"Another unworkable member of our species," said Horvath's Motie. "Extinct now except in life forms preserves." He seemed to want to hurry them on. They found another pair in a patch of melons—the same breed of melon the humans had eaten for dinner, as Hardy pointed out.
In a wide, grassy field a family of things with hooves and shaggy coats grazed placidly—except for one that stood guard, turning constantly to face the visitors.
A voice behind Whitbread said, "You're disappointed. Why?"
Whitbread looked back in surprise. "Disappointed? No! It's fascinating."
"My mistake," said Whitbread's Motie. "I think I'd like a word with Mr. Renner. Care to trail along?"
The party was somewhat spread out. Here there was no chance of getting lost, and they all enjoyed the feel of grass beneath their feet: long, coiled green blades, springier than an ordinary lawn, much like the living carpets in houses of the aristocracy and the wealthier traders.
Renner looked amiably about when he felt eyes on him. "Yes?"
"Mr. Renner, it strikes me that you're a bit disappointed in our zoo."
Whitbread winced. Renner frowned. "Yah, and I've been trying to figure it out. I shouldn't feel this way. It's a whole alien world, all compacted for our benefit. Whitbread, you feel it too?"
Whitbread nodded reluctantly.
"Hah! That's it. It's an alien world, all compacted for our benefit, right? How many zoos have you seen on how many worlds?"
Whitbread counted in his head. "Six, including Earth."
"And they were all like this one, except that the illusion is better. We were expecting something a whole order of magnitude different. It isn't. It's just another alien world, except for the intelligent Moties."
"Makes sense," said Whitbread's Motie. Perhaps her voice was a little wistful, and the humans remembered that the Moties had never seen an alien world. "Too bad, though," the Motie said. "Staley's having a ball. So are Sally and Dr. Hardy, but they're professionals."
But the next floor was a shock.
Dr. Horvath was first out of the elevator. He stopped dead. He was in a city street. "I think we have the wrong . . . door . . ." he trailed off. For a moment he felt that his mind was going.
The city was deserted. There were a few cars in the streets, but they were wrecks, and some showed signs of fire. Several buildings had collapsed, filling the street with mountains of rubble. A moving mass of black chittered at him and moved away in a swarm, away and into dark holes in a slope of broken masonry, until there were none left.
Horvath's skin crawled. When an alien hand touched his elbow he jumped and gasped.
"What's the matter, Doctor? Surely you have animals evolved for cities."
"No," said Horvath.
"Rats," said Sally Fowler. "And there's a breed of lice that lives only on human beings. But I think that's all."
"We have a good many," said Horvath's Motie. "Perhaps we can show you a few. . . though they're shy."
At a distance the small black beasts were indistinguishable from rats. Hardy snapped a picture of a swarm that was scrambling for cover. He hoped to develop a blowup later. There was a large, flatfish beast, almost invisible until they were right in front of it. It was the color and pattern of the brick it was clinging to.
"Like a chameleon," Sally said. Then she had to explain chameleons.
"There's another," Sally's Motie said. She pointed out a concrete-colored animal clinging to a gray wall. "Don't try to disturb it. It has teeth."
"Where do they get their food?"
"Roof gardens. Though they can eat meat. And there's an insectivore . . ." She led them to a "rooftop" two meters above street level. There were grain and fruit trees gone riot, and a small, armless biped that fired a coiled tongue over a meter long. It looked as if it had a mouthful of walnuts.
Bitter cold met them on the sixth floor. The sky was leaden gray. Snow blew in flurries across an infinity of icy tundra. Hardy wanted to stay, for there was considerable life in that cold hell; bushes and tiny trees growing through the ice, a large, placid thing that ignored them, a furry, hopping snowshoe rabbit with dish-shaped ears and no front legs. They almost had to use force to get Hardy out; but he would have frozen in there.
Dinner was waiting for them at the Castle: ship's stores, and slices of a flat green Motie cactus 75 cm across and 3 thick. The red jelly inside tasted almost meaty. Renner liked it, but the others couldn't eat it at all. The rest they ate like starved men, talking animatedly between mouthfuls. It must have been the extra-long day that made them so hungry.
Renner's Motie said, “We have some idea what a tourist wants to see in a strange city, at least we know what you show in your travel films. Museums. The place of government. Monuments. Unique architecture. Perhaps the shops and night clubs. Above all, the way of life of the native." She gestured deprecatingly. "We've had to omit some of this. We don't have any night clubs. Too little alcohol doesn't do anything to us. Too much kills. You'll get a chance to hear our music, but frankly, you won't like it.
"Government is Mediators meeting to talk. It might be anywhere. The decision makers live where they like, and they generally consider themselves bound by the agreements of their Mediators. You'll see some of our monuments. As for our way of life, you've been studying that for some time."
"What about the way of life of a White?" Hardy asked. Then his mouth opened in a bone-cracking yawn.
"He's right," Hardy's Motie broke in. “We should be able to see a giver of orders' family residence at work. It may be that we can get permission—" The alien broke into a high gabble.
The Moties considered. Sally's Motie said, "It should be possible. We'll see. In the meantime, let's call it a day."
For the time change had caught the humans. Doctors Horvath and Hardy yawned, blinked, looked surprised, made their excuses, and departed. Bury was still going strong. Renner wondered what rotation this planet had. He himself had had enough spacegoing training to adapt to any schedule.
But the party was breaking up. Sally said her good nights and went upstairs, swaying noticeably. Renner suggested folk singing, got no response, and quit.
A spiral stair ran up the tower. Renner turned off into a corridor, following his curiosity. When he reached an air lock he realized that it must lead to the balcony, the flat ring that circled the tower. He did not care to try the Mote Prime air. He wondered if the balcony was meant to be used at all . . . and then thought of a ring encircling a slender tower, and wondered if the Moties were playing games with Freudian symbolism.
Probably they were. He continued to his room.
Renner thought at first he was in the wrong room. The color scheme was striking: orange and black, quite different from the muted pale browns of this morning. But the pressure suit on the wall was his, his design and rank markings on the chest. He looked about him, trying to decide whether he liked the change.
It was the only change—no, the room was warmer. It had been too cold last night. On a hunch, he crossed the room and checked the Moties' sleeping alcove. Yes, it was chilly in there.
Renner's Motie leaned against the doorjamb, watching him with the usual slight smile. Renner grinned shamefacedly. Then he continued his inspection.
The bathroom—the toilet was different. Just as he had sketched it. Wrong; there wasn't any water in it. And no flush.
What the hell, there was only one way to test a toilet.
When he looked, the bowl was sparkling clean. He poured a glass of water into it and watched it run away without leaving a drop. The bowl was a frictionless surface.
Have to mention this to Bury, he thought. There were bases on airless moons, and worlds where water, or energy for recycling it, was scarce. Tomorrow. He was too sleepy now.
The rotation period of Levant was 28 hours, 40.2 minutes. Bury had adjusted well enough to MacArthur's standard day, but it is always easier to adjust to a longer day than to a shorter.
He waited while his Fyunch(click) sen
t their Brown for coffee. It made him miss Nabil . . . and wonder if the Brown had more of Nabil's skills. He had already seriously underestimated the power of the Brown-and-whites. Apparently his Motie could commandeer any vehicle on Mote Prime, whether or not it had been built yet; even so, he was an agent for someone Bury had never seen. The situation was complex.
The Brown returned with coffee and another pot, something that poured pale brown and did not steam. "Poisonous? Very likely," his Fyunch(click) said. "The pollutants might harm you, or the bacteria. It's water, from outside."
It was not Bury's habit to come too quickly to business. An overeager businessman, he felt, was easily gulled. He was not aware of the thousands of years of tradition behind his opinion. Accordingly he and his Motie liaison talked of many things ..." 'Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings,' " he quoted, and he identified all of these, to his Motie's evident interest. The Motie was particularly interested in the various forms of human government.
"But I don't think I should read this Lewis Carroll," he said, "until I know considerably more of human culture."
Eventually Bury raised the subject of luxuries again.
"Luxuries. Yes, I agree, in principle," said Bury's Motie. "If a luxury travels well, it can pay for itself merely in diminished fuel costs. That must be true even with your Crazy Eddie Drive. But in practice there are restrictions between us."
Bury had already thought of a few. He said, "Tell me of them."
"Coffee. Teas. Wines. I presume you deal in wines also?"
"Wine is forbidden to my religion." Bury dealt indirectly in the transfer of wines from world to world, but he could not believe the Moties would want to deal in wines.
"It doesn't matter. We could not tolerate alcohol, and we do not like the taste of coffee. The same would probably apply to your other luxury foods, though they may be worth a try."
"And you do not yourselves deal in luxuries?"
"No. In power over others, in safety, in durability of customs and dynasties ... as usual, I speak for the givers of orders. We deal in these, for their benefit, but we also deal in diplomacy. We trade durable goods and necessities, skills— What do you think of our works of art?"
"They would sell at good prices, until they became common. But I think our trade will be more in ideas, and designs."
"Ah?"
"The frictionless toilet, and the principle behind it. Various superconductors, which you fabricate more efficiently than we. We found a sample in an asteroid. Can you duplicate it?"
"I'm sure the Browns will find a way." The Motie waved a languid hand. "There will be no problem here. You certainly have much to offer. Land for instance. We will want to buy land for our embassies."
Probably that would be offered gratis, Bury thought. But to this race land would be literally priceless; without the humans they could never have more than they had at the moment. And they would want land for settlements. This world was crowded. Bury had seen the city lights from orbit, a field of light around dark oceans. "Land," he agreed, "and grain. There are grains that grow beneath suns like yours. We know that you can eat some of them. Might they grow here more efficiently than yours? Bulk food would never be shipped at a profit, but seeds may be."
"You may also have ideas to sell us."
"I wonder. Your inventiveness is enormous and admirable."
The Motie waved a hand. "I thank you. But we have not made everything there is to make. We have our own Crazy Eddie Drive, for example, but the force field generator that protects—"
"If I should be shot, you would lose the only merchant in this system."
"Allah's— I mean to say, are your authorities really so determined to guard their secrets?"
"Perhaps they will change their minds when they know you better. Besides, I'm not a physicist," Bury said blandly.
"Ah. Bury, we have not exhausted the subject of art. Our artists have a free hand and ready access to materials, and very little supervision. In principle the exchange of art between Mote and Empire would facilitate communication. We have never yet tried to aim our art at an alien mind."
"Dr. Hardy's books and education tapes contain many such works of art."
"We must study them." Bury's Motie sipped contemplatively at his dirty water. “We spoke of coffees and wines. My associates have noticed—how shall I put it?—a strong cultural set toward wines, among your scientists and Navy officers."
"Yes. Place of origin, dates, labels, ability to travel in free fall, what wines go with what foods." Bury grimaced. "I have listened, but I know nothing of this. I find it annoying and expensive that some of my ships must move under constant acceleration merely to protect a wine bottle from its own sediments. Why can they not simply be centrifuged on arrival?"
"And coffees? They all drink coffee. Coffee varies according to its genetics, soil, climate, method of roasting. I know this is so. I have seen your stores."
"I have much greater variety aboard MacArthur. Yes . . . and there is variety among coffee drinkers. Cultural differences. On an American-descended world like Tabletop they would not touch the oily brew preferred in New Paris, and they find the brew of Levant much too sweet and strong."
"Ah."
"Have you heard of Jamaica Blue Mountain? It grows on Earth itself, on a large island; the island was never bombed, and the mutations were weeded out in the centuries following the collapse of the CoDominium. It cannot be bought. Navy ships carry it to the Imperial Palace on Sparta."
"How does it taste?"
"As I told you, it is reserved for the Royal—" Bury hesitated. "Very well. You know me that well. I would not pay such a price again, but I do not regret it."
"The Navy misjudges your worth because you lack knowledge of wines." Bury's Motie did not seem to be smiling. Its bland expression was a Trader's: it matched Bury's own. "Quite foolish of them, of course. If they knew how much there was to learn about coffee—"
"What are you suggesting?"
"You have stores aboard. Teach them about coffee. Use your own stores for the purpose."
"My stores would not last a week among the officers of a battle cruiser!"
"You would show them a similarity between your culture and theirs. Or do you dislike that idea? No, Bury, I am not reading your mind. You dislike the Navy; you tend to exaggerate the differences between them and you. Perhaps they think the same way?"
"I am not reading your mind." Bury suppressed the fury building in him—and at that moment he saw it. He knew why the alien kept repeating that phrase. It was to keep him off balance. In a trading situation.
Bury smiled broadly. "A week's worth of good will. Well, I will try your suggestion when we are back in orbit and I dine aboard MacArthur. Allah knows they have much to learn about coffee. Perhaps I can even teach them how to use their percolators correctly."
Chapter Twenty-eight
Kaffee Klatsch
Rod and Sally sat alone in the Captain's patrol cabin. The intercom screens were off, and the status board above Rod's desk showed a neat pattern of green lights. Rod stretched his long legs out and sipped at his drink. "You know, this is about the first time we've had alone together since we left New Caledonia. It's nice."
She smiled uncertainly. "But we don't have very long—the Moties are expecting us to come back, and I've got dictating to do . . . How much longer can we stay in the Mote system, Rod?"
Blaine shrugged. "Up to the Admiral. Viceroy Merrill wanted us back as soon as possible, but Dr. Horvath wants to learn more. So do I. Sally, we still don't have anything significant to report! We don't know whether the Moties are a threat to the Empire or not."
"Rod Blaine, will you stop acting like a Regular Navy officer and be yourself? There is not one shred of evidence that the Moties are hostile. We haven't seen any signs of weapons, or wars, or anything like that—"
"I know," Rod said sourly. "And that worries me. Sally, have you ever heard of a human civilization that didn't have soldiers?"
>
"No, but Moties aren't human."
"Neither are ants, but they've got soldiers— Maybe you're right, I'm catching it from Kutuzov. Speaking of which, he wants more frequent reports. You know that every scrap of data gets transmitted raw to Lenin inside an hour? We've even sent over samples of Motie artifacts, and some of the modified stuff the Brownies worked on. . ."
Sally laughed. Rod looked pained for a moment, then joined her. "I'm sorry, Rod. I know it must have been painful to have to tell the Tsar that you had Brownies on your ship—but it was funny!"
"Yeah. Funny. Anyway, we send everything we can to Lenin—and you think I'm paranoid? Kutuzov has everything inspected in space, then sealed into containers filled with ciphogene and parked outside his ship! I think he's afraid of contamination." The intercom buzzed. "Oh, damn." Rod turned to the screen. "Captain here."
"Chaplain Hardy to see you, Captain," the Marine sentry announced. "With Mr. Renner and the scientists."
Rod sighed and gave Sally a helpless look. "Send them in and send in my steward. I imagine they'll all want a drink."
They did. Eventually everyone was seated, and his cabin was crowded. Rod greeted the Mote expedition personnel, then took a sheaf of papers from his desk. "First question: Do you need Navy ratings with you? I understand they've nothing to do."
"Well, there's no harm in their being there," Dr. Horvath said. "But they do take up room the scientific staff could use."
"In other words, no," Rod said. "Fine. I'll let you decide which of your people to replace them with, Dr. Horvath. Next point: Do you need Marines?"
"Good heavens, no," Sally protested. She looked quickly to Horvath, who nodded. "Captain, the Moties are so far from being hostile, they've built the Castle for us. It's magnificent! Why can't you come down and see it?"
The Mote In God's Eye Page 29
