The Mote in God's Eye (34 page)

“And things he wants to conceal. Certainly.”

From orbit the planet was all circles: seas, lakes, an arc of a mountain range, the line of a river, a bay. There was one, eroded and masked by a forest. It would have been undetectable had it not fallen exactly across a line of mountains, breaking the backbone of a continent as a man’s foot breaks a snake. Beyond, a sea the size of the Black Sea showed a flattish island in the exact center.

“The magma must have welled up where the asteroid tore the crust open,” said Whitbread. “Can you imagine the
sound
it must have made?”

Whitbread’s Motie nodded.

“No wonder you moved all the asteroids out to the Trojan points. That was the reason, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Our records are-unt complete from that long ago. I imagine the asteroids must have been easier to mine, easier to make a civilization from, once they were lumped together like that.”

Whitbread remembered that the Beehive had been stone cold without a trace of radiation. “Just how long ago did all this happen?”

“Oh, at least ten thousand years. Whitbread, how old are your oldest records?”

“I don’t know. I could ask someone.” The midshipman looked down. They were crossing the Terminator—which was a series of arcs. The night side blazed with a galaxy of cities. Earth might have looked this way during the CoDominium; but the Empire’s worlds had never been so heavily populated.

“Look ahead.” Whitbread’s Motie pointed to a fleck of flame at the world’s rim. “That’s the transfer ship. Now we can show you our world.”

“I think your civilization must be a lot older than ours,” said Whitbread.

Sally’s equipment and personal effects were packed and ready in the cutter’s lounge, and her minuscule cabin seemed bare and empty now. She stood at the view port and watched the silver arrowhead approach
MacArthur
. Her Motie was not watching.

“I, um, I have a rather indelicate question,” Sally’s Fyunch(click) said.

Sally turned from the view port. Outside, the Motie ship had come alongside and a small boat was approaching from
MacArthur
. “Go ahead.”

“What do you do if you don’t want children yet?”

“Oh, dear,” said Sally, and she laughed a little. She was the only woman among nearly a thousand men—and in a male-oriented society. She had known all this before she came, but still she missed what she thought of as girl talk. Marriage and babies and housekeeping and scandals: they were part of civilized life. She hadn’t known how big a part until the New Chicago revolt caught her up, and she missed it even more now. Sometimes in desperation she had talked recipes with
MacArthur
’s cooks as a poor substitute, but the only other feminine-oriented mind within light years was—her Fyunch(click).

“Fyunch(click),” the alien reminded her. “I wouldn’t raise the subject but I think I ought to know—do you have children aboard
MacArthur
?”

“Me? No!” Sally laughed again. “I’m not even married.”

“Married?”

Sally told the Motie about marriage. She tried not to skip any basic assumptions. It was sometimes hard to remember that the Motie was an alien. “This must sound a bit weird,” she finished.

“‘Come, I will conceal nothing from you,’ as Mr. Renner would say.” The mimicry was perfect, including gestures. “I think your customs are strange. I doubt that we’ll adopt many of them, given the differences in physiology.”

“Well—
yes
.”

“But you marry to raise children. Who raises children born without marriage?”

“There are charities,” Sally said grimly. Her distaste was impossible to disguise.

“I take it
you’ve
never...” The Motie paused delicately.

“No, of course not.”

“How not? I don’t mean
why
not, I mean
how
?”

“Well—you know that men and women have to have sexual relations to make a baby, the same as you—I’ve examined you pretty thoroughly.”

“So that if you aren’t married you just don’t—get together?”

“That’s right. Of course, there are pills a woman can take if she likes men but doesn’t want to take the consequences.”

“Pills? How do they work? Hormones?” The Motie seemed interested, if somewhat detached.

“That’s right.” They had discussed hormones. Motie physiology employed chemical triggers also, but the chemicals were quite different.

“But a proper woman doesn’t use them,” Sally’s Motie suggested.

“No.”

“When will you get married?”

“When I find the right man.” She thought for a moment, hesitated, and added, “I may have found him already.” And the damn fool may already be married to his ship, she added to herself.

“Then why don’t you marry him?”

Sally laughed. “I don’t want to jump into anything. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ I can get married any time.” Her trained objectivity made her add, “Well, any time within the next five years. I’ll be something of a spinster if I’m not married by then.”

“Spinster?”

“People would think it odd.” Curious now, she asked, “What if a Motie doesn’t want children?”

“We don’t have sexual relations,” Sally’s Motie said primly.

There was an almost inaudible
clunk
as the ground-to-orbit ship secured alongside.

The landing boat was a blunt arrowhead coated with ablative material. The pilot’s cabin was a large wrap-around transparency, and there were no other windows. When Sally and her Motie arrived at the entryway, she was startled to see Horace Bury just ahead of her.

“You’re going down to the Mote, Your Excellency?” Sally asked.

“Yes, my lady.” Bury seemed as surprised as Sally. He entered the connecting tube to find that the Moties had employed an old Navy trick—the tube was pressurize with a lower pressure at the receiving end, so that the passengers were wafted along. The interior was surprisingly large, with room for all: Renner, Sally Fowler, Chaplain Hardy—Bury wondered if they would ship him back up to
MacArthur
every Sunday—Dr. Horvath, Midshipmen Whitbread and Staley, two ratings Bury did not recognize—and alien counterparts for all but three of the humans. He noted the seating arrangements with an amusement that only partly covered his fears: four abreast, with a Motie seat beside each of the human seats. As they strapped in he was further amused. They were one short.

But Dr. Horvath moved forward into the control cabin and took a seat next to the brown pilot. Bury settled into the front row, where seats were only two abreast—and a Motie took the other. Fear surged into his throat. Allah is merciful, I witness that Allah is One
—
 
No!
There was nothing to fear and he had done nothing dangerous.

And yet—he was here, and the alien was beside him, while behind him on
MacArthur
, any accident might bring the ship’s officers to discover what he had done to his pressure suit.

A pressure suit is the most identity-locked artifact a man of space can own. It is far more personal than a pipe or a toothbrush. Yet others had exposed their suits to the ministrations of the unseen Brownies. During the long voyage to Mote Prime, Commander Sinclair had examined the modifications the Brownies had made.

Bury had waited. Presently he learned through Nabil that the Brownies had doubled the efficiency of the recycling systems. Sinclair had returned the pressure suits to their owners—and begun modifying the officers’ suits in a similar fashion.

One of the air tanks on Bury’s suit was now a dummy. It held half a liter of pressurized air and two miniatures in suspended animation. The risks were great. He might be caught. The miniatures might die from the frozen-sleep drugs. Someday he might need air that was not there. Bury had always been willing to take risks for sufficient profit.

When the call came, he had been certain he was discovered. A Navy rating had appeared on his room screen, said, “Call for you, Mr. Bury,” smiled evilly, and switched over. Before he could wonder Bury found himself facing an alien.

“Fyunch(click),” said the alien. It cocked its head and shoulders at him. “You seem confused. Surely you know the term.”

Bury had recovered quickly. “Of course. I was not aware that any Motie was studying me.” He did not like the idea at all.

“No, Mr. Bury, I have only just been assigned. Mr. Bury, have you thought of coming to Mote Prime?”

“No, I doubt that I would be allowed to leave the ship.”

“Captain Blaine has given permission, if you-urr willing. Mr. Bury, we would deeply appreciate your comments regarding the possibilities for trade between the Mote and the Empire. It seems likely we would both profit.”

Yes!
Beard of the Prophet, an opportunity like that— Bury had agreed quickly. Nabil could guard the hidden Brownies.

But now, as he sat aboard the landing boat, it was difficult to control his fears. He looked at the alien beside him.

“I am Dr. Horvath’s Fyunch(click),” the Motie said. “You should relax. These boats are well designed.”

“Ah,” said Bury, and he relaxed. The worst was hours away. Nabil had by now safely removed the dummy tank into
MacArthur
’s main air lock with hundreds of others, and it would be safe. The alien ship was undoubtedly superior to similar human craft, if for no other reason than the Moties’ desire to avoid risk to the human ambassadors. But it was not the trip down that kept fear creeping into his throat until it tasted bright and sharp like new copper—there was a slight lurch. The descent had begun.

To everyone’s surprise it was dull. There were occasional shifts in gravity but no turbulence. Three separate times they felt almost subliminal
clunks
, as of landing gear coming down—and then there was a rolling sensation. The ship had come to rest.

They filed out into a pressurized chamber. The air was good but scentless, and there was nothing to see but the big inflated structure around them. They looked back at the ship and stared unashamedly.

It was gull-winged now, built like a glider. The edges of the crazy arrowhead had sprouted a bewildering variety of wings and flaps.

“That was quite a ride,” Horvath said jovially as he came to join them. “The whole vehicle changes shape. There aren’t any hinges on the wings—the flaps come out as if they were alive! The jet scoops open and closes like mouths! You really should have seen it. If Commander Sinclair ever comes down we’ll have to give him the window seat,” he chortled. He did not notice the glares.

An inflated air lock opened at the far end of the building, and three brown-and-white Moties entered. Fear rose in Bury’s throat again as they separated, one joining each of the Navy ratings, while the other came directly to Bury.

“Fyunch(click),” it said.

Bury’s mouth was very dry.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the Motie. “I can’t read your mind.”

It was definitely the wrong thing to say if the Motie wanted Bury at ease. “I’m told that is your profession.”

The Motie laughed. “It’s my profession, but I can’t
do
it. All I will ever know is what you show me.” It didn’t sound at all as Bury sounded to himself. It must have studied humans in general; only that.

“You’re male,” he noticed.

“I am young. The others were female by the time they reached
MacArthur
. Mr. Bury, we have vehicles outside and a place of residence for you nearby. Come and see our city, and then we can discuss business.” It took his arm in two small right arms, and the touch was very strange. Bury let himself be led to the air lock.

“Don’t be afraid. I can’t read your mind,”
it had said, reading his mind. On many rediscovered worlds of the First Empire there were rumors of mind readers, but none had ever been found, praise the mercy of Allah. This thing claimed that it was not; and it was very alien. The touch was not abhorrent, although people of Bury’s culture hated to be touched. He had been among far too many strange customs and peoples to worry about his childhood prejudices. But this Motie was reassuringly strange—and Bury had never heard of
anybody’s
Fyunch(click) acting that way. Was it
trying
to reassure him?

Nothing could have lured him but the hope of profit—profit without ceiling, without limit, profit from merely looking around. Even the terraforming of the New Caladonia worlds by the First Empire had not shown the industrial power that must have moved the asteroids to Mote Beta’s Trojan points.

“A good commercial product,” the Motie was saying, “should not be bulky or massive. We should be able to find items scarce here and plentiful in the Empire, or vice versa. I anticipate great profit from your visit...”

They joined the others in the air lock. Large windows showed the airfield. “Blasted show-offs,” Renner muttered to Bury. When the Trader looked at him quizzically Renner pointed. “There’s city all around, and the airport’s got not one meter of extra space.”

Bury nodded. Around the tiny field were skyscrapers, tall and square-built, jammed close together, with only single belt of green running out of the city to the east. If there were a plane crash it would be a disaster—but the Moties didn’t build planes to crash.

There were three ground cars, limousines, two for passengers and one for luggage, and the human seats took up two-thirds of the room in each. Bury nodded reflectively. Moties didn’t mind being crowded together. As soon as they took their seats the drivers, who were Browns, whipped the cars away. The vehicles ran soundlessly, with a smooth feeling of power, and there was no jolt at all. The motors were in the hubs of the tall balloon tires, much like those of cars on Empire worlds.

Tall, ugly buildings loomed above them to shoulder out the sky. The black streets were wide but very crowded and the Moties drove like maniacs. Tiny vehicles passed each other in intricate curved paths with centimeters of clearance. The traffic was not quite silent. There was a steady low hum that might have been all the hundreds of motors sounding together, and sometimes a stream of high-pitched gibberish that might have been cursing.

Once the humans were able to stop wincing away from each potential collision, they noticed that all the other drivers were Browns, too. Most of the cars earned a passenger, sometimes a Brown-and-white, often a pure White. These Whites were larger than the Brown-and-whites, and their fur was very clean and silky—and they were doing all the cursing as their drivers continued in silence.