A streamer of blue light glowed at the stern of the alien craft. The color of Cherenkov radiation, it flowed parallel to the slender silver spine at the tail. Suddenly there was a line of intense white light beside it.
"Yon ship's under way, Captain," Sinclair reported.
"God damn it to hell!" His own screens showed the same thing, also that the ship's batteries were tracking the alien craft.
"Permission to fire?" the gunnery officer asked.
"No!" But what was the thing up to? Rod wondered. Time enough when Whitbread got aboard, he supposed. The alien ship couldn't escape. And neither would the alien.
"Kelley!"
"Sir!"
"Squad to the air lock. Escort Whitbread and that thing to the reception room. Politely, Gunner. Politely, but make sure it doesn't go anywhere else."
"Aye aye, Captain."
"Number One?" Blaine called.
"Yes, sir," Cargill answered.
"You were monitoring Whitbread's helmet camera the entire time he was in that ship?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any chance there was another alien aboard?"
"No, sir. There wasn't room. Right, Sandy?"
"Aye, Captain," Sinclair answered. Blaine had activated a com circuit to both the after bridge and the engine room. "Not if that beastie were to carry fuel too. And we saw nae doors."
"There wasn't any air lock door either, until it opened," Rod reminded him. "Was there anything that might have been a bathroom?"
"Captain, did we nae see the w.c.? I took the object on port side near the air lock to be such."
"Yeah. Then that thing's on autopilot, would you both agree? But we didn't see him program it."
"We saw him practically rebuild the controls, Captain," Cargill said. "My Lord! Do you think that's how they control. . ."
"Seems verra inefficient, but the beastie did nae else that could hae been the programming of an autopilot," Sinclair mused. "And 'twas bloody quick about it, sir. Captain, do ye think it built an autopilot?"
There was a glare on one of Rod's screens. "Catch that? A blue flare in the alien ship's air lock. Now what was that for?"
"To kill yon vermin?" Sinclair asked.
"Hardly. The vacuum would have done," Cargill answered.
Whitbread came onto the bridge and stood stiffly in front of Blaine's command chair. "Reporting to Captain, sir."
"Well done, Mr. Whitbread," Rod said. "Uh—have you any ideas about those two vermin he brought aboard? Such as why they're here?"
"No, sir—courtesy? We might want to dissect one?"
"Possibly. If we knew what they were. Now take a look at that." Blaine pointed at his screens.
The alien ship was turning, the white light of its drive drawing an arc on the sky. It seemed to be heading back to the Trojan points.
And Jonathon Whitbread was the only man alive who had ever been inside. As Blaine released the crew from action stations, the red-haired midshipman was probably thinking that the ordeal was over.
Chapter Fifteen
Work
The Engineer's mouth was wide and lipless, turned up at the corners. It looked like a half-smile of gentle happiness, but it was not. It was a permanent fixture of her cartoon face.
Nonetheless, the Engineer was happy.
Her joy had grown and grown. Coming through the Langston Field had been a new experience, like penetrating a black bubble of retarded time. Even without instruments, that told her something about the Field. She was more eager than ever to see that generator.
The ship within the bubble seemed unnecessarily crude, and it was rich, rich! There were parts in the hangar deck that seemed unattached to anything else, mechanisms so plentiful that they didn't have to be used! And many things she could not understand at a glance.
Some would be structural adaptations to the Field, or to the mysterious drive that worked from the Field. Others must be genuinely new inventions to do familiar things, new circuits, at least new to an unsophisticated Engineer miner. She recognized weapons, weapons on the big ship, weapons on the boats in the hangar space, personal weapons carried by the aliens clustered around the other side of the air lock.
This did not surprise her. She had known this new class were givers of orders, not takers of orders. Naturally they would have weapons. They might even have Warriors.
The double-door air lock was too complex, too easy to jam, primitive, and wasteful of metals and materials. She was needed here, she could see that. The new class must have come here to get her, there couldn't be any Engineers aboard the ship if they used things like this. She started to take the mechanism apart, but the stranger pulled at her arm and she abandoned the idea. She didn't have the tools anyway, and she didn't know what it would be lawful to use to make the tools. There would be time for all that. . .
A lot of the others, much like the first one, clustered around her. They wore strange coverings, most of it alike, and carried weapons, but they didn't give orders. The stranger kept trying to talk to her.
Couldn't they see she wasn't a Mediator? They were not too bright, this primitive new class. But they were givers of orders. The first one had shouted a clear command.
And they couldn't speak Language.
The situation was remarkably free of decisions. An Engineer need only go where she was led, repair and redesign where the opportunity arose, and wait for a Mediator. Or a Master. And there was so much to do, so much to do. . .
The petty officers' lounge had been converted into a reception room for alien visitors. The petty officers had to take over one of the Marine messes, doubling the joeys into the other. All over the ship adjustments had to be made to accommodate the swarms of civilians and their needs.
As a laboratory the lounge might lack something, but it was secure, and had plenty of running water, wall plugs, hot plates, and refreshment facilities. At least there was nothing to smack of the dissection table.
After some argument it had been decided not to attempt to build furniture to fit the aliens. Anything they built would only accommodate the passenger aboard the probe, and that seemed absurd.
There were plenty of tv pickups, so that although only a few key personnel were allowed in the lounge, nearly everyone aboard the ship could watch. Sally Fowler waited with the scientists, and she was determined to win the Motie's trust. She didn't care who was watching or what it would take to do that.
As it turned out, the Motie's trust was easy to come by. She was as trustful as a child. Her first move on coming out of the air lock was to tear open the plastic sack containing the miniatures and give it to the first hand that reached for it. She never bothered about them again.
She went where she was led, walking between the Marines until Sally took her by the hand at the reception room door, and everywhere she went she looked about, her body swiveling like an owl's head. When Sally let go, the Motie simply stood and waited for further instructions, watching everyone with that same gentle smile.
She did not seem to understand gestures. Sally and Horvath and others tried to talk to the Motie, with no result. Dr. Hardy, the Chaplain linguist, drew mathematical diagrams and nothing happened. The Motie did not understand and was not interested.
She was interested in tools, though. As soon as she was inside she reached for Gunner Kelley's sidearm. At a command from Dr. Horvath the Marine reluctantly unloaded the weapon and let her handle one of the cartridges before surrendering the gun. The Motie took it completely apart, to Kelley's annoyance and everyone else's amusement, then put it back together again, correctly, to Kelley's amazement. She examined the Marine's hand, bending the fingers to the limit and working them in their joints, using her own fingers to probe the muscles and the complex bones of the wrist. She examined Sally Fowler's hand in the same way for comparison.
The Motie took tools from her belt and began to work on the grip of the pistol, building it up with plastic squeezed from a tube.
"The little ones are female," one of the b
iologists announced. "Like the big one."
"A female asteroid miner," Sally said. Her eyes took on a faraway look. "If they use females in a hazardous job like that, they're going to have a culture a lot different from the Empire's." She regarded the Motie speculatively. The alien smiled back.
"We would be better occupied in learning what it eats," Horvath mused. "It doesn't seem to have brought a food supply, and Captain Blaine informs me that its ship has departed for parts unknown." He glanced at the miniature Moties, who were moving about on the big table originally used for spatball. "Unless those are a food supply."
"We'd best not try cooking them just yet," Renner announced from near the door. "They could be children. Immature Moties."
Sally turned suddenly and half gasped before regaining her scientific detachment. Not that she'd be part of cooking anything before she knew what it was.
Horvath spoke. "Mr. Renner, why is MacArthur's Sailing Master concerning himself with an investigation of extraterrestrial anatomy?"
"The ship's at rest, the Captain secured from general quarters, and I'm off duty," Renner said. He conveniently neglected to mention the Captain's standing orders about crew getting in the scientists' way. "Are you ordering me out?"
Horvath thought about it. On the bridge, so did Rod Blaine, but he didn't like Horvath much anyway. The Science Minister shook his head. "No. But I think your suggestion about the small aliens was frivolous."
"Not at all. They could lose the second left arm the way we lose our baby teeth." One of the biologists nodded agreement. “What other differences are there? Size?"
"Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny," someone said. Someone else said, "Oh, shut up."
The alien gave Kelley back his sidearm and looked around. Renner was the only naval officer in the room, and the alien went up to him and reached for his pistol. Renner unloaded the weapon and handed it over, then submitted to the same meticulous examination of his hand. This time the Motie worked much faster, its hands moving with almost blinding speed.
"Me, I think they're monkeys," Renner said. "Ancestors to the intelligent Moties. Which could mean you were right, too. There are people who eat monkey meat on a dozen planets. But we can hardly risk it yet."
The Motie worked on Renner's weapon, then laid it on the table. Renner picked it up. He frowned, for the flat butt had been built up into curving ridges which were now as hard as the original plastic. Even the trigger had been built up. Renner shifted the piece in his hand, and suddenly it was perfect. Like part of his hand, and it aimed itself.
He savored it for a moment, and noted that Kelley had already reloaded and holstered his own sidearm after a puzzled look. The pistol was perfect, and Renner would hate to lose it; no wonder the Marine hadn't spoken. The Sailing Master handed the piece to Horvath.
The elderly Science Minister took the pistol. "Our visitor seems to know tools," he said. "I don't know guns, of course, but the weapon seems well tailored to the human hand."
Renner took it back. Something nagged him about Horvath's comment. It lacked enthusiasm. Could the gun have fit his own hand better than Horvath's?
The Motie looked around the lounge, swiveling at the torso, staring at each of the scientists, then at other equipment, looking and waiting, waiting.
One of the miniatures sat cross-legged in front of Renner, also watching and waiting. It seemed totally unafraid. Renner reached to scratch it behind the ear, the right ear. Like the big Motie, it had no left ear; shoulder muscles for the upper left arm depended from the top of the head. But it seemed to enjoy the scratching. Renner carefully avoided the ear itself, which was large and fragile.
Sally watched, wondering what to do next, and wondering also what bothered her about Renner's performance. Not the incongruity of a ship's officer scratching the ear of what seemed to be an alien monkey, but something else, something about the ear itself. . .
Chapter Sixteen
Idiot Savant
Dr. Buckman was on duty in the observation room when the blinding laser signal from the inner system went out.
There was a planet there all right, about the size of Earth, with a distorting fringe of transparent atmosphere. He nodded in satisfaction; that was a lot of detail to see at this distance. The Navy had good equipment and they used it well. Some of the petty officers would make good astronomical assistants; pity they were wasted here. . .
What was left of his astronomy section went to work analyzing data from observations of the planet, and Buckman called Captain Blaine.
"I wish you'd get me back some of my men," he complained. "They're all standing around the lounge watching the Motie."
Blaine shrugged. He could hardly order the scientists around. Buckman's management of his department was his own affair. "Do the best you can, Doctor. Everyone's curious about the alien. Even my Sailing Master, who's got no business down there at all. What have you got so far? Is it a terrestrial planet?"
"In a manner of speaking. A touch smaller than Earth, with a water-oxygen atmosphere. But there are traces in the spectrum that have me intrigued. The helium line is very strong, far too strong. I suspect the data."
"A strong helium line? One percent or thereabouts?"
"It would be if the reading were correct, but frankly— Why did you say that?"
"The breathing air in the Mote ship was 1 percent helium, with some rather odd components; I think your reading is accurate."
"But, Captain, there's no way a terrestrial planet could hold that much helium! It has to be spurious. Some of the other lines are even worse."
"Ketones? Hydrocarbon complexes?"
"Yes!"
"Dr. Buckman, I think you'd better have a look at Mr. Whitbread's report on the atmosphere in the Motie ship. You'll find it in the computer. And take a neutrino reading, please."
"That won't be convenient, Captain."
"Take it anyway," Rod told the stubborn, bony face on the intercom screen. "We need to know the state of their industry."
Buckman snapped, "Are you trying to make war on them?"
"Not yet," Blaine answered; and let it go at that. "While you've got the instruments set up, take a neutrino reading on the asteroid the Mote ship came from. It's quite a way outside the Trojan point cluster, so you won't have a problem with background emissions."
"Captain, this will interfere with my work!"
“I’ll send you an officer to help out." Rod thought rapidly. "Potter. I'll give you Mr. Potter as an assistant." Potter should like that. "This work is necessary, Dr. Buckman. The more we know about them, the more easily we can talk to them. The sooner we can talk to them, the sooner we can interpret their own astronomical observations." That ought to get him.
Buckman frowned. "Why, that's true. I hadn't thought of that at all."
"Fine, Doctor." Rod clicked off before Buckman could voice a further protest. Then he turned to Midshipman Whitbread in the doorway. "Come in and sit down, Mr. Whitbread."
"Thank you, sir." Whitbread sat. The chairs in the Captain's watch cabin were netting on a steel frame, lightweight but comfortable. Whitbread perched on the very edge of one. Cargill handed him a coffee cup, which he held in both hands. He looked painfully alert.
Cargill said, "Relax, boy."
Nothing happened.
Rod said, “Whitbread, let me tell you something. Everyone on this ship wants to pick your brain, not later, but now. I get first crack because I'm Captain. When we're finished, I'll turn you over to Horvath and his people. When they're finished with you, if ever, you'll go off watch. You'll think then that you're about to get some sleep, but no. The gun room will want the whole story. They'll be coming off watch at staggered intervals, so you'll have to repeat everything half a dozen times. Are you getting the picture?"
Whitbread was dismayed—as he ought to have been.
"Right, then. Set your coffee down on the niche. Good. Now slide back until your spine touches the chair back. Now relax, dammit! Close your eyes."
&n
bsp; For a wonder, Whitbread did. After a moment he smiled blissfully.
"I've got the recorder off," Blaine told him—which wasn't true. “We'll get your formal report later. What I want now is facts, impressions, anything you want to say. My immediate problem is whether to stop that Motie ship."
"Can we? Still? Sir?"
Blaine glanced at Cargill. The First Lieutenant nodded. "It's only half an hour away. We could stop it any time in the next couple of days. No protective Field, remember? And the hull looked to be flimsy enough through your helmet camera. Two minutes from the forward batteries would vaporize the whole ship, no sweat."
"Or," Blaine said, "we could catch up with it, knock out its drive, and take it in tow. The Chief Engineer would give a year's salary to take that electromagnetic fusion system apart. So would the Imperial Traders' Association; that thing's perfect for asteroid mining."
"I'd vote against that," Whitbread said with his eyes closed. "If this were a democracy. Sir."
"It isn't, and the Admiral's inclined to grab that Motie ship. So are some of the scientists, but Horvath's against it. Why are you?"
"It would be the first hostile act, sir. I'd avoid that right up until the Moties tried to destroy MacArthur." Whitbread opened his eyes. "Even then, wouldn't the Field scare them off? We're in their home system, Captain, and we did come to see if we could get along with them—at least I think we did, sir."
Cargill chuckled. "Sounds just like Dr. Horvath, doesn't he, Skipper?"
"Besides, sir, what is the Motie ship doing that might interfere with us?"
"Going home alone, probably with a message."
"I don't think there was a message, sir. He didn't do anything that might have been writing, and he didn't talk at all."
"She," Blaine told him. "The biologists say the Motie is female. Both of the little ones are too, and one is pregnant."
The Mote In God's Eye Page 14
