The Mote In God's Eye

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  "Kelley's in Lenin. I guess he'll stay with me." Another good man lost for the Navy.

  "Kelley! How is the old scoundrel?"

  "He's fine."

  "Glad to hear that. Your father wanted me to ask about him, now I think of it. You know that Marine's my age? I can remember him in uniform when your father was a lieutenant, and that was a long time ago."

  “Where's Sally?" When Rod came out of 675 she had been gone. He'd been just as pleased; with his retirement papers bulging in his tunic he didn't feel much like talking.

  "Out shopping for clothes, of course. You won't have to do that. One of my people got your sizes from Navy records and brought you a couple of suits. They're at the Palace."

  "Ben—you're moving pretty fast, Ben," Rod said carefully.

  "Have to. By the time Lenin orbits we need some answers. Meanwhile you've got to study the political situation out here. It's all tied together. ITA wants trade, soonest. Humanity League wants cultural exchanges, ditto. Armstrong wants his fleet to deal with outies, but he's scared of Moties. That's got to be settled before Merrill can get on with the reconquest of Trans-Coalsack. Stock markets from here to Sparta are jumpy—just what will Motie technology do to the economy? What blue-chip companies are going to get ruined? Who gets rich? And every damn bit of that's in our hands, boy. We've got to make the policies."

  "Oof." The full impact was just hitting him. "What about Sally? And the rest of the Commission?"

  "Don't be stupid. You and I are the Commission. Sally will do what's needed."

  "You mean what you want her to do. I wouldn't be too sure of that —she's got a mind of her own."

  "Think I don't know that? I've lived with her long enough. Hell, you're independent too. I don't expect I can dictate to you."

  You've been doing a good enough job so far, Rod thought.

  "You can guess about the Commission, can't you?" Ben asked pointedly. "Parliament's been concerned about Imperial prerogatives. If there's anything that's pure prerogative it's defense against aliens. But if they're peaceful and all that, Parliament wants a say in the trade deals. Emperor isn't about to turn the Motie question over to Government until we're sure what we're up against. But he can't manage this from Sparta. Can't come out here himself—boy, that would cause problems at the Capital. Parliament couldn't stop him from turning it over to Crown Prince Lysander, but the boy's too young. Deadlock. His Majesty's one thing, but appointed agents with Imperial powers are another. Hell, I don't want to give Imperial authority to anybody but the Royal Family. One man, one family, can't personally exercise too much power no matter how much they've got in theory, but give them appointed agents and it's another matter."

  "What about Merrill? It's his sector."

  "What about him? Same objections to him as anybody else. More. Viceroy's job is pretty carefully defined. Dealing with aliens isn't. Merrill wouldn't get too big for his britches and try to set up his own little Empire out here, but history shows one thing damn clear, you got to watch out for that. So it had to be a Commission. Parliament's not about to approve that much power for any single man, not even me. Made me chairman since I've got the votes. Put my niece on it—my brother was more popular than I am, we needed a woman, and here's Sally just been to the Mote. Fine. But I can't stay out here too long, Rod. Somebody's got to. That's you."

  "I saw that coming. Why me?"

  "You're a natural. Needed your old man's support to get the Commission approved anyway. Marquis is pretty popular right now. Done some good work consolidating his sector. Good war record. Besides, you're almost Royal Family. You're in line for the Throne—"

  "About twenty-eighth. My sister's boy has a better claim than I do."

  "Yeah, but it's not spreading the prerogative too far. The peers trust you. Baronage likes your father. Commons too, and nobody's going to think you want to be king out here, you'd lose Crucis Court. So now the problem is to find a couple of local dummies who'll take their baronages and go along with you after I leave. You'll have to find yourself a replacement before you can go home, but you'll manage that. I did." Fowler smiled beatifically.

  The Palace loomed up ahead of them. Kilted guards stood outside in ceremonial uniforms, but the officer who checked their credentials against his appointment list before waving them through the gates was a Marine.

  "Got to hurry," Senator Fowler said as they drove around the circular way to the bright red-and-yellow-rock steps. "Rod, if those Moties are a threat, could you order Kutuzov in there with a battle fleet?"

  "Sir?"

  "You heard me. What are you smiling about?"

  "I had this conversation with one of my officers back at Mote Prime. Only I was in your seat. Yes, sir. I wouldn't want to, but I could. And I can answer so fast because I decided the question on the way home, otherwise I'd have had to tell you to stuff your Commission." He paused a moment. "Sally couldn't, though."

  “Wouldn't expect her to. She wouldn't fight it, either. Any evidence that would make you or me order something like that would make her resign. Look, I've been over those reports until I'm deaf and blind, and I can't find much wrong—there are a few things, though. Like your middies. I'm having trouble swallowing that frog."

  "So am I—"

  The cab pulled up at the Palace steps and the driver opened the doors for them. Rod fished for bills to pay the fare, and he gave too large a tip because he wasn't used to riding in cabs.

  "Will that be all, my lord?" the waiter asked.

  Rod glanced at his pocket computer. "Yes, thank you. We're going to be late, Sally." He made no attempt to stand. "Angus—we'll have coffee. With brandy."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Rod, we really will be late." Sally didn't get up either. They looked at each other and laughed. "When was the last time we had lunch together?" she asked.

  "A week? Two? I don't remember. Sally, I've never been so busy in my life. Right now a main fleet action would be a relief." He grimaced. "Another party tonight. Lady Riordan. Do we have to go?"

  "Uncle Ben says Baron Riordan is very influential on New Ireland, and we may need some support there."

  "Then I suppose we have to." Angus arrived with coffee. Rod tasted it and sighed in satisfaction. "Angus, that is the best coffee and brandy I've ever had. Your quality has improved in the last week."

  "Yes, my lord. It is reserved for you."

  "For me? Sally, is this your—?"

  "No." She was as puzzled as he. "Where did you get it, Angus?"

  "A merchant captain personally brought it to Government House, my lady. He said it was for Lord Blaine. The chef tried it and said it was fit to serve."

  "And that it is," Rod agreed enthusiastically. "Who was the captain?"

  "I'll find out, my lord."

  "Some office seeker," Rod said thoughtfully after the waiter left. "Although you'd think he'd have let me know—" He glanced at his computer again. "I suppose we haven't long. We can't keep the Viceroy waiting all afternoon."

  "We might as well. You and Uncle Ben won't agree to my suggestion, and—"

  "Let's leave that until the conference, sweetheart." The Viceroy was demanding an immediate Commission decision on what to do about the Moties. He was only one of many. War Minister Armstrong wanted to know how large a battle fleet it would take to disarm the Moties—just in case, he said, so that Admiral Cranston's War Plans Division could go to work.

  The Imperial Traders' Association insisted that everything Bury knew about trade possibilities be made available to all members. The Grand Deacon of the Church of Him wanted proof that the Moties were angels. Another Himmist faction was sure they were devils and the Empire was suppressing the information. Cardinal Randolph of the Imperial Church wanted tapes of Motie life broadcast on tri-v to finish the Himmists once and for all.

  And everyone in two hundred parsecs wanted a seat on the Commission.

  "At least we'll be in the same meeting," Sally said.

  "Yeah." Their Palace quarter
s were in the same corridor but they never saw each other except at parties. During the confused blur of the past weeks Rod and Sally had seldom been in the same conferences.

  Angus returned and bowed. "Captain Anderson, Ragnarok, my lord."

  "I see. Thank you, Angus. That's an Imperial Autonetics ship, Sally."

  "Then Mr. Bury sent the coffee and brandy! That was very nice of him—"

  "Yeah." Rod sighed. “We really do have to go." They went upstairs from the executive dining room to Viceroy Merrill's working office. Senator Fowler, War Minister Armstrong, and Fleet Admiral Cranston were waiting impatiently.

  "Our first lunch together in two weeks," Rod explained. "My apologies." They sounded perfunctory.

  "It won't be so bad when Lenin gets in," Senator Fowler said. "Horvath's scientists can make most of the public appearances. They'll eat it up."

  "Assuming you give them permission to appear," Prince Merrill drawled. "You haven't let your protegés say much for all the talking they've done."

  "Your pardon, Highness," Admiral Cranston said. "I'm in a hurry. What do I do about Lenin's arrival? The ship orbits in sixty hours, and I have to send orders to Kutuzov."

  "We'd have that settled if you'd agree to my suggestion, Uncle Ben," said Sally. "Give them quarters in the Palace, assign them servants and guards, and let the Moties decide whom they want to see."

  "She has a point, Benjie," Merrill observed. "After all, they are the representatives of a sovereign power. Hard to justify keeping them penned up, eh? Make a big stink, and for what?"

  "Admiral Kutuzov is convinced the Moties are a threat," the War Minister said. "He says they are very persuasive. Give them a chance to speak to whom they will and there is no telling what they might do. They could make political trouble for us, Your Highness, and we do no need that."

  "But you have to agree that three Moties aren't any military threat," Sally insisted.

  Benjamin Fowler sighed heavily. “We've been over this before. It isn't the military threat I worry about! If we turn the Moties loose they will make deals. Bury's report convinces me of that. The Moties can get interest groups formed to support them. Negotiate trade agreements."

  "The Commission has a veto on any agreement, Uncle Ben."

  "Harder to kill a deal than see one isn't made to begin with. Look, if the Moties are everything Horvath thinks they are: peaceful, anxious to sell or give us new technology, no competition for living space—and how in hell can he know that?—no military threat, never going to ally with the outies . . ."

  Admiral Cranston growled deep in his throat.

  "And all the rest of it, even if they're all that and more, they are still problems. For one thing, their technology's going to shake up the whole Empire. We can't just turn all that loose without some plans for readjustment."

  "Labor people are on to that," Merrill said dryly. "President of IF of L was in here not an hour ago demanding that we bottle up the Moties until his staff can study unemployment problems. Not against new technology, but wants us to be cautious. Can't say I blame him."

  "The ITA isn't solid any more either," Rod added. "At Lady Malcolm's last night a couple of Traders told me they've got second thoughts about Moties." Rod fingered the lapels of his brightly colored knit tunic. Civilian clothes fit better and should have been more comfortable than Navy uniform, but they didn't seem more comfortable. "Damn it, I don't know what to say! I've been so busy with meaningless speeches and conferences and these goddamn parties I haven't had a chance to do any constructive thinking."

  "Course, of course," Merrill soothed. "Still and all, my lord, my orders from HM are clear. I have to take the advice of your Commission. And I am still waiting for that advice. Lady Sandra—"

  "Sally. Please." She'd never liked her given name, for no reason she could have told anyone.

  "Lady Sally has at least offered us something. Senator, you and Blaine have to do more than protest that you don't know enough!"

  "There is the small matter of my fleet," Armstrong put in. "I must know if Cranston's battleships can go back to chasing outies, or must they stand by in this corner of the sector? We'll hae more revolts if we do no show the flag in the distant provinces!"

  "Same demands?" Rod asked.

  "Aye. They want ships o' their own. More say in Imperial policy too, but mostly the ships. 'Tis enough to drive me mad! They hae control o' their internal affairs. They do no pay more taxes than we. When the outies stir about they shout for the Navy and we come. But these are no your problems, my lord. If we truly need ships to defend mankind from alien monsters I'll find them for you if I hae to work in MacPherson's Yards myself,"

  “Would almost be worthwhile if the Moties were hostile," Merrill said thoughtfully. "A real threat to the Empire would consolidate the provinces— Wonder if we could sell that story to the barons?"

  "Your Highness!" Sally protested.

  "Just a thought, just a thought."

  "Dazzle 'em with footwork," Fowler growled. They all turned to stare at him. "It's obvious. Let the press corps have a field day. When Lenin gets in, we'll put on a show like New Scotland's never seen. Big reception for the Moties. Full honors. Lots of formalities, parades, reviews, tours. Conferences with the Foreign Office people. Nobody can object if the Motie public appearances are ceremonial and the Foreign Office monopolizes the rest of their time. Meanwhile, we get to work. Your Highness, we'll have advice for you as soon as possible, but Leoni— His Majesty did not send me out here to make snap judgments. Until I know more, we'll just have to make do."

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Parades

  The landing boat settled on the roof of the Palace with a high-pitched whine of jets dying to a low rumble, then silence. A long roll of drums began outside. The martial sound filtered into the cabin, then blared as the entryway was opened.

  David Hardy blinked into morning sunlight bright on the varicolored stones of the Palace. He sniffed fresh air with no smell of ships and men and filters, and felt the warmth of New Cal. His feet sensed solid rock below. Home!

  "HONOR GUARD, ATTENTION!"

  Oh, Lord, they're going all out, David thought. He squared his shoulders and moved down the ramp as cameramen focused their zoom lenses. Other naval officers and civilians followed. Dr. Horvath was the last, and when he appeared David nodded to the officer in charge.

  "PRESENT ARMS!" Snap! Crack! Fifty pairs of white gloves made identical motions and slapped their weapons at identical times. Fifty scarlet sleeves heavy with gold braid poised in geometrical precision. The drum roll swelled louder and faster.

  The Moties came down the ramp. They blinked at New Cal's sunlight. Trumpets blared a salute, then halted with the drum roll. The silence was broken only by faint traffic sounds from streets half a kilometer away. Even the newsmen on their high platform were still. The Moties swiveled their bodies rapidly about.

  Curiosity! A human world at last, and humans who governed; yet what were they doing? Ahead were two lines of twenty-five Marines in rigid pose, their weapons held in what could not be a comfortable position, all identical and obviously not threatening anyone; but Ivan automatically swiveled to look behind for his Warriors.

  To their right were more of these Marines but they carried noise-makers, not weapons, and several carried banners with colors dipped; three more carried weapons and a fourth held up a larger banner that was not dipped: symbols they'd seen before. Crown and spaceship, eagle, sickle-and-hammer.

  Directly ahead, past the clump of people from Lenin and MacArthur, were more humans in a wild array of clothing. They were obviously waiting to speak to the Moties, but they did not speak.

  "Captain Blaine and Miss Fowler," Jock twittered. "Their posture indicates that the two in front of them receive deference."

  David Hardy led the Moties forward. The aliens were still wrinkling their noses, and they chattered among themselves in musical tones. "If the air is distasteful," David said, "we can build filters. I hadn't noticed
that ship's air distressed you." He took another lungful of the clean precious stuff.

  "No, no, it's only a bit flat and tasteless," said a Mediator. It was impossible to tell the two apart. "Then there's the extra oxygen. I think we'll need that."

  "Gravity?"

  "Right." The Motie squinted toward the sun. “We'll also need dark glasses."

  "Certainly." They reached the end of the lines of honor guards. Hardy bowed to Merrill. Both Mediators did likewise in perfect imitation. The White stood erect for a moment, then bowed, but not so deeply as the others.

  Dr. Horvath was waiting. "Prince Stefan Merrill, Viceroy to His Imperial Majesty for Trans-Coalsack Sector," Horvath announced. "Your Highness, the Ambassador from Mote Prime. He is called Ivan."

  Merrill bowed formally, then indicated Benjamin Fowler. "Senator Benjamin Bright Fowler, Lord President of the Imperial Commission Extraordinary. Senator Fowler is empowered to speak with you in the name of the Emperor, and he has a message for you from His Majesty."

  The Moties bowed again.

  Senator Fowler had allowed his valet to dress him properly; all the billions of humanity would eventually see recordings of this meeting. He wore a dark tunic with no decoration but a small golden sunburst on the left breast, his sash was new, his trousers fit perfectly and vanished into the tops of glove-soft, gleaming boots. He thrust a black Malacca cane with carved gold head under his left arm as Rod Blaine held out a parchment.

  Fowler read in his "official speeches" voice; in debates he was a firebrand, but his formal speeches were stilted. This one was no exception.

  "Leonidas IX by Grace of God Emperor of Humanity to the representatives of the Mote Civilization, Greetings and Welcome. For a thousand years mankind has searched for brothers in the universe. We have dreamed of them for all our history. . . ." The message was long and formal, and the Moties listened in silence. To their left a knot of men hustled and whispered together, and there were some pointed instruments the Moties recognized as badly designed tri-v cameras. There was a forest of cameras and far too many men; why did the humans need so many to do a simple task?