The Mote In God's Eye

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  "The blockade? Sure. We worked out the plan at Fleet Battle Ops. Jack Cargill set it up: a squadron inside the Eye itself to take advantage of the Jump shock. The Moties don't know about that, and their ships won't be under command for minutes at best. If they try to send them through on automatic it just makes it worse."

  She shivered against him. "That wasn't really what I meant. The whole plan—will it work?"

  "What choices have we?"

  "None. And I'm glad you agree. I couldn't live with you if— I couldn't, that's all."

  "Yeah." And that makes me grateful to the Moties for thinking up this scheme, because we can't let the Moties get out. A galactic plague—and there are only two remedies for that kind of plague. Quarantine and extermination. At least we've got a choice.

  "They're—" She stopped and looked up at him. "I'm afraid to talk to you about it. Rod, I couldn't live with myself if we had to—if the blockade won't work."

  He didn't say anything. There was a shouted laugh from somewhere beyond the Palace grounds. It sounded like children.

  "They'll get past that squadron in the star," Sally said. Her voice was tightly controlled.

  "Sure. And past the mines Sandy Sinclair's designing too. But where can they go, Sally? There's only one exit from the Eye system, they don't know where it is, and there'll be a battle group waiting for them when they find it. Meanwhile they've been inside a star. No place to dissipate energy. Probably damaged. There's nothing you can think of that we haven't considered. That blockade's tight. I couldn't approve it otherwise."

  She relaxed again and leaned against his chest. His arms encircled her. They watched the Hooded Man and his imperfect eye.

  "They won't come out," Rod said.

  "And they're still trapped. After a million years . . . what will we be like in a million years?" she wondered. "Like them? There's something basic we don't understand about Moties. A fatalistic streak I can't even comprehend. After a few failures they may even just—give up."

  He shrugged. "We'll keep the blockade anyway. Then, in about fifty years, we'll go in and see what things are like. If they've collapsed as thoroughly as Charlie predicts, we can take them into the Empire."

  "And then what?"

  "I don't know. We'll have to think of something."

  "Yes." She drew away from him and turned excitedly. "I know! Rod, we have to really look at the problem. For the Moties. We can help them."

  He looked at her wonderingly. "I think the best brains in the Empire are likely to be working on it."

  "Yes, but for the Empire. Not for the Moties. We need—an Institute. Something controlled by people who know the Moties. Something outside of politics. And we can do it. We're rich enough. . ."

  "Eh?"

  "We can't spend half of what we have between us." She dashed past him and into his suite, then through it and across the corridor to her own. Rod followed to see her burrowing among the stacks of wedding gifts that littered the large rose-teak table in her entry hall. She grunted in satisfaction when she found her pocket computer.

  Now should I be irritated? Rod thought. I think I'd better learn to be happy when she's like this. I'll have a long time to do it. "The Moties have been working on their problem awhile," he reminded her.

  She looked up with faint irritation. "Pooh. They don't see things the way we do. Fatalism, remember? And they've had nobody to force them into adopting any solutions they do think up." She went back to scribbling notes. “We'll need Horowitz, of course. And he says there's a good man on Sparta, we'll have to send for him. Dr. Hardy. We'll want him."

  He regarded her with awe and wonder. “When you get going, you move." And I better move with you if I'm going to have you around all my life. Wonder what it's like to live with a whirlwind? "You'll have Father Hardy if you want him. The Cardinal's assigned him to the Motie problem—and I think His Eminence has something bigger in store. Hardy could have been a bishop long ago but he doesn't have the normal share of miterosis. Now I don't think he's got much choice. First apostolic delegate to an alien race, or something."

  "Then the Board will be you and me, Dr. Horvath, Father Hardy— and Ivan."

  "Ivan?" But why not? And as long as we're doing this, we may as well do it right. We'll need a good executive director. Sally's no use as an administrator, and I won't have time. Horvath, maybe. "Sally, do you know just how much we're up against? The biology problem: how to turn a female to male without pregnancy or permanent sterility. But even if you find something, how do we get the Moties to use it?"

  She wasn't really listening. "We'll find a way. We're pretty good at governing—"

  "We can hardly govern a human empire!"

  "But we do, don't we? Somehow." She pushed a stack of gaily wrapped packages aside to make more room. A large box almost fell and Rod had to catch it as Sally continued to scrawl notes into her computer's memory bank. "Now just what's the code for Imperial Men and Women of Science?" she asked. "There's a man on Meiji who's done some really good work in genetic engineering, and I can't remember his name . . ."

  Rod sighed heavily. “I’ll look him up for you. But there's one condition."

  "What's that?" She looked up in curiosity.

  "You finish this up by next week, because, Sally, if you take that pocket computer on our honeymoon, I'll throw the goddamn thing into the mass converter!"

  She laughed, but Rod didn't feel reassured at all. Oh. Well. The computers weren't expensive. He could buy her a new one when they got back. In fact, maybe he ought to make a deal with Bury; he might need the things in shipload lots if they were ever going to have a family . . .

  Horace Bury followed the Marine guards through the Palace, pointedly ignoring the other Marines who'd fallen in behind him. His face was calm, and only a close study of his eyes could show the despair that bored through him.

  As Allah wills, he sighed, and wondered that he no longer resented the thought. Perhaps there would be comfort in submission . . . there was little else to console him. The Marines had brought his servant and all his baggage down on the landing ship, and then separated him from Nabil at the Palace roof. Before they did, Nabil had whispered his message: Jonas Stone's confession was even now reaching the Palace.

  Stone was still on New Chicago, but whatever he had told Naval Intelligence was important enough to be put on a message sloop. Nabil's informant didn't know what the rebel leader had said, but Bury did, as surely as if he could read the coded tapes. The message would be brief, and it would contain death by hanging for Horace Bury.

  So this is the end of it all. The Empire acts swiftly against treason: a few days, a few weeks. No more. There is no chance to escape. The Marines are polite, but very alert. They have been warned, and there are many of them, too many. One might accept a bribe, but not when his comrades are watching.

  As Allah wills. But it is a pity. Had I not been so concerned with the aliens, had I not done the Empire's work with the Traders, I would long since have escaped. Levant is large. But I would have had to leave New Scotland, and it is here the decisions will be made—what point to escape when the aliens may destroy us all?

  The Marine Sergeant conducted him to an ornate conference room and held open the door until Bury went inside. Then, incredibly, the guards retired. There were only two men in the room with him.

  "Good morning, my lord," Bury said to Rod Blaine. His words were even and smooth, but his mouth felt dry, and there was a sharp taste in the back of his throat as he bowed to the other man. "I have not been introduced to Senator Fowler, but of course his face is known to everyone in the Empire. Good morning, Senator."

  Fowler nodded without rising from his seat at the big conference table. "Good morning, Excellency. Good of you to come. Have a seat, won't you?" He waved to a place opposite his.

  "Thank you." Bury took the indicated chair. Then more astonishment, as Blaine brought coffee. Bury sniffed carefully and recognized it as a blend he had sent to the Palace chef for Blaine's use.<
br />
  In the Name of Allah. They are playing games with me, but to what end? He felt rage mingled with fear, but no hope at all. And a wild, bubbling laugh rose in his throat.

  "Just so we know where we stand, Excellency," Fowler said. He waved, and Blaine activated a wall screen. The bulky features of Jonas Stone loomed out into the ornately paneled room. There was sweat on the brow and along the cheekbones, and Stone's voice alternately boomed and pleaded.

  Bury listened impassively, his lip curled in contempt for Stone's weakness. There was no doubt at all: the Navy had more than enough evidence to send him to a traitor's death. Still the smile did not fade from Bury's lips. He would give them no satisfaction. He would not plead.

  Eventually the tape ended. Fowler waved again and the rebel leader's image vanished. "Nobody's seen that but the three of us, Excellency," Fowler said carefully.

  But no. What do they want? Is there hope after all?

  "I don't know that it needs discussing," the Senator continued. "Me, I'd rather talk about Moties."

  "Ah," said Bury. The tiny sound almost stuck in his throat. And do you wish to deal, or do you taunt me with the final horror? He swallowed coffee to moisten his tongue before he spoke. "I am sure that the Senator is aware of my views. I consider Moties the greatest threat humans have ever faced." He looked at the two men opposite him, but there was nothing to be read in their faces.

  "We agree," Blaine said.

  Quickly, while hope rose in Bury's eyes, Fowler added, "There's not much question about it. They're locked into a permanent state of population explosion followed by total war. If they ever get out of their system— Bury, they've got a soldier subspecies that puts the Saurons to shame. Hell, you've seen them."

  Blaine did things to his pocket computer and another picture appeared: the time-machine sculpture.

  "Those? But my Motie said they—" Bury stopped himself in realization. Then he laughed: the laugh of a man who has nothing more to lose. "My Motie."

  "Precisely." The Senator smiled faintly. "I can't say we have much trust in your Motie. Bury, even if it were only the miniatures that got loose, we could lose whole worlds. They breed like bacteria. Nothing big enough to see breeds like that. But you know."

  "Yes." Bury gathered himself with difficulty. His face smoothed, but behind his eyes was a myriad of glittering tiny eyes. Splendor of Allah! I almost brought them out myself! Praise and glory to the One who is merciful . . .

  "Dammit, stop shivering," Fowler commanded.

  "My apologies. You will doubtless have heard of my encounter with miniatures." He glanced at Blaine and envied his external calm. Miniatures could be no less unpleasant to the commander of MacArthur, "I am pleased to hear that the Empire recognizes the dangers."

  "Yeah. We're going to blockade the Moties. Bottle 'em up in their own system."

  "Would it not be better to exterminate them while we can?" Bury asked quietly. The voice was calm, but his dark eyes blazed.

  "How?"

  Bury nodded. "There would be political difficulties, of course. But I could find men to take an expedition to Mote Prime, and given the proper orders—"

  Fowler gestured dismissal. "I've got my own agents provocateurs if I need 'em."

  "Mine would be considerably less valuable." Bury looked pointedly at Blaine.

  "Yeah." Fowler said nothing more for a moment, and Blaine stiffened visibly. Then the Senator continued. "Better or worse, Trader, we've decided on the blockade. Government's shaky enough without being accused of genocide. Besides, I don't know as I like the idea of unprovoked attack on intelligent beings. We'll do it this way."

  "But the threat!" Bury leaned forward, unmindful of the fanatical gleam in his eyes. He knew he was close to madness, but he no longer cared. "Do you think you have locked the djinn away because the cork is back in the bottle? What if another generation does not see the Moties as we do? What if they let the djinn loose again? Glory of Allah! Picture swarms of their ships. They pour into the Empire, each commanded by things that look like that and think like Admiral Kutuzov! Specialized Warriors more than the equals of Sauron Death's-heads! And you will let them live? I tell you they must be destroyed. . ."

  No! Men are never persuaded simply because they must believe. They will not listen when— Visibly he relaxed. "I see that you have decided. How may I be of assistance?" Or do you wish anything of me at all? Is this a game?

  "I think you already have," Blaine said. He lifted his coffee and sipped. "And I thank you for the gift."

  "Blockade's about the most expensive kind of naval action there is," Fowler mused. "Never very popular either."

  "Ah." Bury felt the tension die within him. They held his life, but they needed him—perhaps he could keep far more than his life. "You are concerned about the Imperial Traders' Association."

  "Exactly." There was no reading Fowler's expression.

  Relief. For this I will build a mosque. It would make my father gloriously happy, and who knows? Perhaps Allah exists after all. That bubbling laugh was still there in his throat, but he knew that if he began he would never stop. "I have already pointed out to my colleagues the disadvantages of unrestricted trade with Moties. I have had my share of success, although too many Traders are like the neighbor who followed Aladdin into the magician's cave. Incalculable wealth glitters more brightly than the dangers."

  "Yeah. But can you hold 'em? Find out who intends to sabotage us and squash their schemes?"

  Bury shrugged. “With some assistance. It will be very expensive. I assume I will have the use of secret funds. . ."

  Fowler grinned evilly. "Rod, what else was it Stone said? Something about—"

  "It will not be necessary to bring up that man's ravings," Bury protested. "I believe I have sufficient wealth." He shuddered. What would he have when this was done? Fowler wouldn't care if he bled Bury to death. "If there is something that requires resources beyond mine—"

  "We'll discuss it then," Fowler said. "There will be, too. For instance, this blockade's going to suck up a lot of resources Merrill thought he'd have for the unification of Trans-Coalsack. Now it seems to me a smart Trader might just have a few contacts among the rebels. Might even be able to persuade 'em to our point of view. I don't know how that would work, of course."

  “I see.”

  Fowler nodded. "Thought you might. Rod, take that tape and see it's put in a good safe place, will you? I doubt if we'll be needing it again."

  "Yes, sir." Rod did things to his pocket computer. The machine hummed: a tiny whine that signaled a new kind of life for Horace Bury.

  There will be no evasions, Bury thought. Fowler will accept only results, not excuses; and my life will be at stake in this game. It will not be easy to be this man's political agent. Yet what choice is there? On Levant I could only wait in fear. At least this way I will know how they are dealing with the Moties . . . and perhaps change their policies as well.

  "One more thing," the Senator said. He gestured and Rod Blaine went to the office door. Kevin Renner entered.

  It was the first time any of them had seen the Sailing Master in civilian clothing. Renner had chosen bright plaid trousers and an even brighter tunic. His sash was some silklike material that looked natural but probably was synthetic. Soft boots, jewelry; in short, he looked like most of Bury's successful merchant captains. Trader and shipmaster eyed each other wonderingly.

  "Yes, sir?" Renner asked.

  "Bit premature, aren't you, Kevin?" Rod asked. “Your discharge isn't effective until this afternoon."

  Renner grinned. "Didn't think the Provost would mind. And it sure feels good. Morning, Excellency."

  "You know Trader Bury, then," Fowler said. "Good enough, since you'll be seeing a lot of each other."

  "Uh?" Renner's face took on a wary look.

  "The Senator means," Rod explained, "that he'd like to ask you a favor. Kevin, do you recall the terms of your enlistment?"

  "Sure."

  "Four years, or
the duration of a Class One Imperial emergency, or the duration of a formal war," Rod said. "Oh, by the way, the Senator has declared the Motie situation a Class One emergency."

  "Now wait a minute!" Renner shouted. "You can't do that to me!"

  "Yes, I can," said Fowler.

  Renner sagged into a chair. "Oh, my God. Well, you are the expert."

  "Haven't made it public yet," Senator Fowler said. "Wouldn't want to panic anybody. But you've been officially notified now." Fowler waited for that to sink in. "Of course, we might have an alternative for you."

  "Bless you."

  "Bitter, aren't you?" Rod said. He was cheerful. Renner hated him.

  "You did us a good piece of work, Renner," Fowler said. "Empire's grateful. I'm grateful. You know, I brought a hatful of blank Imperial patents when I came out. . . how'd you like to be a baron come next Birthday?"

  "Oh, no! Not me! I've put in my time!"

  "But surely you'd find the privileges enjoyable," Rod said.

  "Damn! So I should have waited until morning to bring the Senator to your room. I knew I should have waited. No, sir, you'll not make any aristocrat out of Kevin Renner! I've got too much of the universe to explore! I don't have time for all the work. . ."

  "It might spoil your carefree life," Senator Fowler said. "Anyway, it wouldn't be so easy to arrange. Jealousy and such. But you're too useful, Mr. Renner, and there is the Class One emergency."

  "But-but . . ."

  "Civilian ship captain," Fowler said. "With a knighthood. And an understanding of the Motie problem. Yep, you're just what we need."

  "I haven't got any knighthood."

  "You will. You can't turn that down. Mr. Bury'll insist that his personal pilot have at least the St. Michael and St. George. Won't you, Excellency?"

  Bury winced. It was inevitable that the Empire would assign men to watch him, and they would want a man who could talk to the merchant captains. But this—harlequin? Beard of the Prophet, the man would be intolerable! Horace sighed to the inevitable. At least he was an intelligent harlequin. Perhaps he would even be useful. "I think Sir Kevin would be an admirable man to command my personal ship," Bury said smoothly. There was only a trace of distaste in the voice. “Welcome to Imperial Autonetics, Sir Kevin."