The Mote in God's Eye (25 page)

The search went on through the watch. No one found the female and the pup. They tried getting the big Motie to help, but she obviously didn’t understand or wasn’t interested. Finally, Blaine went back to his cabin to sleep for a couple of hours. When he woke the miniatures were still missing.

“We could set the ferrets after them,” Cargill suggested at breakfast in the wardroom. A leading torpedoman kept a pair of the cat-sized rodents and used them to keep the forecastle clear of mice and rats. The ferrets were extremely efficient at that.

“They’d kill the Moties,” Sally protested. “They aren’t dangerous. Certainly no more dangerous than rats. We can’t kill them!”

“If we don’t find them pretty soon, the Admiral’s going to kill
me
,” Rod growled, but he gave in. The search continued and Blaine went to the bridge.

“Get me the Admiral,” he told Staley.

“Aye aye, sir.” The midshipman spoke into the com circuit.

A few moments later Admiral Kutuzov’s craggy bearded features came onto the screen. The Admiral was on his bridge, drinking tea from a glass. Now that Rod thought of it, he had never spoken to Kutuzov when he
wasn’t
on the bridge. When did he sleep? Blaine reported the missing Moties.

“You still have no idea what these miniatures are, Captain?” Kutuzov demanded.

“No, sir. There are several theories. The most popular is that they’re related to the Moties the same way that monkeys are related to humanity.”

“That is interesting, Captain. And I suppose these theories explain why there are monkeys on asteroid mining ship? And why this miner brought two monkeys aboard your war vessel? I have not noticed that we carry monkeys, Captain Blaine.”

“No, sir.”

“The Motie probe arrives in three hours,” Kutuzov muttered. “And the miniatures escaped last night. This timing is interesting, Captain. I think those miniatures are spies.”

“Spies, sir?”

“Spies. You are told they are not intelligent. Perhaps true, but could they memorize? That does not seem to me impossible. You have told me of mechanical abilities of large alien. It ordered miniatures to return that Trader’s watch. Captain, under no circumstances may adult alien be allowed contact with miniatures which have escaped. Nor may any large alien do so. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want reason?” the Admiral demanded. “If there is any chance at all that those beasts could learn secrets of Drive and Field, Captain...”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“See that you do, Captain.”

Blaine sat for a moment staring at the blank screen, then glanced across at Cargill. “Jack, you shipped with the Admiral once, didn’t you? What’s he really like under all that legendary image?”

Cargill took a seat near Blaine’s command chair. “I was only a middie when he was Captain, Skipper. Not too close a relationship. One thing, we all respected him. He’s the toughest officer in the service and he doesn’t excuse anyone, especially not himself. But if there are battles to be fought, you’ve got a better chance of coming back alive with the Tsar in command.”

“So I’ve heard. He’s won more general fleet actions than any officer in the service, but Jesus, what a tough bastard.”

“Yes, sir.” Cargill studied his captain closely. They had been lieutenants together not long before, and it was easier to talk to Blaine than it would be with an older CO. “You’ve never been on St. Ekaterina, have you, Skipper?”

“No.”

“But we’ve got several crewmen from there.
Lenin
has more, of course. There’s an unholy high percentage of Katerinas in the Navy, Skipper. You know why?”

“Only vaguely.”

“They were settled by the Russian elements of the old CoDominium fleet,” Cargill said. “When the CD fleet pulled out of Sol System, the Russkis put their women and children on Ekaterina. In the Formation Wars they got hit bad. Then the Secession Wars started when Sauron hit St. Ekaterina without warning. It stayed loyal, but...”

“Like New Scotland,” Rod said.

Cargill nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. Imperial loyalist fanatics. With good reason, given their history. The only peace they’ve ever seen has been when the Empire’s strong.”

Rod nodded judiciously, then turned back to his screens. There was one way to make the Admiral happy. “Staley,” Blaine snapped. “Have Gunner Kelley order all Marines to search for the escaped Moties. They are to shoot on sight. Shoot to disable, if possible, but shoot. And have those ferrets turned loose in the galley area.”

As the Motie ship made its final approach, all details of its construction remained hidden by the flaring drive.
MacArthur
watched with screens up and charged. A hundred kilometers away,
Lenin
watched too.

“Battle stations, Mr. Staley,” Blaine ordered softly.

Staley grasped the large red handle which now pointed to Condition Two and moved it all the way clockwise. Alarms trilled, then a recorded trumpet sang “To Arms!,” rapid notes echoing through steel corridors.

“NOW HEAR THIS. NOW HEAR THIS. BATTLE STATIONS, BATTLE STATIONS. CONDITION RED ONE.”

Officers and crew rushed to action stations—gun crews, talkers, torpedomen, Marines. Shipfitters and cooks and storekeepers became damage-control men. Surgeon’s mates manned emergency aid stations throughout the ship—all quickly, all silently. Rod felt a burst of pride. Cziller had given him a taut ship, and by God they
still
were taut.

“COM ROOM REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE,” the bridge talker announced. The quartermaster’s mate third class said words given him by someone else, and all over the ship men rushed to obey, but he gave no orders of his own. He parroted words that would send
MacArthur
leaping across space, fire laser cannon and launch torpedoes, attack or withdraw, and he reported results that Blaine probably already knew from his screens and instruments. He took no initiative and never would, but through him the ship was commanded. He was an all-powerful mindless robot.

“GUNNERY STATIONS REPORT CONDITION RED ONE.”

“MARINE COMMANDER REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”

“Staley, have the Marines not on sentry duty continue the search for those missing aliens,” Blaine ordered.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“DAMAGE CONTROL REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”

The Motie ship decelerated toward
MacArthur
, the fusion flame of its drive a blaze on the battle cruiser’s screens. Rod watched nervously. “Sandy, how much of that drive could we take?”

“It’s nae too hot, Captain,” Sinclair reported through the intercom. “The Field can handle all of that for twenty minutes or more. And ‘tis nae focused, Skipper, there’d be nae hot spots.”

Blaine nodded. He’d reached the same conclusion, but it was wise to check when possible. He watched the light grow steadily.

“Peaceful enough,” Rod told Renner. “Even if it is a warship.”

“I’m not so sure it is one, Captain.” Renner seemed very much at ease. Even if the Motie should attack he’d be more a spectator than a participant. “At least they’ve aimed their drive flame to miss. Courtesy counts.”

“The hell it does. That flames
spreads
. Some of it is spilling onto our Langston Field, and they can observe what it does to us.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“MARINES REPORT CIVILIANS IN CORRIDORS, B DECK BULKHEAD TWENTY.”

“God damn it!” Blaine shouted. “That’s astronomy. Get those corridors cleared!”

“It’ll be Buckman,” Renner grinned. “And they’ll have their troubles getting him to his stateroom...”

“Yeah. Mr. Staley, tell the Marines to put Buckman in his cabin even if they have to frogmarch him there.”

Whitbread grinned to himself.
MacArthur
was in free fall, all her spin gone. Now how would the Marines frogmarch the astrophysicist in that?

“TORPEDO ROOMS REPORT CONDITION RED ONE. TORPEDOES ARMED AND READY.”

“One of the leading cooks thinks he saw a miniature,” Staley said. “The Marines are on the way.”

The alien ship drew closer, her drive a steady white blaze. She was cutting it very fine, Blaine thought. The deceleration hadn’t changed at all. They obviously trusted
everything
—their drives, their computers, sensors...

“ENGINE ROOM REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE. FIELD AT MAXIMUM STRENGTH.”

“The Marines have Dr. Buckman in his stateroom,” Staley said. “Dr. Horvath is on the intercom. He wants to complain.”

“Listen to him, Staley. But not for long.”

“GUNNERY REPORTS ALL BATTERIES LOCKED ONTO ALIEN CRAFT. LOCKED ON AND TRACKING.”

MacArthur
was at full alert. All through the ship her crew waited at action stations. All nonessential equipment located near the ship’s hull had been sent below.

The tower containing Blaine’s patrol cabin stuck out of the battle cruiser’s hull like an afterthought. For spin gravity it was conveniently far from the ship’s axis, but in a battle it would be the first thing shot off. Blaine’s cabin was an empty shell now, his desk and the more important gear long since automatically raised into one of the nullgravity recreation areas.

Every idle compartment at the ship’s core was jammed, while the outer decks were empty, cleared to make way for damage-control parties.

And the Motie ship was approaching fast. She was still no more than a brightening light, a fusion jet fanning out to splash
MacArthur
’s Langston Field.

“GUNNERY REPORTS ALIEN SHIP DECELERATING AT POINT EIGHT SEVEN ZERO GRAVITIES.”

“No surprises,” said Renner sotto voce.

The light expanded to fill the screen—and then dimmed. Next moment the alien ship was sliding precisely alongside the battle cruiser, and its drive flame was already off.

It was as if the vessel had entered an invisible dock predetermined six days ago. The thing was at rest relative to
MacArthur
. Rod saw shadows moving within the inflated rings at its fore end.

Renner snarled, an ugly sound. His face contorted. “Goddamn show-offs!”

“Mr. Renner, control yourself.”

“Sorry, sir. That’s the most astounding feat of astrogation I’ve ever heard of. If anyone tried to tell me about it, I’d call him a liar. Who do they think they are?” Renner was genuinely angry. “Any astrogator-in-training that tried a stunt like that would be out on his tail, if he lived through the crash.”

Blaine nodded. The Motie pilot had left no margin of error at all. And— “I was wrong. That couldn’t possibly be a warship.
Look
at it.”

“Yah. It’s as fragile as a butterfly. I could crush it in my hand.”

Rod mused a moment, then gave orders. “Ask for volunteers. To make first contact with that ship, alone, using an unarmed taxi. And . . . keep Condition Red One.”

There were a good many volunteers.

Naturally Mr. Midshipman Wbitbread was one of them. And Whitbread had done it before.

Now he waited in the taxi. He watched the hangar doors unfolding through his polarized plastic faceplate.

He had done this before. The Motie miner hadn’t killed him, had she? The black rippled. Sudden stars showed through a gap in the Langston Field.

“That’s big enough,” Cargill’s voice said in his right ear. “You may launch, Mr. Whitbread. On your way—and Godspeed.”

Whitbread fired thruster clusters. The taxi rose, floated through the opening into starry space and the distant glare of Murcheson’s Eye. Behind him the Langston Field closed. Whitbread was sealed outside.

MacArthur
was a sharply bounded region of supernatural blackness. Whitbread circled it at leisure. The Mote flashed bright over the black rim, followed by the alien ship.

Whitbread took his time. The ship grew slowly. Its core was as slender as a spear. Functional marking showed along its sides: hatch covers, instrument ports, antennae, no way to tell. A single black square fin jutted from near the midpoint: possibly a radiator surface.

Within the broad translucent doughnuts that circled the fore end he could see moving shapes. They showed clearly enough to arouse horror: vaguely human shadows twisted out of true.

Four toroids, and shadows within them all. Whitbread reported, “They’re using all their fuel tanks for living space. They can’t expect to get home without our help.”

The Captain’s voice: “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. There could be an inboard tank, but it wouldn’t be very large.”

He had nearly reached the alien craft. Whitbread slowed to a smooth stop just alongside the inhabited fuel tanks. He opened his air-lock door.

A door opened immediately near the fore end of the metal core. A Motie stood in the oval opening; it wore a transparent envelope. The alien waited.

Whitbread said, “Permission to leave the—”

“Granted. Report whenever convenient. Otherwise, use your own judgment. The Marines are standing by, Whitbread, so don’t yell for help unless you
mean
it. They’ll come fast. Now good luck.”

As Cargill’s voice faded, the Captain came on again. “Don’t take any serious risks, Whitbread. Remember, we want you back to report.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The Motie stepped gracefully out of his way as Whitbread approached the air lock. It left the Motie standing comically on vacuum, its big left hand gripping a ring that jutted out from the hull. “There’s stuff poking out all over,” Whitbread said into his mike. “This thing
couldn’t
have been launched from inside an atmosphere.”

He stopped himself in the oval opening and nodded at the gently smiling alien. He was only half sardonic as he asked formally, “Permission to come aboard?”

The alien bowed from the waist—or perhaps it was an exaggerated nod? The joint in its back was below the shoulders. It gestured toward the ship with the two right arms.

The air lock was Motie-sized, cramped. Whitbread found three recessed buttons in a web of silver streamers. Circuitry. The Motie watched his hesitation, then reached past him to push first one, then another.

The lock closed behind him.

The Mediator stood on emptiness, waiting for the lock to cycle. She wondered at the intruder’s queer structure, the symmetry and the odd articulation of its bones. Clearly the thing was not related to known life. And its home ship had appeared in what the Mediator thought of as the Crazy Eddie point.