The Mote In God's Eye

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  Bury's own tension may have showed. Senseless orders, a guard outside the door ... he was feeling like a prisoner again. It took him quite a while to calm Buckman down. Finally the astrophysicist slumped into a chair and lifted a cup of coffee. "Haven't seen you much," he said. "Been busy?"

  "There is really very little for me to do in this ship. Few tell me anything," Bury said equably—and that took self-control. "Why must you be ready for hard vacuum here?"

  "Hah! I don't know. Just do it. Try to call the Captain, he's in conference. Try to complain to Horvath, and he's in conference. If they aren't available when you need them, just what use are they, anyway?"

  Sounds came through from the corridor outside: heavy things were being moved. What could it be about? Sometimes they evacuated ships to get rid of rats . . .

  That was it! They were killing off the miniatures! Allah be praised, he had acted in time. Bury smiled widely in relief. He had a better idea of the value of the miniatures since the night he had left a box of bhaklavah next to the open faceplate of his personal pressure suit. He'd almost lost it all.

  To Buckman he said, "How did you make out in the Trojan point asteroids?"

  Buckman looked startled. Then he laughed. "Bury, I haven't thought about that problem in a month. We've been studying the Coal Sack."

  "Ah."

  "We've found a mass in there . . . probably a protostar. And an infrared source. The flow patterns in the Coal Sack are fantastic. As if the gas and dust were viscous ... of course it's the magnetic fields that make it act like that. We're learning wonderful things about the dynamics of a dust cloud. When I think of the time I wasted on those Trojan point rocks . . . when the whole problem was so trivial!"

  "Well, go on, Buckman. Don't leave me hanging."

  "Uh? Oh, I'll show you." Buckman went to the intercom and read out a string of numbers.

  Nothing happened.

  "That's funny. Some idiot must have put a restricted on it." Buckman closed his eyes, recited another string of numbers. Photographs appeared on the screen. "Ah. There!"

  Asteroids tumbled on the screen, the pictures blurred and jumpy. Some were lopsided, some almost spherical, many marked with craters . . .

  "Sorry about the quality. The near Trojans are a good distance away . . . but all it took was time and MacArthur's telescopes. Do you see what we found?"

  "Not really. Unless. . ." All of them had craters. At least one crater. Three long, narrow asteroids in succession . . . and each had a deep crater at one end. One rock twisted almost into a cashew shape; and the crater was at the inside of the curve. Each asteroid in the sequence had a big, deep crater in it; and always a line through the center would have gone through the rock's center of mass.

  Bury felt fear and laughter rising in him. "Yes, I see. You found that every one of those asteroids had been moved into place artificially. Therefore you lost interest."

  "Naturally. When I think that I was expecting to find some new cosmic principle—" Buckman shrugged. He swallowed some coffee.

  "I don't suppose you told anyone?"

  "I told Dr. Horvath. Why, do you suppose he put the restricted designation on it?"

  "It may be. Buckman, how much energy do you think it would take to move such a mass of rocks around?"

  "Why, I don't know. A good deal, I think. In fact . . ." Buckman's eyes glowed. "An interesting problem. I'll let you know after this idiocy is over." He turned back to his gear.

  Bury sat where he was, staring at nothing. Presently he began to shiver.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Captain's Motie

  "I appreciate your concern for the safety of the Empire, Admiral," Horvath said. He nodded sagely at the glowering figure on MacArthur's bridge screen. "Indeed I do. The fact remains, however, that we either accept the Moties' invitation or we might as well go home. There's nothing more to learn out here."

  "You, Blaine. You agree with that?" Admiral Kutuzov's expression was unchanged.

  Rod shrugged. "Sir, I have to take the advice of the scientists. They say that we've got about all we're going to get from this distance."

  "You want to take MacArthur into orbit around the Mote planet, then? That is what you recommend? For the record?"

  "Yes, sir. Either that or go home, and I don't think we know enough about the Moties simply to leave."

  Kutuzov took a long, slow breath. His lips tightened.

  "Admiral, you have your job, I have mine," Horvath reminded him. "It's all very well to protect the Empire against whatever improbable threat the Moties pose, but I must exploit what we can learn from Motie science and technology. That, I assure you, isn't trivial. They're so far advanced in some respects that I—well, I haven't any words to describe it, that's all."

  "Exactly." Kutuzov emphasized the word by pounding the arm of the command chair with his closed fists. "They have technology beyond ours. They speak our language and you say we will never speak theirs. They know the Alderson effect, and now they know Langston Fields exist. Perhaps, Dr. Horvath, we should go home. Now."

  "But—" Horvath began.

  "And yet," Kutuzov continued. "I would not like to fight war with these Moties without knowing more about them. What are planetary defenses? Who governs Moties? I notice for all your work you cannot answer that question. You do not even know who is commanding that ship of theirs."

  "True." Horvath nodded vigorously. "It's a very strange situation. Sometimes I honestly think they don't have a commander, but on the other hand they do seem to refer back to their ship for instructions sometimes. . . and then there's the sex matter."

  "You play games with me, Doctor?"

  "No, no," Horvath said with irritation. "It's quite straightforward. All of the Brown-and-whites have been female since their arrival. In addition, the brown female has become pregnant and has given birth to a brown-and-white pup. Now it's a male."

  "I know of sex changes in aliens. Perhaps one Brown-and-white was male until shortly before embassy ship arrived?"

  "We thought of that. But it seems more likely that the Brown-and-whites haven't been breeding because of population pressure. They all stay female—they may even be mules, since a Brown is mother of one. Crossbreed between the Brown and something else? That would point to a something else aboard the embassy ship."

  "They got an admiral aboard their ship," Kutuzov said positively. "Just as we do. I knew it. What do you tell them when they ask of me?"

  Rod heard a snort behind him and guessed that Kevin Renner was strangling. "As little as possible, sir," Rod said. "Only that we're subject to orders from Lenin. I don't think they know your name, or if there's one man or a council aboard."

  "Just so." The Admiral almost smiled. "Just what you know about their command, da? You watch, they got an admiral aboard that ship, and he's decided he wants you closer to their planet. Now my problem is, do I learn more by letting you go than he learns by getting you there?"

  Horvath turned away from the screen and sent a pleading look to Heaven, Its Wonders, and All the Saints. How could he deal with a man like that, the look asked.

  "Any sign of little Moties?" Kutuzov asked. "Have you still Brownies aboard His Imperial Majesty's General Class battle cruiser MacArthur?"

  Rod shuddered at the heavy sarcasm. "No, sir. We evacuated hangar deck and opened everything in it to space. Then I put all MacArthur's passengers and crew into hangar deck and opened up the ship. We fumigated the plant rooms with ciphogene, poured carbon monoxide through all the vents, opened to space again, and after we came back from hangar deck we did the same thing there. The miniatures are dead, Admiral. We have the bodies. Twenty-four of them, to be exact, although we didn't find one of them until yesterday. It was pretty ripe after three weeks . . ."

  "And there are no signs of Brownies? Or of mice?"

  "No, sir. Rats, mice, and Moties—all dead. The other miniature, the one we had caged—it's dead too, sir. The vet thinks it was old age."

  Kutuzov n
odded. "So that problem is solved. What of adult alien you have aboard?"

  "It's sick," Blaine said. "Same symptoms as the miniature had."

  "Yes, that's another thing," Horvath said quickly. "I want to ask the Moties what to do for the sick miner, but Blaine won't let me without your permission."

  The Admiral reached somewhere off screen. When he faced them again he held a glass of tea which he blew on noisily. "The others know you have this miner aboard?"

  "Yes," Horvath said. When Kutuzov glared, the Science Minister continued quickly, "They seem to have always known it. None of us told them, I'm sure of that."

  "So they know. Have they asked for the miner? Or to see it?"

  "No." Horvath frowned deeply again. His voice was incredulous. "No, they haven't. In fact, they haven't shown the least concern about the miner, no more than they might have for the miniatures—you'll have seen the pictures of the Moties evacuating their ship, Admiral? They have to kill off the little beasts too. The things must breed like hive rats." Horvath paused, his brow wrinkled even more deeply. Then, abruptly, "Anyway, I want to ask the others what to do for the sick miner. We can't just let it die."

  "That might be best for all," Kutuzov mused. "Oh, very well, Doctor. Ask them. It is hardly admitting anything important about Empire to tell them we do not know proper diet for Moties. But if you ask and they insist on seeing that miner, Blaine, you will refuse. If necessary, miner will die—tragically and suddenly, by accident, but die. Is that clearly understood? It will not talk to other Moties, not now and not ever."

  "Aye aye, sir." Rod sat impassively in his command chair. Now, do I agree with that? he thought. I should be shocked, but—

  "Do you still wish to ask under those circumstances, Doctor?" Kutuzov asked.

  "Yes. I expected nothing else from you anyway." Horvath's lips were pressed tightly against his teeth. "We now have the main question: the Moties have invited us to take orbit around their planet. Why they have done so is a matter for interpretation. I think it is because they genuinely want to develop trade and diplomatic relations with us, and this is the logical way we should go about it. There is no evidence for any other view. You, of course, have your own theories . . ."

  Kutuzov laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh. "Actually, Doctor, I may believe same as you. What has that to do with anything? Is my task to keep Empire safe. What I believe has no importance." The Admiral stared coldly into the screens. "Very well. Captain, I give you discretion to act in this situation. However, you will first arm torpedo-destruct systems for your ship. You understand that MacArthur cannot be allowed to fall into Motie hands?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very well. You may go, Captain. We will follow in Lenin. You will transmit records of all information you obtain every hour—and you understand that if there is threat to your ship, I will not attempt to rescue you if there is any possibility of danger to Lenin? That my first duty is to return with information including, if this is so, how you were killed?" The Admiral turned so that he gazed directly at Horvath. "Well, Doctor, do you still want to go to Mote Prime?"

  "Of course."

  Kutuzov shrugged. "Carry on, Captain Blaine. Carry on."

  MacArthur's towboats had retrieved an oil-drum-shaped cylinder half the size of the Motie embassy ship. It was very simple: a hard, thick shell of some foamed material, heavy with liquid hydrogen, spinning slowly, with a bleeder valve at the axis. Now it was strapped to the embassy ship aft the toroidal living spaces. The slender spine meant to guide the plasma flow for the fusion drive had been altered too, bent far to the side to direct the thrust through the new center of mass. The embassy ship was tilted far back on her drive, like a small but very pregnant woman trying to walk.

  Moties—Brown-and-whites, guided by one of the Browns—were at work disassembling the air-lock bridge, melting it down, and reshaping the material into ring-shaped support platforms for the fragile toroids. Others worked within the ship, and three small brown-and-white shapes played among them. Again the interior changed like dreams. Free-fall furniture was reshaped. Floors were slanted, vertical to the new line of thrust.

  There were no Moties aboard the cutter now; they were all at work; but contact was maintained. Some of the midshipmen took their turns doing simple muscle work aboard the embassy ship.

  Whitbread and Potter were working in the acceleration chamber, moving the bunks to leave room for three smaller bunks. It was a simple rewelding job, but it took muscle. Perspiration collected in beads inside their filter helmets, and soaked their armpits.

  Potter said, "I wonder what a man smells like to a Motie? Dinna answer if you find the question offensive," he added.

  "'Tis a bit hard to say," Potter's Motie answered. "My duty it is, Mr. Potter, to understand everything about my Fyunch(click). Perhaps I fit the part too well. The smell of clean sweat wouldna offend me even if ye had nae been working in our own interest. What is it ye find funny, Mr. Whitbread?"

  "Sorry. It's the accent."

  "What accent is that?" Potter wondered.

  Whitbread and Whitbread's Motie burst out laughing. "Well, it is funny," said Whitbread's Motie. "You used to have trouble telling us apart."

  "Now it's the other way around," Jonathon Whitbread said. "I have to keep counting hands to know if I'm talking to Renner or Renner's Motie. Give me a hand here, will you, Gavin? . . . And Captain Blaine's Motie. I have to keep shaking myself out of the Attention position, and then she'll say something and I'll snap right back into it. She'll give orders like she's master of the cutter, and we'll obey, and then she'll say, 'Just a minute, Mister,' and order us to forgive her. It's confusing."

  "Even so," said Whitbread's Motie, "I wonder sometimes whether we've really got you figured out. Just because I can imitate you doesn't mean I can understand you . . ."

  " 'Tis our standard technique, as old as the hills, as old as some mountain ranges. It works. What else can we do, Jonathon Whitbread's Fyunch(click)?"

  "I wondered, that's all. These people are so versatile. We can't match all of your abilities, Whitbread. You find it easy to command and easy to obey; how can you do both? You're good with tools—"

  "So are you," said Whitbread, knowing it was an understatement.

  "But we tire easily. You're ready to go on working, aren't you? We're not."

  "Um."

  "And we aren't good at fighting . . . Well, enough of that. We play your part in order to understand you, but you each seem to play a thousand parts. It makes things difficult for an honest, hard-working bug-eyed monster."

  "Who told you about bug-eyed monsters?" Whitbread exclaimed.

  "Mr. Renner, who else? I took it as a compliment—that he would trust my sense of humor, that is."

  "Dr. Horvath would kill him. We're supposed to be tippy-toe careful in our relationship with aliens. Don't offend taboos, and all that."

  "Dr. Horvath," Potter said. "I am reminded that Dr. Horvath wanted us to ask you something. Ye know that we have a Brown aboard MacArthur."

  "Sure. A miner. Her ship visited MacArthur, then came home empty. It was pretty obvious she'd stayed with you."

  "She's sick," Potter said. "She has been growing worse. Dr. Blevins says it has the marks of a dietary disease, but he has nae been able to help her. Hae you any idea what it is that she might lack?"

  Whitbread thought he knew why Horvath had not asked his Motie about the Brown; if the Moties demanded to see the miner, they must be refused on orders from the Admiral himself. Dr. Horvath thought the order was stupid; he would never be able to defend it. Whitbread and Potter were not called upon to try. Orders were orders.

  When the Moties did not answer at once, Jonathon said, "Between them the biologists have tried a lot of things. New foods, analysis of the Brown's digestive fluids, x-rays for tumor. They even changed the atmosphere in her cabin to match the Mote Prime atmosphere. Nothing works. She's unhappy, she whines, she doesn't move around much. She's getting thin. Her hair is coming out."r />
  Whitbread's Motie spoke in a voice gone oddly flat. "You haven't any idea what might be wrong with her?"

  "No," said Whitbread.

  It was strange and uncomfortable, the way the Moties were looking at them. They seemed identical now, floating half-crouched, anchored by hand holds: identical pose, identical markings, identical faint smiles. Their individual identities didn't show now. Perhaps it was all a pose—

  "We'll get you some food," Potter's Motie said suddenly. "You may hae guessed right. It may be her diet." Both Moties left. Presently Whitbread's Motie returned with a pressure bag that contained grain and plum-sized fruits and a chunk of red meat. "Boil the meat, soak the grain, and give her the fruit raw," she said. "And test the ionization in her cabin air." She ushered them out.

  The boys boarded an open scooter to return to the cutter. Presently Potter said, "They behaved verra strangely. I canna but think that something important happened a minute ago."

  "Yah."

  "Then what was it?"

  "Maybe they think we've been mistreating the Brown. Maybe they wonder why we won't bring her here. Maybe the other way around: they're shocked that we take so much trouble for a mere Brown."

  "And perhaps they were tired and we imagined it." Potter fired thruster clusters to slow the scooter.

  "Gavin. Look behind us."

  "Not now. I must see to the safety o' my command." Potter took his time docking the scooter, then looked around.

  More than a dozen Moties had been working outside the ship. The bracing for the toroids was conspicuously unfinished . . . but the Moties were all streaming into the air lock.

  The Mediators came streaming into the toroid, bouncing gently from the walls in their haste to get out of each other's way. Most of them showed in one way or another that they were Fyunch(click) to aliens. They tended to underuse their lower right arms. They wanted to line themselves with their heads pointing all in the same direction.