The Mote In God's Eye

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  Merrill nodded. "One more question, Blaine. What did you think when you were assigned to investigate an alien ship?"

  "I was excited at the chance of meeting them, sir."

  "Gentlemen, he doesn't sound like an unreasoning xenophobe to me. But when his ship was attacked, he defended her. Dr. Horvath, had he actually fired on the probe itself—which was surely the easiest way to see that it didn't damage his ship—I would personally see that he was dismissed as unfit to serve His Majesty in any capacity whatever. Instead he carefully cut the probe loose from its weapon and at great risk to his own ship took it aboard. I like that combination, gentlemen." He turned to Armstrong. "Dickie, will you tell them what we've decided about the expedition?"

  "Yes, Your Highness." The War Minister cleared his throat. "Two ships. The Imperial battleship Lenin and the battle cruiser MacArthur. MacArthur will be modified to suit Dr. Horvath's requirements and will carry the civilian personnel of this expedition. That is to include scientists, merchants, Foreign Office people, and the missionary contingent His Reverence demands, in addition to a naval crew. All contact with the alien civilization will be conducted by MacArthur.”

  Merrill nodded in emphasis. "Under no circumstances will Lenin take aliens aboard or place herself in danger of capture. I want to be sure we get some information back from this expedition."

  "Bit extreme, isn't it?" Horvath asked.

  "No, sir." Sir Traffin was emphatic. "Richard is primarily concerned that the aliens have no opportunity to obtain either the Langston Field or the Alderson Drive from us, and I am in full agreement."

  "But if they—suppose they capture MacArthur?" Horvath asked.

  Admiral Cranston exhaled a stream of blue pipe smoke. "Then Lenin will blast MacArthur out of space."

  Blaine nodded. He'd already figured that out.

  "Take a good man to make that decision," Sir Traffin observed. "Who are you sending in Lenin?"

  "Admiral Lavrenti Kutuzov. We sent a courier ship for him yesterday."

  "The Butcher!" Horvath set his drink on the table and turned in fury to the Viceroy. "Your Highness, I protest! Of all the men in the Empire there's not a worse choice! You must know that Kutuzov was the man who—who sterilized Istvan. Of all the paranoid creatures in the— Sir, I beg you to reconsider. A man like that could— Don't you understand? These are intelligent aliens! This could be the greatest moment in all history, and you want to send off an expedition commanded by a subhuman who thinks with his reflexes! It's insane."

  "It would be more insane to send an expedition commanded by the likes of yourself," Armstrong replied. "I dinna mean it as an insult, Doctor. But you see these aliens as friends, you look to the opportunities. You dinna see the dangers. Perhaps my friends and I see too many o' them, but I'd rather be wrong my way than yours."

  "The Council. . ." Horvath protested feebly.

  "Not a matter for the Council," Merrill stated. "Matter of Imperial Defense. Safety of the Realm and all that, you know. Be a neat question just how much the Imperial Parliament on Sparta has to say about it. As His Majesty's representative in this sector, I've already decided."

  "I see." Horvath sat in dejection for a moment, then brightened. "But you said that MacArthur would be modified to suit the scientific requirements. That we can have a full scientific expedition."

  Merrill nodded. "Yes. Hope we won't have anything for Kutuzov to do. Up to your people to see to it he doesn't have to take action. Just there as a precaution,"

  Blaine cleared his throat carefully.

  "Speak up, laddie," Armstrong said.

  "I was wondering about my passengers, sir."

  "Course, of course," Merrill answered. "Senator Fowler's niece and that Trader fellow. Think they'd want to go along?"

  "I know Sally—Miss Fowler will," Rod answered. "She's turned down two chances to get to Sparta, and she's been going to Admiralty headquarters every day."

  "Anthropology student," Merrill murmured. "If she wants to go, let her. Won't do any harm to show the Humanity League we aren't sending a punitive expedition, and I can't think of a better way to make that obvious. Good politics. What about this Bury fellow?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  "See if he wants to go," Merrill said. "Admiral, you haven't got a suitable ship headed for the Capital, have you?"

  "Nothing I'd want to trust that man in," Cranston answered. "You saw Plekhanov's report"

  "Yes. Well, Dr. Horvath wanted to take Traders. I'd think His Excellency would welcome the opportunity to be there . . . just tell him one of his competitors could be invited. Ought to do it, eh? Never saw a merchant yet who wouldn't go through hell to get an edge on the competition."

  "When will we leave, sir?" Rod asked.

  Merrill shrugged. "Up to Horvath's people. Lot of work to do, I expect. Lenin ought to be here in a month. It'll pick up Kutuzov on the way. Don't see why you can't go as soon after that as you think MacArthur is ready."

  Chapter Eleven

  The Church of Him

  At a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour the monorail car moved with a subdued hissing sound. The Saturday crowd of passengers seemed to be enjoying themselves in a quiet way. They did little talking. In one clump near the back a man was sharing a flask around. Even this group wasn't noisy; they only smiled more. A few well-behaved children at window seats craned their necks to see out, pointed, and asked questions in incomprehensible dialect.

  Kevin Renner behaved in much the same fashion. He leaned sideways with his head against the clear plastic window, the better to see an alien world. His lean face bore an uncomplicated smile.

  Staley was on the aisle, apparently sitting at attention. Potter sat between them.

  The three were not on leave; they were off duty and could be recalled via their pocket computers. Artificers at the New Scotland Yards were busy scraping the boats off the walls of MacArthur's hangar deck and making other, more extensive repairs under Sinclair's supervision. Sinclair might need Potter, in particular, at any moment; and Potter was their native guide. Perhaps Staley was remembering this; but his rigid posture was no sign of discomfort. He was enjoying himself. He always sat that way.

  Potter was doing most of the talking and all the pointing. "Those twin volcanoes; d'ye see them, Mr. Renner? D'ye see yon boxlike structures near the peak of each one? They're atmosphere control. When yon volcanoes belch gas, the maintenance posts fire jets of tailored algae into the air stream. Without them our atmosphere would soon be foul again."

  "Hm. You couldn't have kept them going during the Secession Wars. How did you manage?"

  "Badly."

  The landscape was marked by queer sharp lines. Here there was the green patchwork quilt of cultivated fields, there a lifeless landscape, almost lunar but for the softening of erosion. It was strange to see a broad river meandering unconcerned from cultivation to desert. There were no weeds. Nothing grew wild. The forest grove they were passing now had the same sharp borders and orderly arrangement as the broad strips of flower beds they had passed earlier.

  "You've been on New Scotland for three hundred years," said Renner. "Why is it still like this? I'd think there'd be topsoil by now, and scattered seeds. Some of the land would have gone wild."

  "How often does it happen that cultivated land turns to wild life on a colony world? For aye our history the people hae spread faster than the topsoil." Potter suddenly sat up straight. "Look ahead. We're coming into Quentin's Patch."

  The car slowed smoothly. Doors swung up and a handful of passengers filtered out. The Navy men moved away with Potter in the lead. Potter was almost skipping. This was his home town.

  Renner stopped suddenly. "Look, you can see Murcheson's Eye in daylight!"

  It was true. The star was high in the east, a red spark just visible against blue sky.

  "Can't make out the Face of God, though."

  Heads turned to look at the Navy men. Potter spoke softly. "Mr. Renner, you must not call it the Face of Go
d on this world."

  "Huh? Why not?"

  "A Himmist would call it the Face of Him. They do not refer directly to their God. A good Church member does not believe that it is anything but the Coal Sack."

  "They call it the Face of God everywhere else. Good Church member or not."

  "Elsewhere in the Empire there are no Himmists. If ye'll walk this way, we should reach the Church of Him before dark."

  Quentin's Patch was a small village surrounded by wheat fields. The walkway was a broad stream of basalt with a ripple to its surface, as if it were a convenient lava flow. Renner guessed that a ship's drive had hovered here long ago, marking out the walkways before any buildings were erected. The surface bore a myriad of spreading cracks. With the two- and three-story houses now lining both sides, the walk could hardly be repaired in the same manner.

  Renner asked, "How did the Himmists get started?"

  "Legend has it," Potter said, and stopped. "Aye, it may not be all legend. What the Himmists say is that one day the Face of God awoke."

  "Um?"

  "He opened His single eye."

  "That would figure, if the Moties were actually using laser cannon to propel a light sail. Any dates on that?"

  "Aye." Potter thought. "It happened during the Secession Wars. The war did us great damage, you know. New Scotland remained loyal to the Empire, but New Ireland did not. We were evenly matched. For fifty years or thereabouts we fought each other, until there were nae interstellar ships left and nae contact with the stars at all. Then, in 2870, a ship fell into the system. 'Twas the Ley Crater, a trading ship converted for war, with a working Langston Field and a hold full of torpedoes. Damaged as she was, she was the most powerful ship in New Caledonia System; we had sunk that low. With her aid we destroyed the New Irish traitors."

  "That was a hundred and fifty years ago. You told it like you lived through it."

  Potter smiled. "We take our history verra personally here."

  "Of course," said Staley.

  "Ye asked for dates," said Potter. "The university records do no say. Some o' the computer records were scrambled by war damage, ye know. Something happened to the Eye, that's sure, but it must have happened late in the war. It would not have made that big an impression, ye ken."

  "Why not? The Face of—the Eye is the biggest, brightest thing in your sky."

  Potter smiled without mirth. "Not during the war. I hae read diaries. People hid under the university Langston Field. When they came out they saw the sky as a battlefield, alive with strange lights and the radiations from exploding ships. It was only after the war ended that people began to look at the sky. Then the astronomers tried to study what had happened to the Eye. And then it was that Howard Grote Littlemead was stricken with divine inspiration."

  "He decided that the Face of God was just what it looked like."

  "Aye, that he did. And he convinced many people. Here we are, gentlemen."

  The Church of Him was both imposing and shabby. It was built of quarried stone to withstand the ages, and it had done so; but the stone was worn, sandblasted by storms; there were cracks in the lintel and cornices and elsewhere; initials and obscenities had been carved into the walls with lasers and other tools.

  The priest was a tall, round man with a soft, beaten look to him. But he was unexpectedly firm in his refusal to let them in. It did no good when Potter revealed himself as a fellow townsman. The Church of Him and its priests had suffered much at the hands of townsmen.

  "Come, let us reason together," Renner said to him. "You don't really think we mean to profane anything, do you?"

  "Ye are nae believers. What business hae ye here?"

  "We only want to see the picture of the Co—of the Face of Him in its glory. Having seen this, we depart. If you won't let us in, we may be able to force you by going through channels. This is Navy business."

  The priest looked scorn. "This is New Scotland, not one o' yer primitive colonies wi' nae government but blasphemin' Marines. 'Twould take the Viceroy's orders to force yer way here. And ye're but tourists."

  "Have you heard of the alien probe?"

  The priest lost some of his assurance. "Aye."

  "We believe it was launched by laser cannon. From the Mote."

  The priest was nonplused. Then he laughed long and loud. Still laughing, he ushered them in. He would say no word to them, but he led them over the chipped tiles through an entry hall and into the main sanctuary. Then he stood aside to watch their faces.

  The Face of Him occupied half the wall. It looked like a huge holograph. The stars around the edge were slightly blurred, as would be the case with a very old holograph. And there was the holograph sense of looking into infinity.

  The Eye in that Face blazed pure green, with terrifying intensity. Pure green with a red fleck in it.

  "My God!" Staley said, and hastily added, "I don't mean it the way it sounds. But—the power! It'd take the industrial might of an advanced world to put out that much light from thirty-five light years away!"

  "I thought I had remembered it bigger than it was," Potter whispered.

  "Ye see!" the priest crowed. "And ye think that could hae been a natural phenomenon! Well, hae ye seen enough?"

  "Yah," said Renner, and they left.

  They stopped outside in the failing sunlight. Renner was shaking his head. "I don't blame Littlemead a damn bit," he said. "The wonder is he didn't convince everyone on the planet."

  "We're a stubborn lot," said Potter. “Yon squinting silhouette in the night sky may hae been too obvious, too . . ."

  "Here I am, stupid!" Renner suggested.

  "Aye. New Scots dinna like being treated as dullards, not even by Him."

  Remembering the decayed building with its shabby interior, Renner said, "The Church of Him seems to have fallen on evil days since Littlemead saw the light."

  "Aye. In 2902 the light went out. One hundred and fifteen years ago. That event was verra well documented. 'Twas the end o' astronomy here until the Empire returned."

  "Did the Mote go out suddenly?"

  Potter shrugged. "None know. It must hae happened around the other side 0' the world, you see. Ye must hae noticed that civilization here is but a spreading patch on a barren world, Mr. Renner. When the Coal Sack rose that night it rose like a blinded man. To the Himmists it must hae seemed that God had gone to sleep again."

  "Rough on them?"

  "Howard Grote Littlemead took an overdose of sleeping pills. The Himmists say he hastened to meet his God."

  "Possibly to demand an explanation," said Renner. "You're very quiet, Mr. Staley."

  Horst looked up grim-faced. "They can build laser cannon that fill the sky. And we're taking a military expedition there."

  Chapter Twelve

  Descent into Hell

  It was just possible to assemble everyone on hangar deck. The closed launching hatch doors—repaired, but obviously so—were the only open space large enough for the ship's company and the scientific personnel to gather, and it was crowded even there. The hangar compartment was stuffed with gear: extra landing craft, the longboat and the cutter, crated scientific equipment, ship's stores, and other crates whose purpose even Blaine didn't know. Dr. Horvath's people insisted on carrying nearly every scientific instrument used in their specialties on the chance that it might be useful; the Navy could hardly argue with them, since there were no precedents for an expedition of this kind.

  Now the huge space was packed to overflowing. Viceroy Merrill, Minister Armstrong, Admiral Cranston, Cardinal Randolph, and a host of lesser officials stood confusedly about while Rod hoped that his officers had been able to complete preparations for the ship's departure. The last days had been a blur of unavoidable activities, mostly social, with little time for the important work of preparing his ship. Now, waiting for the final ceremonies, Rod wished he'd got out of Capital social life and stayed aboard his ship like a hermit. For the next year or so he'd be under the command of Admiral Kutuzov, and h
e suspected that the Admiral was not wholly pleased with his subordinate ship commander. The Russian was conspicuously absent from the ceremonies on MacArthur's hangar doors.

  No one had missed him. Kutuzov was a massive, burly man with a heavy sense of humor. He looked like something out of a textbook of Russian history and talked the same way. This was partially due to his upbringing on St. Ekaterina, but mostly through his own choice. Kutuzov spent hours studying ancient Russian customs and adopted many of them as part of the image he projected. His flagship bridge was decorated with icons, a samovar of tea bubbled in his cabin, and his Marines were trained in what Kutuzov hoped were fair imitations of Cossack dances.

  Navy opinion on the man was universal: highly competent, rigidly faithful to any orders given him, and so lacking in human compassion that everyone felt uncomfortable around him. Because the Navy and Parliament officially approved of Kutuzov's action in ordering the destruction of a rebel planet—the Imperial Council had determined that the drastic measure had prevented the revolt of an entire sector— Kutuzov was invited to all social functions; but no one was disappointed when he refused his invitations.

  "The main problem is yon loony Russian customs," Sinclair had offered when MacArthur's officers were discussing their new admiral.

  "No different from the Scots," First Lieutenant Cargill had observed. "At least he doesn't try to make us all understand Russian. He speaks Anglic well enough."

  "Is that meant to say we Scots dinna speak Anglic?" Sinclair demanded.

  "I'll let you guess." But then Cargill thought better of it. "Of course not, Sandy. Sometimes when you get excited I can't understand you, but. . , here, have a drink."

  That, thought Rod, had been something to see, Cargill trying his best to be friendly with Sinclair. Of course the reason was obvious. With the ship in New Scotland's Yards under the attention of Yardmaster MacPherson's crews, Cargill was at pains not to irritate the Chief Engineer. He might end up with his cabin removed—or worse.