The Mote in God's Eye (56 page)

His status aboard was more ambiguous than before. Captain Mikhailov and the Admiral knew that he was to remain under Blaine’s personal control, not charged with any crime, but not allowed freedom either. Mikhailov had solved the problem by assigning Bury Marine servants and putting Blaine’s man Kelley in charge of the Marines. Thus, whenever he left his cabin, Bury was followed through the ship.

He tried to talk to
Lenin
’s crewmen. Few would listen. Perhaps they had heard rumors of what he could offer, and were afraid that
MacArthur
’s Marines would report them. Perhaps they suspected him of treason and hated him.

A Trader needs patience, and Bury had more than most. Even so, it was hard to control himself when he could control nothing else; when there was nothing to do but sit and wait, his hair-trigger temper would flare into screaming rages and smashed furniture, but never in public. Outside his cabin Bury was calm, relaxed, a skilled conversationalist, comfortable even with—most especially with—Admiral Kutuzov.

This gave him access to
Lenin
’s officers, but they were very formal, and suddenly busy when he wanted to talk. Bury soon found that there were only three safe subjects: card games, Moties, and tea. If
MacArthur
had been fueled by coffee,
Lenin
’s drive operated on tea; and tea drinkers are more knowledgeable about the subject than coffee drinkers. Bury’s ships traded in tea as they traded in anything else men would pay for, but he was carrying none, and he did not drink it.

Thus Bury spent endless hours at the bridge table; in threes, officers of both
Lenin
and
MacArthur
were willing to sit with him in his cabin, which was always less crowded than the wardroom. It was easy to talk to
Lenin
’s officers about Moties, too—always in groups, but they were curious. After ten months in the Mote system, most had never seen a Motie. Everyone wanted to hear about aliens, and Bury was ready to tell them.

The intervals between rubbers stretched as Bury spoke animatedly of the Motie world, the Mediators who could read minds though they said they could not, the zoo, the Castle, the baronial estates with their fortified look—Bury had certainly noticed that. And the conversation would move to the dangers. The Moties had not sold weapons or even shown them, because they planned an attack and would keep its nature a surprise. They had seeded
MacArthur
with Brownies—it was almost the first act of the first Motie they’d ever encountered—and the insidiously helpful and likable beasts had seized the ship and nearly escaped with all the military secrets of the Empire. Only Admiral Kutuzov’s vigilance had prevented total disaster.

And the Moties thought themselves more intelligent than humans. They saw humanity as beasts to be tamed, with gentleness if possible, but tamed, converted into another caste to serve the nearly invisible Masters.

He spoke of Moties and he hated them. Pictures flashed through his mind, sometimes at the mere thought of a Motie, and always at night when he tried to sleep. He had nightmares of a Marine space suit and battle armor. It approached from behind, and three tiny pairs of eyes glittered through the faceplate. Sometimes the dream would end in a cloud of spidery six-limbed aliens thrashing, dying in vacuum, flopping around a human head; and Bury would sleep. But sometimes the nightmare ended with Bury mutely screaming at
Lenin
’s guards while the suited figure entered the battleship, and Bury would wake in cold sweat. The Ekaterinas had to be warned.

They listened, but they did not believe. Bury sensed it. They had heard him screaming before he came aboard, and they had heard the screams at night; and they thought he was mad.

More than once Bury thanked Allah for Buckman. The astrophysicist was a strange person, but Bury could talk to him. At first the Marine “honor guard” that stood outside Bury’s door had puzzled Buckman, but before long the scientist ignored it as he ignored most inexplicable activities of his fellow men.

Buckman had been going over the Moties’ work on Murcheson’s Eye and the Coal Sack. “Fine work! There are some things I want to check for myself, and I’m not sure about some of their assumptions . . . but that damned Kutuzov won’t let me have
Lenin
’s telescope facilities.”

“Buckman, is it possible that the Moties are more intelligent than we are?”

“Well, the ones I dealt with are brighter than most of the people I know. Take my brother-in-law... But you mean in general, don’t you?” Buckman scratched his jaw, thinking. “They could be smarter than I am. They’ve done some damn fine work. But they’re more limited than they know. In all their million years, they’ve had a chance to examine only two stars close up.” Buckman’s definition of intelligence was a limited one.

Bury early gave up trying to warn Buckman against the Motie threat. Buckman too thought Bury was crazy; but Buckman thought everyone was crazy.

Thank Allah for Buckman.

The other civilian scientists were friendly enough, but with the exception of Buckman they wanted just one thing from Bury: an analysis of trade possibilities with Moties. Bury could give that in six words:
Get them before they get us!
Even Kutuzov thought that judgment premature.

The Admiral listened politely enough, and Bury thought he had convinced him that the Motie ambassadors should be left behind, that only idiots like Horvath would take an enemy aboard the only ship capable of warning the Empire about the aliens; but even that wasn’t certain.

It all made for a splendid opportunity for Horace Bury to practice patience. If his patience ever cracked, only Nabil knew it; and Nabil was beyond surprise.

There was a picture of the Emperor in
Lenin
’s wardroom. Leonidas IX stared down the length of the long steel table, and ranked on both sides of his image were Imperial flags and battle banners. Paintings of naval battles from the history of both the First and Second Empire hung on all the bulkheads, and in one corner a candle burned before an icon of St. Katherine. There was even a special ventilation system to keep it burning in zero gee.

David Hardy could never help smiling at that icon. The thought of such an image aboard a ship with that name was amusing; he supposed that either Kutuzov knew nothing of the history of communism—after all, it
had
been a very long time ago—or his Russian nationalistic sympathies overcame it. Probably the former, since to most Imperials
Lenin
was the name of a hero from the past, a man known by legend but not detail. There were many such: Caesar, Ivan the Terrible, Napoleon, Churchill, Stalin, Washington, Jefferson, Trotsky, all more or less contemporaries (except to careful historians). Preatomic history tends to compress when seen from far enough away.

The wardroom began to fill up as the scientists and officers entered and took their places. Marines reserved two seats, the head of the table and the plate immediately to its right, although Horvath had tried to take that seat. The Science Minister shrugged when the Marine objected with a stream of Russian, and went to the other end, where he displaced a biologist, then chased another scientist from the place to his right and invited David Hardy there. If the Admiral wanted to play games of prestige, let him; but Anthony Horvath knew something of that business too.

He watched as the others came in. Cargill, Sinclair, and Renner entered together. Then Sally Fowler, and Captain Blaine—odd, Horvath thought, that Blaine could now enter a crowded room with no ceremony at all. A Marine indicated places to the left of the head of the table, but Rod and Sally sat in the middle. He can afford to, Horvath thought. He was born to his position. Well, my son will be too. My work on this expedition should be enough to get me on the next honors list.

“Attention!”

The officers stood, as did most of the scientists. Horvath thought for a moment and stood as well. He looked at the door, expecting the Admiral, but Captain Mikhailov was the only one there. So we have to go through this twice, Horvath thought.

The Admiral fooled him. He came in just as Mikhailov reached his seat, and muttered, “Carry on, gentlemen,” so quickly that the Marine gunner had no chance to announce him. If anyone wanted to snub Kutuzov, they’d have to find another opportunity.

“Commander Borman will read from the expedition orders,” Kutuzov said coldly.

“‘Section Twelve. Council of War. Paragraph One. The Vice Admiral Commanding shall seek the advice of the scientific staff and senior officers of
MacArthur
except when delay would in the Admiral’s judgment, and his alone, endanger the safety of the battleship
Lenin
.

“Paragraph Two. If the senior scientist of this expedition shall disagree with the Vice Admiral Commanding, he may request a formal Council of War to render advice to the Admiral. The senior scientist may—’”

“That will be sufficient, Commander Borman,” Kütuzov said. “Pursuant to these orders and upon formal request of Science Minister Horvath, this Council of War is convened to render advice on subject of aliens requesting passage to the Empire. Proceedings will be recorded. Minister Horvath, you may begin as you will.”

Oh, wow, Sally thought. The atmosphere in here’s like the chancel of St. Peter’s during High Mass in New Rome. The formality ought to intimidate anyone who disagreed with Kutuzov.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Horvath said politely. “Given that this may be a long session—after all, sir, we are discussing what may be the most important decision any of us will ever reach—I think refreshments might be in order. Could your people provide us with coffee, Captain Mikhailov?”

Kutuzov frowned, but there was no reason to reject the request.

It also lowered the frost level in the compartment. With stewards bustling about, and the smell of coffee and tea in the air, a lot of the frigid formality evaporated, as Horvath had intended.

“Thank you.” Horvath beamed. “Now. As you know, the Moties have requested that we convey three ambassadors to the Empire. The embassy party will, I am told, have full authority to represent the Mote civilization, sign treaties of friendship and commerce, approve cooperative scientific efforts—I needn’t go on. The advantages of presenting them to the Viceroy should be obvious. Are we agreed?”

There was a murmur of assent. Kutuzov sat rigid, his dark eyes narrowed behind craggy brows, the face a mask molded from ruddy clay.

“Yes,” Horvath said. “I should think it quite obvious that if there is any way we can do it, we ought to extend every courtesy to the Motie ambassadors. Wouldn’t you agree, Admiral Kutuzov?”

Caught in his own trap, Sally thought. This is recorded—he’ll have to make sense.

“We have lost
MacArthur
,” Kutuzov said gruffly. “We have only this one vessel. Dr. Horvath, were you not present at conference when Viceroy Merrill planned this expedition?”

“I was not, but I have been told of it.”

“Was it not made plain then that no aliens were to board this vessel? I speak of direct orders of Viceroy himself.”

“Well—yes, sir. But the context made it very clear what he meant. There would be no aliens allowed aboard
Lenin
because it was possible they would prove hostile; thus, no matter what they did,
Lenin
would be safe. But now we know the Moties are
not
hostile. In the final expedition orders, His Highness left the decision to you; there’s no prohibition like that in the order book.”

“But he did leave it to me,” Kutuzov said triumphantly. “I fail to see how that is different from oral instructions. Captain Blaine, you were present: Am I mistaken in impression that His Highness said ‘under no circumstances’ would aliens board
Lenin
?”

Rod swallowed hard. “Yes, sir, but—”

“I think this matter is finished,” the Admiral said.

“Oh, no,” Horvath said smoothly. “Captain Blaine, you were about to continue. Please do so.”

The wardroom was still. Will he do it? Sally wondered. What can the Tsar do to him? He can make it tough for him in the Navy, but— “I was only going to say, Admiral, that His Highness was not so much giving orders as laying out guidelines. I think that if he had intended you to be bound by them, he’d not have given you discretion, sir. He’d have put it in the order book.”

Good for you, Sally cheered silently.

Kutuzov’s eye slits narrowed even further. He gestured to a steward for tea.

“I think you underestimate the confidence His Highness has in your judgment,” Horvath said. It sounded insincere and he knew it instantly. The point ought to have been made by someone else—Hardy, or Blaine—but Horvath had been afraid to prime them for this meeting. Both were far too independent.

The Admiral smiled. “Thank you. Perhaps he has more confidence in me than you, Doctor. So. You have demonstrated that I can act against express wishes of Viceroy. Certainly I will not do so lightly, and you have yet to convince me of necessity. Another expedition can bring back ambassadors.”

“Will they send any after an insult like that?” Sally blurted. Everyone looked at her. “The Moties haven’t asked for much, Admiral. And this request is so reasonable.”

“You think they will be offended if we refuse?”

“I—Admiral, I don’t know. They could be, yes. Very offended.”

Kutuzov nodded, as if he could understand that. “Perhaps it is lesser risk to leave them here, my lady. Commander Cargill. Have you made study I requested of you?”

“Yes, sir.” Jack Cargill spoke enthusiastically. “The Admiral asked me to assume the Moties have the secrets of the Drive and Field and estimate their military potential under those circumstances. I’ve plotted their naval strength—” He gestured to a petty officer and a graph appeared on the wardroom intercom screen.

Heads turned, and there was a moment of shocked silence. Someone gasped. “That many?”—“Good God!”—“But that’s bigger than the sector fleet—”

The curves rose steeply at first, showing conversion of Motie passenger and cargo ships to navy vessels. Then they flattened out, but began rising again.