"Fyunch(click)," said the alien. It cocked its head and shoulders at him. "You seem confused. Surely you know the term."
Bury had recovered quickly. "Of course. I was not aware that any Motie was studying me." He did not like the idea at all.
"No, Mr. Bury, I have only just been assigned. Mr. Bury, have you thought of coming to Mote Prime?"
"No, I doubt that I would be allowed to leave the ship."
"Captain Blaine has given permission, if you-urr willing. Mr. Bury, we would deeply appreciate your comments regarding the possibilities for trade between the Mote and the Empire. It seems likely we would both profit."
Yes! Beard of the Prophet, an opportunity like that— Bury had agreed quickly. Nabil could guard the hidden Brownies.
But now, as he sat aboard the landing boat, it was difficult to control his fears. He looked at the alien beside him.
"I am Dr. Horvath's Fyunch(click)," the Motie said. "You should relax. These boats are well designed."
"Ah," said Bury, and he relaxed. The worst was hours away. Nabil had by now safely removed the dummy tank into MacArthur's main air lock with hundreds of others, and it would be safe. The alien ship was undoubtedly superior to similar human craft, if for no other reason than the Moties' desire to avoid risk to the human ambassadors. But it was not the trip down that kept fear creeping into his throat until it tasted bright and sharp like new copper—
There was a slight lurch. The descent had begun.
To everyone's surprise it was dull. There were occasional shifts in gravity but no turbulence. Three separate times they felt almost subliminal clunks, as of landing gear coming down—and then there was a rolling sensation. The ship had come to rest.
They filed out into a pressurized chamber. The air was good but scentless, and there was nothing to see but the big inflated structure around them. They looked back at the ship and stared unashamedly.
It was gull-winged now, built like a glider. The edges of the crazy arrowhead had sprouted a bewildering variety of wings and flaps.
"That was quite a ride," Horvath said jovially as he came to join them. "The whole vehicle changes shape. There aren't any hinges on the wings—the flaps come out as if they were alive! The jet scoops open and close like mouths! You really should have seen it. If Commander Sinclair ever comes down we'll have to give him the window seat," he chortled. He did not notice the glares.
An inflated air lock opened at the far end of the building, and three brown-and-white Moties entered. Fear rose in Bury's throat again as they separated, one joining each of the Navy ratings, while the other came directly to Bury.
"Fyunch(click)," it said.
Bury's mouth was very dry.
"Don't be afraid," said the Motie. "I can't read your mind."
It was definitely the wrong thing to say if the Motie wanted Bury at ease. “I’m told that is your profession."
The Motie laughed. "It's my profession, but I can't do it. All I will ever know is what you show me." It didn't sound at all as Bury sounded to himself. It must have studied humans in general; only that.
"You're male," he noticed.
"I am young. The others were female by the time they reached MacArthur. Mr. Bury, we have vehicles outside and a place of residence for you nearby. Come and see our city, and then we can discuss business." It took his arm in two small right arms, and the touch was very strange. Bury let himself be led to the air lock.
"Don't be afraid. I can't read your mind," it had said, reading his mind. On many rediscovered worlds of the First Empire there were rumors of mind readers, but none had ever been found, praise the mercy of Allah. This thing claimed that it was not; and it was very alien. The touch was not abhorrent, although people of Bury's culture hated to be touched. He had been among far too many strange customs and peoples to worry about his childhood prejudices. But this Motie was reassuringly strange—and Bury had never heard of anybody's Fyunch(click) acting that way. Was it trying to reassure him?
Nothing could have lured him but the hope of profit—profit without ceiling, without limit, profit from merely looking around. Even the terraforming of the New Caledonia worlds by the First Empire had not shown the industrial power that must have moved the asteroids to Mote Beta's Trojan points.
"A good commercial product," the Motie was saying, "should not be bulky or massive. We should be able to find items scarce here and plentiful in the Empire, or vice versa. I anticipate great profits from your visit . . ."
They joined the others in the air lock. Large windows showed the airfield. "Blasted show-offs," Renner muttered to Bury. When the Trader looked at him quizzically, Renner pointed. "There's city all around, and the airport's got not one meter of extra space."
Bury nodded. Around the tiny field were skyscrapers, tall and square-built, jammed close together, with only a single belt of green running out of the city to the east. If there were a plane crash it would be a disaster—but the Moties didn't build planes to crash.
There were three ground cars, limousines, two for passengers and one for luggage, and the human seats took up two-thirds of the room in each. Bury nodded reflectively. Moties didn't mind being crowded together. As soon as they took their seats the drivers, who were Browns, whipped the cars away. The vehicles ran soundlessly, with a smooth feeling of power, and there was no jolt at all. The motors were in the hubs of the tall balloon tires, much like those of cars on Empire worlds.
Tall, ugly buildings loomed above them to shoulder out the sky. The black streets were wide but very crowded, and the Moties drove like maniacs. Tiny vehicles passed each other in intricate curved paths with centimeters of clearance. The traffic was not quite silent. There was a steady low hum that might have been all the hundreds of motors sounding together, and sometimes a stream of high-pitched gibberish that might have been cursing.
Once the humans were able to stop wincing away from each potential collision, they noticed that all the other drivers were Browns, too. Most of the cars carried a passenger, sometimes a Brown-and-white, often a pure White. These Whites were larger than the Brown-and-whites, and their fur was very clean and silky—and they were doing all the cursing as their drivers continued in silence.
Science Minister Horvath turned back to the humans in the seats behind him. "I had a look at the buildings as we came down—roof gardens on every one of them. Well, Mr. Renner, are you glad you came? We were expecting a Navy officer, but hardly you."
"It seemed most reasonable to send me," Kevin Renner said. "I was the most thoroughly available officer aboard, as the Captain put it. I won't be needed to chart courses for a while."
"And that's why they sent you?" Sally asked.
"No, I think what really convinced the Captain was the way I screamed and cried and threatened to hold my breath. Somehow he got the idea I really wanted to come. And I did." The way the navigating officer leaned forward in his seat reminded Sally of a dog sticking its head out of a car window into the wind.
They had only just noticed the walkways that ran one floor up along the edges of the buildings, and they could not see the pedestrians well at all. There were more Whites, and Brown-and-whites, and . . . others.
Something tall and symmetrical came walking like a giant among the Whites. Three meters tall it must have been, with a small, earless head that seemed submerged beneath the sloping muscles of the shoulders. It carried a massive-looking box of some kind under each of two arms. It walked like a juggernaut, steady and unstoppable.
“What's that?" Renner asked.
"Worker," Sally's Motie replied. "Porter. Not very intelligent . . ."
There was something else Renner strained to see, for its fur was rust-red, as if it had been dipped in blood. It was the size of his own Motie, but with a smaller head, and as it raised and flexed its right hands it showed fingers so long and delicate that Renner thought of Amazon spiders. He touched his Fyunch(click)'s shoulder and pointed. "And that?"
"Physician. Emm Dee," Renner's Motie said
. "We're a differentiated species, as you may have gathered by now. They're all relatives, so to speak . . ."
"Yah. And the Whites?"
"Givers of orders. There was one aboard ship, as I'm sure you know."
"Yah, we guessed that." The Tsar had, anyway. What else was he right about?
"What do you think of our architecture?"
"Ugly. Industrial hideous," said Renner. "I knew your ideas of beauty would be different from ours, but—on your honor. Do you have a standard of beauty?"
"Come, I will conceal nothing from you. We do, but it doesn't resemble yours. And I still don't know what you people see in arches and pillars—"
"Freudian symbolism," Renner said firmly. Sally snorted.
"That's what Horvath's Motie keeps saying, but I've never heard a coherent explanation," Renner's Motie said. "Meanwhile, what do you think of your vehicles?"
The limousines were radically different from the two-seaters that zipped past them. No two of the two-seaters were alike either—the Moties did not seem to have discovered the advantages of standardization. But all the other vehicles they had seen were tiny, like a pair of motorcycles, while the humans rode in low-slung streamlined vehicles with soft curves bright with polish.
"They're beautiful," said Sally. "Did you design them just for us?"
"Yes," her Motie replied. "Did we guess well?"
"Perfectly. We're most flattered," Sally said. "You must have put considerable expense into . . . this . . ." She trailed off. Renner turned to see where she was looking, and gasped.
There had been castles like this in the Tyrolean Alps of Earth. They were still there, never bombed, but Renner had only seen copies on other worlds. Now a fairy-tale castle, graceful with tall spires, stood among the square buildings of the Motie city. At one corner a reaching minaret was circled by a thin balcony.
"What is that place?" Renner asked.
Sally's Motie answered. "You will stay there. It is pressurized and self-enclosed, with a garage and cars for your convenience."
Horace Bury spoke into the admiring silence. "You are most impressive hosts."
From the first they called it the Castle. Beyond question it had been designed and built entirely for them. It was large enough for perhaps thirty people. Its beauty and luxury were in the tradition of Sparta— with a few jarring notes.
Whitbread, Staley, Sally, Drs. Hardy and Horvath—they knew their manners. They kept firm rein on their laughter as their Fyunch(click)s showed them about their respective rooms. Able Spacers Jackson and Weiss were awed to silence and wary of saying something foolish. Horace Bury's people had rigid traditions of hospitality; aside from that, he found all customs strange except on Levant.
But Renner's people respected candor; and candor, he had found, made life easier for everyone. Except in the Navy. In the Navy he had learned to keep his mouth shut. Fortunately his Fyunch(click) held views similar to his own.
He looked about the apartment assigned him. Double bed, dresser, large closet, a couch and coffee table, all vaguely reminiscent of the travelogues he had shown the Moties. It was five times the size of his cabin aboard MacArthur.
"Elbow room," he said with great satisfaction. He sniffed. There was no smell at all. "You do a great job of filtering the planet's air."
"Thanks. As for the elbow room—" Renner's Motie wiggled all her elbows. “We should need more than you, but we don't."
The picture window ran from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. The city towered over him; most of the buildings in view were taller than the Castle. Renner found that he was looking straight down a city street toward a magnificent sunset that was all the shades of red. The pedestrian level showed a hurrying horde of colored blobs, mostly Reds and Browns, but also many Whites. He watched for a time, then turned back.
There was an alcove near the head of his bed. He looked into it. It held a dresser and two odd-looking pieces of furniture that Renner recognized. They resembled what the Brown had done to the bed in Crawford's stateroom.
He asked, "Two?"
"We will be assigned a Brown."
"I'm going to teach you a new word. It's called 'privacy.' It refers to the human need—"
"We know about privacy." The Motie did a double take. "You aren't suggesting it should apply between a man and his Fyunch(click)!"
Renner nodded solemnly.
"But. . . but. . . Renner, do you have any respect for tradition?"
"Do I?"
"No. Dammit. All right, Renner. We'll sling a door there. With a lock?"
"Yah. I might add that the rest probably feel the same way, whether they say so or not."
The bed, the couch, the table showed none of the familiar Motie innovations. The mattress was a bit too firm, but what the hell. Renner glanced into the bathroom and burst out laughing. The toilet was a free-fall toilet, somewhat changed from those in the cutter; it had a gold flush, carved into the semblance of a dog's head. The bathtub was . . . strange.
"I've got to try that bathtub," said Renner.
"Let me know what you think. We saw some pictures of bathtubs in your travelogues, but they looked ridiculous, given your anatomy."
"Right. Nobody's ever designed a decent bathtub. There weren't any toilets in those pictures, were there?"
"Oddly enough, there weren't."
"Mmm." Renner began sketching. When he had finished, his Motie said, "Just how much water do these use?"
"Quite a lot. Too much for space craft."
"Well, we'll see what we can do."
"Oh, and you'd better hang another door between the bathroom and the living room."
"More privacy?"
"Yah."
Dinner that night was like a formal dinner in Sally's old home on Sparta, but weirdly changed. The servants—silent, attentive, deferential, guided by the host who in deference to rank was Dr. Horvath's Motie—were Laborers a meter and a half tall. The food was from MacArthur's stores—except for an appetizer, which was a melonlike fruit sweetened with a yellow sauce. "We guarantee it nonpoisonous," said Renner's Motie. "We've found a few foods we can guarantee, and we're looking for more. But you'll have to take your chances on the taste." The sauce killed the melon's sour taste and made it delicious.
"We can use this as a trade item," said Bury. "We would rather ship the seeds, not the melon itself. Is it hard to grow?"
"Not at all, but it requires cultivation," said Bury's Motie. "We'll give you the opportunity to test the soil. Have you found other things that might be worth trading?"
Bury frowned and looked down at his plate. Nobody had remarked on those plates. They were gold: plates, silverware, even the wine goblets, though they were shaped like fine crystal. Yet they couldn't be gold, because they didn't conduct heat; and they were simple copies of the plastic free-fall utensils aboard MacArthur's cutter, even to the trademarks stamped on the edges.
Everyone was waiting for his answer. Trade possibilities would profoundly affect the relationship between Mote and Empire. "On our route to the Castle I looked for signs of luxuries among you. I saw none but those designed specifically for human beings. Perhaps I did not recognize them."
"I know the word, but we deal very little in luxuries. We—I speak for the givers of orders, of course—we put more emphasis on power, territory, the maintenance of a household and a dynasty. We concern ourselves with providing a proper station in life for our children."
Bury filed the information: "We speak for the givers of orders." He was dealing with a servant. No. An agent. He must keep that in mind, and wonder how binding were his Fyunch(click)'s promises. He smiled and said, "A pity. Luxuries travel well. You will understand my problem in finding trade goods when I tell you that it would hardly be profitable to buy gold from you."
"I thought as much. We must see if we can find something more valuable."
"Works of art, perhaps?"
"Art?"
"Let me," said Renner's Motie. She switched to a high-pitched, warbling lang
uage, talked very fast for perhaps twenty seconds, then looked about at the assembled company. "Sorry, but it was quicker that way."
Bury's Motie said, "Quite so. I take it you would want the originals?"
"If possible."
"Of course. To us a copy is as good as the original. We have many museums; I'll arrange some tours."
It developed that everyone wanted to go along.
When they returned from dinner, Whitbread almost laughed when he saw there was now a door on the bathroom. His Motie caught it and said, "Mr. Renner had words to say about privacy." She jerked a thumb at the door that now closed off her alcove.
"Oh, that one wasn't necessary," said Whitbread. He was not used to sleeping alone. If he woke in the middle of the night, who would he talk to until he fell asleep again?
Someone knocked on the door. Able Spacer Weiss—from Tabletop, Whitbread recalled. "Sir, may I speak with you privately?"
"Right," said Whitbread's Motie, and she withdrew to the alcove. The Moties had caught on to privacy fast. Whitbread ushered Weiss into the room.
"Sir, we've got sort of a problem," Weiss said. "Me and Jackson, that is. We came down to help out, you know, carrying luggage and cleaning up and like that."
"Right. You won't be doing any of that. We've each been assigned an Engineer type."
"Yes, sir, but it's more than that. Jackson and me, we've been assigned a Brown each too. And, and—"
"Fyunch(click)s."
"Right."
"Well, there are certain things you can't talk about." Both ratings were stationed in hangar deck and wouldn't know much about Field technology anyway.
"Yes, sir, we know that. No war stories, nothing about ship's weapons or drive."
"All right. Aside from that, you're on vacation. You're traveling first class, with a servant and a native guide. Enjoy it. Don't say anything the Tsar would hang you for, don't bother to ask about the local red-light district, and don't worry about the expense. Have a ball, and hope they don't send you up on the next boat."
The Mote In God's Eye Page 27
