The Mote in God's Eye (30 page)

“That would fit,” said Horvath.

They had gathered around the main window after dinner, with tea and coffee bulbs in their hands. The Moties had become tea and chocolate fanciers; they could not stomach coffee. Human, Motie, human, Motie, they circled the window on the horseshoe-shaped free-fall bench. The Fyunch(click)s had learned the human trick of aligning themselves all in the same direction.

“Look how fast they work,” Sally said. “The bridge seems to grow before your very eyes.” Again her eyes tried to cross. It was as if many of the Moties were working farther back, well behind the others. “The one marked with the orange strips must be a Brown. She seems to be in charge, don’t you think?”

“She’s also doing most of the work,” said Sinclair.

“That makes an odd kind of sense,” said Hardy. “If she knows enough to give the orders, she must be able to do the work better than any of the others, too, wouldn’t you think?” He rubbed his eyes. “Am I out of my mind, or are some of those Moties smaller than others?”

“It does look that way,” said Sally.

Whitbread stared at the bridge builders. Many of the Moties seemed to be working a long way
behind
the embassy ship—until three of them passed in front of it. Carefully he said, “Has anyone tried watching this through the scope? Lafferty, get it on for us, will you?”

In the telescope screen it was shockingly clear. Some of the Motie workmen were tiny, small enough to crawl into any crevice. And they had four arms each.

“Do—do you often use those creatures as workmen?” Sally asked her Fyunch(click).

“Yes. We find them very useful. Are there not—equal creatures—in your ships?” The alien seemed surprised. Of all the Moties, Sally’s gave the impression of being most often surprised at the humans. “Do you think Rod will be worried?”

“But what are they?” Sally demanded. She ignored the question the Motie had asked.

“They are—workers,” the Motie answered. “Useful animals. You are surprised because they are small? Yours are large, then?”

“Uh, yes,” Sally answered absently. She looked to the others. “I think I’d like to go see these—animals—close up. Anyone want to come along?” But Whitbread was already getting into his suit, and so were the others.

“Fyunch(click),” said the alien.

“God Almighty!” Blaine exploded. “Have they got you answering the phones now?”

The alien spoke slowly, with care for enunciation. Her grammar was not perfect, but her grasp of idiom and inflection was freshly amazing every time she spoke. “Why not? I talk well enough. I can remember a message. I can use the recorder. I have little to do when you are not available.”

“I can’t help that.”

“I know.” With a touch of complacence the alien added, “I startled a rating.”

“God’s teeth, you startled
me
. Who’s around?”

“Coxswain Lafferty. All the other humans are absent. They have gone to look at the tunnel. When it is finished the ratings will not have to go with them when they wish to visit the other ship. Can I pass on a message?”

“No, thanks, I’ll call back.”

“Sally should be back soon,” said Blaine’s Motie. “How are you? How goes the ship?”

“Well enough.”

“You always sound so cautious when you speak of the ship. Am I stepping on Navy secrets? It-ss not the ship that concerns me, Rod. I’m Fyunch(click) to you. It means considerably more than just
guide
.” The Motie gestured oddly. Rod had seen her do that before, when she was upset or annoyed.

“Just what does Fyunch(click) mean?”

“I am assigned to you. You are a project, a masterwork. I am to learn as much about you as there is to know. I am to become an expert on you, My Lord Roderick Blaine, and you are to become a field of study to me. It-ss not your gigantic, rigid, badly designed ship that interest-ss me, it-ss your attitudes toward that ship and the humans aboard, your degree of control over them, your interess-t in their welfare, et cetera.”

How would Kutuzov handle this? Break contact? Hell. “Nobody likes being watched. Anyone would feel a bit uncomfortable being studied like that.”

“We guessed you would take it that way. But, Rod, you’re here to study us, are-unt you? Surely we are entitled to study you back.”

“You have that right.” Rod’s voice was stiff despite himself. “But if someone becomes embarrassed while you’re talking to him, that’s probably the reason.”

“God damn it to hell,” said Blaine’s Motie. “You are the first intelligent beings we’ve ever met who are-unt relatives. Why should you expect to be comfortable with us?” She rubbed the flat center of her face with her upper right forefinger, then dropped her hand as if embarrassed. It was the same gesture she’d used a moment before.

There were noises off screen. Blaine’s Motie said, “Hang on a moment. Okay, it-ss Sally and Whitbread.” Her voice rose. “Sally? The Captain’s on screen.” She slid out of the chair. Sally Fowler slid in. Her smile seemed forced as she said, “Hello, Captain. What’s new?”

“Business as usual. How goes it at your end?”

“Rod, you look flustered. It’s a strange experience, isn’t it? Don’t worry, she can’t hear us now.”

“Good. I’m not sure I like an alien reading my mind that way. I don’t suppose they really read minds.”

“They say not. And they guess wrong sometimes.” She ran a hand through her hair, which was in disarray, perhaps because she had just doffed a pressure suit helmet. “Wildly wrong. Commander Sinclair’s Fyunch(click) wouldn’t talk to him at first. They thought he was a Brown; you know, an idiot carpenter type. How are you doing with the miniatures?”

That was a subject they’d both learned to avoid. Rod wondered why she’d brought it up. “The loose ones are still loose. No sign of them. They might even have died somewhere we wouldn’t find them. We’ve still got the one that stayed behind. I think you’d better have a look at her, Sally, next time you’re over. She may be sick.”

Sally nodded. “I’ll come over tomorrow. Rod, have you been watching the alien work party?”

“Not particularly. The air lock seems almost finished already.”

“Yes... Rod, they’ve been using trained miniatures to do part of the work.”

Rod stared stupidly.

Sally’s eyes shifted uneasily. “Trained miniatures. In pressure suits. We didn’t know there were any aboard. I suppose they must be shy; they must hide when humans are aboard. But they’re only animals, after all. We asked.”

“Animals.” Oh my God. What would Kutuzov say?

“Sally, this is important. Can you come over tonight and brief me? You and anyone else who knows anything about this.”

“All right. Commander Sinclair is watching them now. Rod, it’s really fantastic how well the little beasts are trained. And they can get into places where you’d have to use jointed tools and spy eyes.”

“I can imagine. Sally, tell me the truth. Is there the slightest chance the miniatures are intelligent?”

“No. They’re just trained.”

“Just trained.” And if there were any alive aboard
MacArthur
they’d have explored the ship from stem to stern. “Sally, is there the slightest chance that any of the aliens can hear me now?”

“No. I’m using the earphone, and we haven’t allowed them to work on our equipment.”

“So far as you know. Now listen carefully, then. I want to talk privately to everyone else on that cutter, one at a time. Has anyone said anything—anything at all—about there being miniatures loose aboard
MacArthur
?”

“No-oo. You told us not to, remember? Rod, what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? “For God’s sake,
don’t
say anything about the loose miniatures. I’ll tell the others as you put them on. And I want to see all of you, everyone except the cutter’s regular crew, tonight. It’s time we pooled our knowledge about Moties, because I’m going to have to report to the Admiral tomorrow morning.” He looked almost pale. “I guess I can wait that long.”

“Well, of course you can,” she said. She smiled enchantingly, but it didn’t come off very well. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Rod so concerned, and it upset her. “We’ll be over in an hour. Now here’s Mr. Whitbread, and please, Rod, stop worrying.”

MacArthur
’s wardroom was crowded. All the seats at the main table were taken by officers and scientists and there were others around the periphery. At one bulkhead the communications people had installed a large screen while the mess stewards got in the artificers’ way as they delivered coffee to the assembled company. Everyone chattered, carefree, except Sally. She remembered Rod Blaine’s worried face, and she couldn’t join in the happy reunion.

Officers and ratings stood as Rod came into the wardroom. Some of the civilians stood likewise; others pretended not to see the Captain; and a few looked at him, then looked away, exploiting their civilian status. As Rod took his place at the head of the table he muttered, “At ease,” then sat carefully. Sally thought he looked even more worried than before.

“Kelley.”

“Sir!”

“Is this room secure?”

“As near as we can make it, sir. Four files outside and I looked into the duct works.”

“What is this?” Horvath demanded. “Just who do you think you are guarding against?”

“Everyone—and every thing—not here, Doctor.” Rod looked at the Science Minister with eyes that showed both command and pleading. “I must tell you that everything discussed here will be classified Top Secret. Do each and all of you waive the reading of the Imperial Regulations on disclosure of classified information?”

There was muttered assent. The cheery mood of the group had suddenly vanished.

“Any dissents? Let the record show there were none. Dr. Horvath, I am given to understand that three hours ago you discovered that the miniatures are highly trained animals capable of technical work performed under command. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Certainly. It was quite a surprise, I can tell you! The implications are enormous—if we can learn to direct them, they would be fabulous additions to our capabilities.”

Rod nodded absently. “Is there any chance that we could have known that earlier? Did anyone know it? Anyone at all?”

There was a confused babble but no one answered. Rod said, carefully and clearly, “Let the record show there was no one.”

“What is this record you keep speaking of?” Horvath demanded. “And why are you concerned about it?”

“Dr. Horvath, this conversation will be recorded and duly witnessed because it may be evidence in a court martial. Quite possibly mine. Is that clear enough?”

“What— Good heavens!” Sally gasped. “Court-martial? You? Why?”

“The charge would be high treason,” Rod said. “I see most of my officers aren’t surprised. My lady, gentlemen, we have strict orders from the Viceroy himself to do nothing to compromise any Imperial military technology, and in particular to protect the Langston Field and Alderson Drive from Motie inspection. In the past weeks animals capable of learning that technology and quite possibly of passing it on to other Moties have roamed my ship at will.
Now
do you understand?”

“I see.” Horvath showed no signs of alarm, but his face grew thoughtful. “And you have secured this room— Do you really believe the miniatures can understand what we say?”

Rod shrugged. “I think it possible they can memorize conversations and repeat them. But are the miniatures still alive? Kelley?”

“Sir, there haven’t been any signs of them for weeks. No raids on food stores. Ferrets haven’t turned up a thing but a bloody lot of mice. I think the beasties are dead, Captain.”

Blaine rubbed his nose, then quickly drew his hand away. “Gunner, have you ever heard of ‘Brownies’ aboard this ship?”

Kelley’s face showed no surprise. In fact it showed nothing. “Brownies, Captain?”

“Rod, have you lost your mind?” Sally blurted. Everyone was looking at her, and some of them didn’t seem friendly. Oh boy, she thought, I’ve stuck my foot in it. Some of them know what he’s talking about. Oh boy.

“I said Brownies, Gunner. Have you ever heard of them?”

“Well, not officially, Captain. I will say some of the spacers seem lately to believe in the Little People. Couldn’t see any harm in it meself.” But Kelley looked confused. He had heard of this and he hadn’t reported it, and now the Captain,
his
Captain, might be in trouble over it.

“Anyone else?” Rod demanded.

“Uh—sir?”

Rod had to strain to see who was speaking. Midshipman Potter was near the far wall, almost hidden by two biologists. “Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“Some of the men in my watch section, Captain—they say that if ye leave some food-grain, cereals, mess leftovers, anything at all—in the corridors or under your bunk along with something that needs fixing, it gets fixed.” Potter looked uncomfortable. It was obvious he thought he was reporting nonsense. “One of the men called them ‘Brownies.’ I thought it a joke.”

Once Potter had spoken there were a dozen others, even some of the scientists. Microscopes with smoother focusing operations than the best things ever made by Leica Optical. A handmade lamp in the biology section. Boots and shoes customized to individual feet. Rod looked up at that one.

“Kelley. How many of your troops have sidearms individualized like yours and Mr. Renner’s?”

“Uh—I don’t know, sir.”

“I can see one from here. You, man, Polizawsky, how did you come by that weapon?”

The Marine stammered. He wasn’t used to speaking to officers, certainly not the Captain, and
most
certainly not the Captain in an ugly mood. “Uh, well, sir, I leaves my weapon and a bag o’ popcorn by my bunk and next morning it’s done, sir. Like the others said, Captain.”

“And you didn’t think this unusual enough to report to Gunner Kelley?”

“Uh—sir—uh, some of the others, we thought maybe, uh, well, the Surgeon’s been talking about hallucinations in space, Captain, and we, uh—”

“Besides, if you reported it I might stop the whole thing,” Rod finished for him. Oh, God damn it to hell! How was he going to explain all this? Busy, too busy arbitrating squabbles with the scientists— But the fact stood out. He’d neglected his naval duties, and with what outcome?