invention that have become Cussler's hallmarks, The Navigator is Clive's best yet.

Release date: June 24, 2008

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 544

Sample

A FAR-OFF LAND, ABOUT 900 B.C.

THE MONSTER EMERGED FROM THE MORNING MISTS IN THE pearly light of dawn. The massive head, with its long snout and flaring nostrils, advanced toward shore where the hunter knelt, bowstring taut to his cheek, eyes focused on a deer grazing in the marsh. A rippling sound caught the hunter’s ear and he glanced out at the water. He uttered a fearful moan, threw the bow aside, and leaped to his feet. The startled deer disappeared into the woods with the terrified hunter close on its tail.

The tendrils of fog parted to reveal a giant sailing ship. Curtains of seaweed fringed the vessel’s two-hundred-foot-long wooden hull of reddish brown. A man stood on the ship’s upswept stem behind the carved figurehead of a snorting stallion. He had been gazing into a small wooden box. As the ghostly shoreline materialized, the man raised his head and pointed to the left.

The helmsmen at the twin steering oars brought the ship around in a graceful turn that sent it on a new course parallel to the densely wooded shoreline. Deckhands expertly adjusted the vertically striped red-and-white square sail to compensate for the change in direction.

The captain was in his midtwenties, but the serious expression on his handsome face added years to his appearance. His strong nose was curved slightly at the bridge. His thick black beard was arranged in rows around a full mouth and square jaw. Sun and sea had tanned his skin to a mahogany hue. The unfathomable eyes that scanned the shoreline were a deep brown that was so dark the pupils were almost invisible.

The captain’s high station in life entitled him to wear a purple robe dyed with the valuable extract from the murex snail. He preferred to go bare-chested, and wore the cotton kilt of an ordinary crewman. A floppy, conical knit cap covered the close-cropped, wavy black hair.

The briny smell of the sea had faded as the ship left the open ocean and entered the wide bay. The captain filled his lungs with air that was redolent with the scent of flowers and green growing things. He savored the prospect of freshwater and ached to set foot on dry land.

Although the voyage was long, it had gone well, thanks to the handpicked Phoenician crew, all seasoned deepwater mariners. The crew included a scattering of Egyptians and Libyans, and others from the countries bordering the Mediterranean. A contingent of Scythian marines provided security.

The Phoenicians were the finest seamen in the world, adventurous explorers and traders whose maritime empire extended throughout the Mediterranean and beyond the Pillars of Hercules and the Red Sea. Unlike the Greeks and the Egyptians, whose ships hugged the shore and dropped anchor when the sun set, the fearless Phoenicians sailed day and night out of sight of land. With a fair wind from astern, their big trading ships could cover more than a hundred miles a day.

The captain was not Phoenician by birth, but he was well versed in the sea arts. His command of navigation and seamanship and his cool judgment during bouts of bad weather had quickly gained the crew’s respect.

The vessel under the captain’s command was a “ship of Tarshish,” built specifically for long-range commerce on the open ocean. Unlike the more tubby short-haul traders, the vessel’s lines were long and straight. The deck and hull timbers were hewn from tough Lebanese cedar, and the thick mast was low and strong. The square Egyptian-linen sail, quilted with leather belts for strength, was the most efficient deepwater sailing rig in existence. The curved keel and upswept stem and stern presaged the Viking ships that would not be built until centuries later.

The secret behind Phoenician mastery of the sea went beyond technology. Organization aboard their ships was legendary. Each crewman knew his place in the well-oiled machinery that was a Phoenician sea venture. Rigging was neatly stowed in an easily accessible room that was the responsibility of the captain’s assistant. The lookout man knew the location of each piece of tackle, and constantly tested the ship’s rigging to make sure it would work if needed in an emergency.

The captain felt something soft brush against his bare leg. Allowing himself a rare smile, he set the wooden box in a receptacle and reached down and picked up the ship’s cat. Phoenician cats had their origins in Egypt where the animals were worshipped as gods. Phoenician ships carried cats as trade items and for rat control. The captain stroked the orange-and-yellow-striped cat a few times, then gently set the purring feline back down on the deck. The ship was approaching the wide mouth of a river.

The captain called out a command to the lookout man.

“Prepare the riggers to drop sail, and alert the oarsmen.”

The lookout man relayed the first command to a pair of crewmen, who scrambled like monkeys up the mast to the yardarm. Two other sailors tossed lines attached to the lower corners of the sail to the riggers, who used the ropes to reef the big linen square.

Brawny-armed rowers arranged in two ranks of twenty were already at their benches. Unlike the slave rowers on many vessels, the oarsmen who powered the ship forward with quick, precise strokes were trained professionals.

The helmsmen steered the ship into the river. Although the river was swollen with spring runoff from snow melting in the hills and mountains, its shallow waters and rapids would prevent the ship from moving farther upstream.

The Scythian mercenaries lined the ship’s rail, their weapons at the ready. The captain stood on the prow, surveying the riverbank. He saw a grassy promontory that projected into the river and ordered the oarsmen to hold the ship against the current while the deck crew dropped anchor.

A muscular man with prominent cheekbones and a face as weathered as old saddle leather strode up to the captain. Tarsa commanded the Scythian marines who protected the ship and its cargo. Related to the Mongols, the Scythians were known for their skill as horsemen and bowmen, and for their peculiar habits.

In battle, they drank the blood of their vanquished enemies and took scalps that they used as napkins. Tarsa and his men painted their bodies red and blue, cleansed themselves with vapor baths, and wore leather shirts and trousers tucked into soft leather boots. Even the poorest Scythian adorned his clothes with gold ornaments. Tarsa wore a small horse pendant that the captain had given him.

“I’ll organize a scouting party to go ashore,” Tarsa said.

The captain nodded. “I’m going with you.”

A smile came to the Scythian’s stony face. As a landsman he had had little faith at first in the young captain’s ability to keep the ship afloat. But he had watched the captain command the massive ship and had seen that there was iron behind the young man’s patrician features and soft-spoken manner.

The wide-bodied utility boat normally towed behind the ship was brought alongside. The Scythian and three of his toughest fighters got into the boat with the captain and two strong rowers.

Minutes later the boat bumped against the promontory with a hard, grating sound. Under the grass overgrowth was a stone quay. The captain tied the boat up to a bollard that was all but hidden by weeds.

Tarsa ordered one man to stay with the rowers. Then he set off with the captain and the other Scythians along the overgrown stone-paved road that ran inland from the quay. After weeks spent on a rocking deck, they walked with an unsteady gait but quickly recovered their land legs. A few hundred feet from the river they encountered a weed-choked central plaza lined on all four sides by dilapidated buildings. Tall grass grew in the open doorways and alleys.

The captain pictured the settlement as it was on his first visit. The plaza had bustled with activity. Hundreds of workers had occupied the flat-roofed dormitories and toiled in the warehouses.

The landing party methodically searched every building. Satisfied that the settlement was deserted, the captain led the way back to the river. He walked to the end of the pier and waved. As the crew hauled anchor and the rowers powered the ship toward the quay, the captain turned to the Scythian commander.

“Are your men ready for the important task that lies ahead?”

The question brought a snort from the Scythian. “My men are ready for anything.”

The captain was unsurprised at the answer. He had spent many hours talking to Tarsa during the long voyage. The captain’s unquenchable thirst for knowledge about people of all races had led him to question Tarsa about his homeland and people, and he had come to like the tough old warrior in spite of his blue-and-red skin and his odd habits.

The ship tied up to the quay and the crew lowered a wide gangplank. Hooves pounded on the deck as two draft horses were led from their stable beneath the stern and down the ramp. The animals were nervous at being out in the open, but the Scythians quickly calmed them with soft words and handfuls of honey-soaked grain.

The captain organized a work party to take on freshwater and forage for food. Then he descended into the hold and stood next to a crate made out of sturdy Lebanese cedar. The container seemed to glow in the light streaming through the deck hatch. He called up to the crew to use great care in hoisting it from the hold.

Thick ropes were attached to the crate and affixed to the boom hook. The boom creaked under the heavy weight. The crate was lifted slowly from the hold and lowered onto the deck. The hook was detached, and oars were passed through holes in the sides and ends of the container, to be used as carrying poles. Men shouldered the poles and moved the crate down the ramp onto the quay.

The crate was lifted onto a low-slung cart that rested on sturdy, ironbound wooden wheels. The horses were harnessed to the cart. The marines slung their shields and bows over their shoulders, and, with spears in hand, formed protective flanks on each side. The captain and the Scythian commander took the lead. The procession surged forward with a clatter of weapons.

They marched through the abandoned settlement to a road that had been cut through the forest along the course of the river. Grass had grown up in the track, but the road still afforded rapid progress through the dense woods. The procession stopped each night to set up camp. On the morning of the third day, the marchers came to a valley between two low mountains.

The captain stopped the column and removed from his pack the same wooden box he had consulted on the ship. As the soldiers took a rest break and tended to the horses, he lifted the cover, poured in a small amount of water, and peered into the box. He glanced from the box to a scroll of vellum that he carried in a cloth sack. Then he pushed on with the unerring determination of a migratory bird.

The procession marched through the valley and eventually came to a field where remnants of round millstones were visible through the tall grass. The captain remembered the field when teams of sweating men had turned the stone wheels. Workers had poured baskets full of rocks into the mills, which ground the contents into powder. The powder had been carried over to fire pits. Bellows had stoked the blazes to white-hot intensity. Workers tilted clay crucibles and poured the glowing yellow molten contents into brick-shaped molds.

The expedition pushed on and came upon two stone idols. Each statue was twice the height of a man, and depicted a more or less human form from the neck down. The idols had been carved to frighten natives away. The nightmarish heads were a combination of animal and human, taking the worst features of each, as if the sculptor intended to create the most hideous and frightening face imaginable. Even the tough mercenaries were ill at ease. They nervously switched their spears from one hand to the other and cast wary glances at the evil-looking idols.

The captain consulted his magic box and vellum scroll, and plunged into the woods. The procession followed in the artificial twilight created by the canopy of foliage. Thick tree roots were a frequent obstacle, but after about an hour of marching the procession emerged from the woods. They approached the smooth face of a low rock wall at the base of the ridge. Two more idols, identical to the first pair, barred the way.

Using the idols for reference, the captain triangulated a point on the rock wall. He groped along the vertical face like a blind man who had encountered an unexpected obstacle. His probing fingers found a barely visible set of handholds, which he used to climb up the side of the wall.

About a dozen feet above the ground he turned his body and sat in a rock hollow. He borrowed a spear, which he inserted in a crack as a lever. The soldiers tossed a rope up, which he attached to the spear shaft. The other end of the rope was tied to a horse. The captain called out a signal, and the horse pulled while he pushed with his feet against a slight outcropping. A rock slab about a foot thick detached itself and slammed down with a thud, revealing a cavity about six feet wide and ten feet high.

After descending from the rock wall the captain started a fire in a nest of dry grass, then transferred the smoldering blaze to a bundle of brush. Holding the torch high, he led the way through the opening. The Scythians had hitched themselves to the harnesses and proceeded to pull the cart through a smooth-walled tunnel, which extended for about fifty feet before it opened up into a chamber.

The captain lit several oil lamps set into sconces along the wall of the chamber. The blazing ring of light revealed a large circular gallery, with tunnels leading off from it. In the center of the room was a circular section of rock about three feet high and six feet in diameter. The captain directed the Scythians to raise the crate to the dais. At his order, they removed the lid and stepped back.

The captain leaned into the crate and lifted the cover on a slightly smaller, more ornate chest of gold and dark wood. As he peeled away layers of blue cloth, his heart hammered against his rib cage. He stared, transfixed; his face glowed in the reflection coming from the box. After a moment, the captain carefully rearranged the blue cloth and cover. Tarsa’s men replaced the lid.

“Our mission here is done,” he said, his words echoing in the chamber.

He led the way outside. The clean, cool air felt good against his sweaty face and cleansed the dust from his lungs. The captain directed the Scythians to lift the stone slab back in place. He studied the wall. No one would suspect that the slab hid the opening.

The column set off the way it had come. The procession moved at a brisk pace, without the weight burdening the cart, and marched directly to the river. Built along the sloping shore of the river was a wooden building whose large doors faced the water. The captain inspected the interior of the building. When he emerged, he seemed pleased. He told Tarsa and his men to prepare a fine meal and get a good night’s sleep.

At dawn, the tireless captain awoke them. The horses dragged a wooden boat from the storehouse and down to the river. The open-decked craft was half boat, half raft, around fifty feet long and a dozen or so feet wide, and drew only a few feet of water. A long tiller operated the rudder.

The horses were led onto the boat, and it was pushed and poled into the river to catch the currents. The ride downriver was more hair-raising than their sea voyage. The boat encountered shallows, rapids, drifting trees, whirlpools, and rocks. The Scythians cheered when the boat popped out of the mouth of the river and they saw the ship at its mooring.

The ship’s crew welcomed the new arrivals and helped drag the riverboat onto shore. While the captain wrote in his log, the crew celebrated late into the night. They were astir well before dawn, and the sun was just peeking over the trees as they cast off the mooring lines. Powered by the ranks of oarsmen and the wind, the ship moved swiftly out into the bay, the rowers putting their backs into their work. Like every other man on board, they were impatient to return home.

The exuberance on board the vessel was cut short by an unexpected development. As the ship passed an island, another vessel pulled out and barred their way.

THE CAPTAIN SHOUTED A brisk order to ship oars and drop sails. He climbed onto a large water urn in the bow to better study the vessel. There was no sign of life on board, but the deck was obscured by a wicker fence for cargo protection that ran along the sheer strake, as the highest hull plank was called.

He was looking at a ship of Tarshish.

The craft had the same functionally graceful lines as the captain’s ship. The deck was long and straight, and the curving stern and horse-head-sculpted stem rose high above the water. The captain’s razor-sharp eyes picked out important differences between the two ships. The strange craft had been built for trade and modified for war.

The stranger’s bow was bound with bronze rather than wood, creating a beak that could tear the heart out of the strongest-built ship. The massive scull and prow oars clamped to the hull could serve as battering rams.

The Scythian commander came up to the captain. “Should we send a boarding party?”

The captain pondered the question. A Phoenician ship should pose no threat, but there was no reason for the vessel to be where it was. Its actions, while not hostile, were certain not friendly.

“No,” the captain said. “We wait.”

Five minutes passed. Then ten. After twenty minutes, figures could be seen climbing down a ladder into the warship’s utility boat. The boat approached to within earshot. There were four men at the oars. A fifth stood with legs wide in the prow, his purple cloak billowing out behind him like a loose sail. He cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Greetings, my brother,” he shouted across the water.

“Greetings to you, brother,” the captain said with surprise. “How came you here?”

A look of mock incredulity appeared on the man’s face. He pointed to the warship. “I came as you did, Menelik, in a ship of Tarshish.”

“For what purpose, Melqart?”

“To join forces once again, dear brother.”

The captain’s face betrayed no emotion, but his dark eyes smoldered with anger. “You knew of my mission?”

“We are family, are we not? There are no secrets among kin.”

“Then make no secret to me of your wishes.”

“Yes, of course. Come aboard my ship and we’ll talk.”

“My ship’s hospitality is open to you as well.”

The man in purple laughed. “It’s obvious that we lack brotherly trust.”

“Maybe that’s because we are only half brothers.”

“We share the same blood, nonetheless.” Melqart pointed to the island. “Let us stop this childish discussion and meet on neutral ground to talk.”

The captain studied the island. Unlike most of the heavily treed shoreline, the sandy riverbank was flat for a few hundred feet before rising into a low, grassy ridge.

“Very well,” he shouted.

The captain told Tarsa to round up a landing party. Tarsa picked four of his most battle-hardened men. Minutes later, the utility boat nudged up to the riverbank. The Scythians stayed with the boat while the captain strode up the sloping beach.

His half brother stood a hundred feet from the shore with arms crossed. He was dressed in full Phoenician regalia, with a richly patterned two-piece tunic under his purple cloak and a conical cap on his head. A gold collar encircled his neck, and his arms and fingers were adorned with gold.

He was the captain’s equal in height, and his handsome face bore a sharp resemblance to his brother’s, with its prominent nose, dark complexion, wavy hair and beard. There were major differences, however. The captain’s regal bearing came across as imperious and arrogant while his half brother’s features were brutish rather than strong. His dark eyes had no depth or softness. His prominent chin hinted at stubbornness rather than determination.

“How wonderful to see you after all these years, dear brother,” Melqart said, with an engaging smile that had more slyness than charm in it.

The captain was in no mood for insincere niceties. “Why are you here?” he demanded.

“Perhaps our father decided that you needed help on your mission.”

“He would never have trusted you.”

“He obviously entrusted you, and you’re a thief.”

The captain’s cheeks burned at the insult, but he held his anger in check. “You haven’t answered my question.”

His half brother shrugged. “I learned that you were on the move. I tried to intercept you, but your ship was too fast and we fell behind.”

“Why has your ship been fit for war?”

“These are dangerous waters.”

“You defy our father by coming here. This would not be his wish.”

“Our father.” He spit out the words. “Our father was a womanizer who slept with your whore of a mother.”

“And your whore of a mother as well?”

Melqart pulled his purple robe back. His hand started toward the pommel of his sword, but he thought better of it and drew his hand back. “We are foolish to quarrel over family matters,” he soothed. “Let us go back to my ship. I will serve you refreshments, and we can talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about. You will turn your ship back. We will follow.”

The captain spun on his heel and strode back toward the river. He kept his ear cocked for footfalls, in the unlikely event that his brother found the courage to attack him. But the only sound he heard was Tarsa, who cried out:

“Captain! Behind you!”

The Scythian had seen a dozen or so figures rise from the grassy ridge behind the beach.

The captain wheeled as the men sprinted in his direction. Tattoos decorated their shoulders and chests.

Thracians.

Another fierce-eyed race that hired out its skills with the sword and javelin to the Phoenician navies. The Thracians swept by his half brother, who urged them on:

“Kill him! Kill him!”

The captain drew his short broadsword as the screaming Thracians quickly encircled him.

He pivoted to face his attackers, but he couldn’t guard his back. A Thracian moved in with his javelin in throwing position, only to stop short and drop his weapon. Clutching at the feathered shaft protruding from his throat, he let out a wet cough, sank to his knees, and fell forward face-first into the sand.

Tarsa calmly notched another arrow to his bowstring. With no more effort than taking a breath, he killed a second Thracian. The others scattered.

Tarsa’s bowmen unleashed a deadly rain of arrows that found their mark in the backs of the fleeing Thracians.

The captain let out a mighty war cry and ran up the beach. He swung his sword in a powerful blow that would have decapitated his half brother if Melqart hadn’t sideslipped the blade in a desperate parry. Under the flurry of blows that followed, Melqart tripped over his robes and fell in the soft sand.

He rolled onto his back and threw his sword aside. “Don’t kill me, my brother.”

The captain hesitated. Evil as he was, Melqart was still a blood relative.

Tarsa shouted another warning.

A second wave of Thracians had appeared on the ridge to reinforce the first line of attackers.

The captain backed off and dashed for the boat, leaping over the dead bodies of the attackers.

The Scythians unleashed their last arrows. The hastily aimed shots slowed the Thracians’ advance but didn’t stop it.

Tarsa threw his bow aside, grabbed the captain in his powerful arms, and lifted him into the boat. The rowers pulled at the oars and put the boat quickly out of range of the javelins, which splashed harmlessly into the water behind them.

The captain climbed onto the deck of his ship. The lookout man was handing out spears and swords, which he had neatly organized in an on-deck weapons room.

Melqart’s boat pushed off from the beach with the last of the Thracians. The wicker fence on board the warship dropped to reveal at least a hundred men on a raised combat deck.

The sun glinted off their spear tips. Their shields were hung over the balustrade to create a defensive wall. The captain saw plumes of smoke rising from the deck and ordered urns of water placed around the ship.

Trailed by thin streaks of smoke, flaming arrows dipped in pitch rose from the ship and arced down from the skies in a fiery shower.

No arrow found a human target, but some stuck in the sides and deck of the ship. The flames were doused with water from the urns, but another volley followed the first, and some of the flaming arrows landed in the furled sail.

Crewmen pulled the sail onto the deck and stamped on the blazing cloth, ignoring the glowing embers that burned their feet and legs.

The captain barked an order to lift anchor. As the Scythians unleashed a deadly volley of arrows for cover, the rowers moved the ship backward out of range of the fire arrows. But the awkward maneuver left the ship broadside to the other vessel.

Flames from the sail were spreading. The captain knew that his vessel was doomed. Ships were made of wood, hemp, pitch, and cloth. Within minutes, the vessel would become a huge flaming torch.

The warship was preparing to come in for the kill.

The large oars at both ends of the ship were being used to swing the vessel rapidly around in a hundred-eighty-degree turn that would bring the bronze battering ram into play.

The ram would punch a hole in the burning ship. Once the ship foundered, it would be peppered with more fire arrows. Grenades filled with flaming oil would be suspended from the bow on poles.

The captain ordered the helmsmen to turn the ship. When the bow pointed downstream, he yelled to the rowers.

“Full speed ahead!”

The ship lurched like a lazy whale and gained speed. The enemy vessel was still turning, and would never be in a more-vulnerable position. Although the prow of the captain’s ship was not sheathed with metal, the thick Lebanese timbers could be used with deadly effect.

Hooves thundered amid the shouts of men. The horses had broken loose from their stable and had climbed up a ramp onto the deck. The Scythians dropped their bows and tried to drive the horses back below. The animals reared and rolled their eyes, more frightened of the smoke and fire than of the noisy human beings.

The ships were yards apart. The captain could see a figure in purple striding from one end of the deck to the other as Melqart urged his crew to move faster.

The burning vessel crunched into the warship. The captain lost his footing and fell to his knees but quickly climbed back to his feet. The horse-head figurehead hung at an angle. The ship had bounced back and was swinging so that its hull would be side by side with the other vessel. Enemy archers could pick them off at will. Spear-carrying warriors would swarm aboard to finish the job.

Discipline had broken down on his ship. Men ran about the burning deck trying to avoid being cremated or trampled by the rampaging horses.

The ships crunched up against one another.

A gust of wind cleared the smoke for an instant. The captain saw the grinning face of his brother staring at him from only a few yards away.

Galvanized, the captain waded along the main deck through clouds of smoke and tried to rally his panicked crew.

A horse reared up in front of the captain, and he had to draw back to avoid being crushed. Suddenly inspired, he plucked a shred of burning sail from the deck and waved it at the horse. The animal reared, and pawed the air with its sharp hooves. He yelled at the Scythians to follow his lead.

A ragged line formed. Shouting and brandishing pieces of flaming cloth or leather shirts in the air, they herded the horses against the low ship’s rail.

Tattooed Thracians lined the rail on the other vessel, their eyes glittering in anticipation of the massacre to come. But then the horses half leaped and half climbed over the rail and onto the deck of the warship. The animals crashed through the line of warriors and raced madly from one end of the deck to the other, trampling anyone in their way.

The captain vaulted over the rail, with the Scythians close behind. A quick thrust of his sword dropped the first man he encountered. Then his entire crew swarmed aboard. The Thracians drew back in confusion under the fierce attack.

The captain’s face was black with soot. He was bleeding from several nonfatal sword and spear wounds, but he moved inexorably toward Melqart, who had seen the tide of battle turn and was trying to find safety at the raised aft end of ship. Menelik climbed a short ladder to the stern where his half brother cowered.

This time he would not hesitate to deliver the fatal blow.

As his sword struck living flesh, however, something hard crashed into the captain’s skull and he crumpled to the deck, a curtain of blackness falling over his eyes.

LATER, WHEN THE LAST trace of the battle had bubbled to the surface, the silent witness who had been hiding in the grass made his way cautiously along the beach not far from where he had first seen the horse-head monster.

All was quiet. The cries of pain and agony and the clash of weapons had faded. There was only the soft ripple of water along the riverbank, which was littered with the dead. He went from body to body, ignoring gold ornaments in favor of more-useful items.

He was bending over to pick up more booty when he heard a pitiful meow. The soggy mass of yellowish orange fur had its claws dug into a charred board. The hunter had never seen a cat before, and, for