The Mote In God's Eye

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  “We'd build them on colony worlds and send them back," the Motie answered. "Hire commercial shipping from men like Bury. We could pay more than anyone else. But look—it couldn't last. The colonies would secede, so to speak. We'd have to start over with new colonies farther away. And on every world we settled there'd be population

  problems. Can you imagine what it would be like three hundred years from now?"

  Whitbread tried. Ships like flying cities, millions of them. And Secession Wars, like the one that wrecked the First Empire. More and more Moties . . .

  "Hundreds of Motie worlds, all trying to ship our expanding populations out to newer worlds! Billions of Masters competing for territory and security! It takes time to use your Crazy Eddie Drive. Time and fuel to move around in each system looking for the next Crazy Eddie point. Eventually the outer edge of the Mote Sphere wouldn't be enough. We'd have to expand inward, into the Empire of Humanity."

  "Um," said Whitbread. The others only looked at the Motie, then plodded onward toward the city. Staley held the big rocket launcher cradled in his arms, as if the bulk gave him comfort. Sometimes he put his hand to his holster to touch the reassuring butt of his own weapon as well.

  "It'd be an easy decision to reach," Whitbread's Motie said. "There'd be jealousy."

  "Of us? Of what? Birth control pills?"

  "Yes."

  Staley snorted.

  "Even that wouldn't be the end. Eventually there would be a huge sphere of Motie-occupied systems. The center stars couldn't even reach the edge. They'd fight among themselves. Continual war, continually collapsing civilizations. I suspect a standard technique would be to drop an asteroid into an enemy sun and figure on resettling the planet when the flare dies down. And the sphere would keep expanding, leaving more systems in the center."

  Staley said, "I'm not so sure you could whip the Empire."

  "At the rate our Warriors breed? Oh, skip it. Maybe you'd wipe us out. Maybe you'd save some of us for zoos; you sure wouldn't have to worry about us not breeding in captivity. I don't really care. There's a good chance we'd bring on a collapse just by converting too much of our industrial capacity to building space craft."

  "If you're not planning war with the Empire," Staley said, "why are the three of us under death sentence?"

  "Four. My Master wants my head as much as yours . . . well, maybe not. You'll be wanted for dissection."

  Nobody showed surprise.

  "You're under death sentence because you now have enough information to have worked this out yourselves, you and MacArthur's biologists. A lot of the other Masters support the decision to kill you. They're afraid that if you escape now, your government will see us as a spreading plague, expanding through the Galaxy, eventually wiping out the Empire."

  "And King Peter? He doesn't want us killed?" Staley asked. “Why not?"

  The Moties twittered again. Whitbread's Motie spoke for the other one. "He may decide to kill you. I have to be honest about that. But he wants to put the djinn back in the bottle—if there's any way that humans and Moties can go back to where we were before you found our Crazy Eddie probe, he'll try it. The Cycles are better than—a whole Galaxy of Cycles!"

  "And you?" Whitbread asked. "How do you see the situation?"

  "As you do," the Motie said carefully. "I am qualified to judge my species dispassionately. I am not a traitor." There was a plea in the alien voice. "I am a judge. I judge that association between our species could only result in mutual envy, you for your birth control pills, us for our superior intelligence. Did you say something?"

  "No."

  "I judge that spreading my species across space would involve ridiculous risks and would not end the pattern of the Cycles. It would only make each collapse more terrible. We would breed faster than we could spread, until collapse came for hundreds of planets at a stroke, routinely . . ."

  "But," said Potter, "ye've reached your dispassionate judgment by adopting our viewpoint—or rather, Whitbread's. You act so much like Jonathon the rest of us have to keep counting your arms. What will happen when you give up the human viewpoint? Might not your judgment— Ugh!"

  The alien's left arm closed on the front of Potter's uniform, painfully tight, and drew him down until his nose was an inch from the Motie's sketched-in face. She said, "Never say that. Never think that. The survival of our civilization, any civilization, depends entirely on the justice of my class. We understand all viewpoints, and judge between them. If other Mediators come to a different conclusion from mine, that is their affair. It may be that their facts are incomplete, or their aims different. I judge on the evidence."

  She released him. Potter stumbled backward. With the fingers of a right hand the Motie picked Staley's gunpoint out of her ear.

  "That wasna' necessary," said Potter.

  "It got your attention, didn't it? Come on, we're wasting time."

  "Just a minute." Staley spoke quietly, but they all heard him easily in the night silence. "We're going to find this King Peter, who may or may not let us report to Lenin. That's not good enough. We've got to tell the Captain what we know."

  "And how will you do that?" Whitbread's Motie asked. "I tell you, we won't help you, and you can't do it without us. I hope you don't have something stupid in mind, like threatening us with death? If that scared me, do you think I'd be here?"

  "But—"

  "Horst, get it through that military mind of yours that the only thing keeping Lenin alive is that my Master and King Peter agree on letting it live! My Master wants Lenin to go back with Dr. Horvath and Mr. Bury aboard. If we've analyzed you right, they'll be very persuasive. They'll argue for free trade and peaceful relationships with us—"

  "Aye," Potter said thoughtfully. "And wi'out our message, there'll be nae opposition . . . why does this King Peter no call Lenin himself?"

  Charlie and Whitbread's Motie twittered. Charlie answered. "He is not sure that the Empire will not come in strength to destroy the Mote worlds once you know the truth. And until he is sure. . ."

  "How in God's name can he be sure of anything like that from talking to us?" Staley demanded. "I'm not sure myself. If His Majesty asked me, right now, I don't know what I'd advise—for God's sake, we're only three midshipmen from one battle cruiser. We can't speak for the Empire."

  "Could we do it?" Whitbread asked. "I'm beginning to wonder if the Empire would be able to wipe you out. . ."

  "Jesus, Whitbread," Staley protested.

  "I mean it. By the time Lenin gets back and reports to Sparta, they'll have the Field. Won't you?"

  Both Moties shrugged. The gestures were exactly alike—and exactly like Whitbread's shrug. "The Engineers will work on it now that they know it exists," Whitbread's Motie said. "Even without it, we've got some experience in space wars. Now come on. God's teeth, you don't know how close to war we are right now! If my Master thinks you've told all this to Lenin she'll order an attack on the ship. If King Peter isn't convinced there's a way to make you leave us alone, he might order it."

  "And if we do no hurry, the Admiral will already hae taken Lenin back to New Caledonia," Potter added. "Mr. Staley, we hae nae choices at all. We find Charlie's Master before the other Masters find us. 'Tis as simple as that."

  "Jonathon?" Staley asked.

  "You want advice? Sir?" Whitbread's Motie clucked in disapproval. Jonathon Whitbread looked at her irritably, then grinned. "Yes, sir. I agree with Gavin. What else can we do? We can't fight a whole goddamn planet, and we're not going to build secure communications out of anything we'll find around here."

  Staley lowered his weapon. "Right. Lead on, then." He looked at his small command. “We're a damn sorry lot to be the ambassadors of the human race."

  They struck out across the darkened fields toward the brightly lit city beyond.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  History Lesson

  There was a three-meter-high wall around (Bird Whistle) city. It might have been stone, or a hard plastic; the str
ucture was difficult to see in the red-black light of Murcheson's Eye. Beyond it they could see great oblong buildings. Yellow windows loomed over their heads.

  "The gates will be guarded," Whitbread's Motie said.

  "I'm sure," Staley muttered. "Does the Keeper live here too?"

  "Yes. At the subway terminal. Keepers aren't allowed farm lands of their own. The temptation to exploit that kind of self-sufficiency might be too much even for a sterile male."

  "But how do you get to be a Keeper?" Whitbread asked. "You're always talking about competition among Masters, but how do they compete?"

  "God's eyes, Whitbread!" Staley exploded. "Look, what do we do about that wall?"

  “We'll have to go through it," Whitbread's Motie said. She twittered to Charlie for a moment. "There are alarms and there'll be Warriors on guard."

  "Can we go over it?"

  "You'd pass through an x-ray laser, Horst."

  "God's teeth. What are they so afraid of?"

  "Food riots."

  "So we go through it. Any one place better than another?"

  The Moties shrugged with Whitbread's gestures. "Maybe half a kilometer farther. There's a fast road there."

  They walked along the wall. “Well, how do they compete?" Whitbread insisted. “We've got nothing better to talk about."

  Staley muttered something, but stayed close to listen.

  "How do you compete?" Whitbread's Motie asked. "Efficiency. We have commerce, you know. Mr. Bury might be surprised at just how shrewd some of our Traders are. Partly, Masters buy responsibilities— that is, they show they can handle the job. They get other powerful givers of orders to support them. Mediators negotiate it. Contracts—promises of services to be delivered, that kind of thing—are drawn up and published. And some givers of orders work for others, you know. Never directly. But they'll have a job they take care of, and they'll consult a more powerful Master about policy. A Master gains prestige and authority when other givers of orders start asking her for advice. And of course her daughters help."

  "It sounds complex," Potter said. "I think o' nae time or place similar in human history."

  "It is complex," said Whitbread's Motie. "How could it be anything else? How can a decision maker be anything but independent? That's what drove Captain Blaine's Fyunch(click) insane, you know. Here was your Captain, Absolute Master on that ship—except that when whoever-it-was on Lenin croaked frog, Captain Blaine hopped around the bridge."

  "Do you really talk about the Captain that way?" Staley asked Whitbread.

  "I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might tend to get me dumped into the mass converter," Whitbread said. "Besides, we're coming to a bend in the wall..."

  "About here, Mr. Staley," Whitbread's Motie said. "There's a road on the other side."

  "Stand back." Horst raised the rocket launcher and fired. At the second explosion light showed through the wall. More lights rippled along its top. Some shone out into the fields, showing crops growing to the edge of the wall. "OK, get through fast," Staley ordered.

  They went through the gap and onto a highway. Cars and larger vehicles whizzed past, missing them by centimeters as they cowered against the wall. The three Moties walked boldly into the road.

  Whitbread shouted and tried to grab his Fyunch(click). She shook him off impatiently and strolled across the street. Cars missed her narrowly, cunningly dodging past the Moties without slowing at all.

  On the other side the Brown-and-whites waved their left arms in an unmistakable sign: Come on!

  Light poured through the gap in the wall. Something was out there in the fields where they'd been. Staley waved the others into the street and fired back through the gap. The rocket exploded a hundred meters away, and the light went out.

  Whitbread and Potter walked across the highway. Staley loaded the last round into the rocket launcher, but saved it. Nothing was coming through the gap yet. He stepped out into the street and began to walk. Traffic whizzed past. The urge to run and dodge was overwhelming, but he moved slowly, at constant speed. A truck whipped past in a momentary hurricane. Then others. After a lifetime he reached the other side, alive.

  No sidewalks. They were still in traffic, huddled against a grayish concrete-like wall.

  Whitbread's Motie stepped into the street and gave a curious three-armed gesture. A long rectangular truck stopped with screeching brakes. She twittered to the drivers and the Browns immediately got out, went to the back of the truck, and began removing boxes from the cargo compartment. The traffic streamed past without slowing at all.

  "That ought to do it," Whitbread's Motie said briskly. "The Warriors will be coming to investigate the hole in the wall—"

  The humans got in quickly. The Brown who'd followed them patiently from the museum climbed into the right-hand driver's seat. Whitbread's Motie started for the other driver's seat, but Charlie twittered at her. The two Brown-and-whites whistled and chirped, and Charlie gestured vehemently. Finally Whitbread's Motie climbed into the cargo compartment and closed the doors. As she did the humans saw the original drivers walking slowly down the street away from the truck.

  "Where are they going?" Staley asked.

  "Better than that, what was the argument about?" Whitbread demanded.

  "One at a time, gentlemen," Whitbread's Motie began. The truck started. It jolted hard, and there was humming from the motors and the tires. Sounds of myriads of other vehicles filtered in.

  Whitbread was jammed between hard plastic boxes, with about as much room as a coffin. It reminded him unpleasantly of his situation. The others had no more room, and Jonathon wondered if they had thought of the analogy. His nose was only centimeters from the roof.

  "The Browns will go to a transport pool and report that their vehicle was commandeered by a Mediator," Whitbread's Motie said. "And the argument was over who'd stay up front with the Brown. I lost."

  "Why was it an argument?" Staley demanded. "Don't you trust each other?"

  "I trust Charlie. She doesn't really trust me—I mean, how could she? I've walked out on my own Master. As far as she's concerned, I'm Crazy Eddie. Best to see to things herself."

  "But where are we going?" Staley asked.

  "To King Peter's territory. Best available way."

  "We can't stay in this vehicle long," Staley said. "Once those Browns report, they'll be looking for it—you must have police. Some way to trace a stolen truck. You do have crime, don't you?"

  "Not the way you think of it. There aren't really any laws—but there are givers of orders who have jurisdiction over missing property. They'll find the truck for a price. It'll take time for my Master to negotiate with them, though. First she'll have to show that I've gone insane."

  "I don't suppose there's a space port here?" Whitbread asked.

  "We couldn't use it anyway," Staley said flatly.

  They listened to the hum of traffic for a while. Potter said, "I thought of that too. A space craft is conspicuous. If a message would bring an attack on Lenin, 'tis certain we'd nae be allowed to return ourselves."

  "And how are we going to get home?" Whitbread wondered aloud. He wished he hadn't asked.

  " 'Tis a twice-told tale," Potter said unhappily. "We know aye more than can be allowed. And what we ken is more important than our lives, is it nae so, Mr. Staley?"

  "Right."

  "You never know when to give up, do you?" Whitbread's voice said from the dark. It took a moment for them to realize it was the Motie speaking. "King Peter may let you live. He may let you return to Lenin. If he's convinced that's best, he can arrange it. But there's no way you will send a message to that battleship without his help."

  "The hell we won't," Staley said. His voice rose. "Get this through your ear flap. You've been square with us—I think. I'll be honest with you. If there's a way to get a message out, I'm going to send it."

  "And after that, 'tis as God wills," Potter added.

  They listened to the humming of the traffic. "You won't
have the chance, Horst," Whitbread's voice said. "There's no threat you can make that would get Charlie or me to have a Brown build you the equipment you'd need. You can't use our transmitters if you could find one—even I couldn't use a strange gear without a Brown to help. There might not even be the proper communications devices on this planet, for that matter."

  "Come off it," Staley said. "You've got to have space communications, and there are only so many bands in the electromagnetic spectrum."

  "Sure. But nothing stays idle here. If we need something, the Browns put it together. When it's not needed anymore, they build something else out of the parts. And you want something that'll reach Lenin without letting anyone know you've done that."

  "I'll take the chance. If we can broadcast a warning to the Admiral, he'll get the ship home." Horst was positive. Lenin might be only one ship, but President Class battlewagons had defeated whole fleets before. Against Moties without the Field she'd be invincible. He wondered why he'd ever believed anything else. Back at the museum there'd been electronics parts, and they could have put together a transmitter of some kind. Now it was too late; why had he listened to the Motie?

  They drove on for nearly an hour. The midshipmen were cramped, jammed between hard boxes, in the dark. Staley felt his throat tighten and was afraid to talk any more. There might be a catch in his voice, something to communicate his fears to the others, and he couldn't let them know he was as afraid as they were. He wished for something to happen, a fight, anything—

  There were starts and stops. The truck jerked and turned, then came to a halt. They waited. The sliding door opened and Charlie stood framed in light.

  "Don't move," she said. There were Warriors behind her, weapons ready. At least four.

  Horst Staley growled in hatred. Betrayed! He reached for his pistol, but the cramped position prevented him from drawing it.

  "No, Horst!" Whitbread's Motie shouted. She twittered. Charlie hummed and clacked in reply. "Don't do anything," Whitbread's Motie said. "Charlie has commandeered an aircraft. The Warriors belong to its owner. They won't interfere as long as we go straight from here to the plane."