Feline Red

It was up to Jerill to think fast ... to do something ... before those strange beasts sucked away the last purified ore on the freighter Bertha.
A shouting wave of men rioted through the engine room.
From the bridge above the hulking atomics, Chief Engineer Durval vollied orders in a thunderous voice. You men—you! he raged. Use your heads, not your feet. Drive them toward the door.
A scattering of Them—compact darting beasts the color of a poppy—scuttled into the shadow of an engine. Heavy Davison wrenches clubbed futilely behind them.
As Durval flew into new bursts of shouting, Scott Jerill, First Mate of the freighter Bertha , grimly shook his head. His lean face was not smiling now. Call your men back, he commanded crisply. We don't have time to drive those cats out like this.
Durval turned on him with a snarl. Take over then. Think of a better way. If you hadn't hauled that load of space cats aboard in the first place....
Look out, Scott snapped.
With a crisp smack, a red creature the size of a man's hand struck the rail before them. It was all improbable angles, with no special shape, no front or back. It teetered crazily over the ten foot drop to the floor below. Then it settled, sputtering. It sounded curiously like an angry cat.
There's one, roared Durval. His wrench slashed down, crashed shrilly on the rail as the cat skimmed effortlessly away. The wrench shot off toward the floor.
Durval shook his hand and roared. The cat, some twenty feet down the rail, cackled insanely. As Scott stepped slowly toward it, the cat hissed, bounded off the rail, and down the steps to the engine room floor.
Scott shook his head. You're not going to catch them by hand. Better let them settle down, Durval.
Settle down. The Chief brought the palm of his hand down on the rail. The rail trembled. They've already settled down. On every generator in the place. One of them crawled under the main relay switch and shorted out half the board. Didn't hurt him a bit.