The Mote in God's Eye (61 page)

“My conscience,” Rod laughed. “But he’s right. Sally, we’d better get ready.” He groaned. “It’s going to be tough facing three gravs after that dinner—”

“I must leave also,” Kutuzov said. “I have dispatches to put aboard
Hermes
.” He smiled awkwardly. “Farewell, my lady. And you also, Captain. Godspeed. You have been good officer.”

“Why— Thank you, sir.” Rod looked around the wardroom and spotted Bury across the compartment. “Kelley, the Admiral’s assuming responsibility for His Excellency—”

“With your permission I will continue Gunner Kelley in command of Marine guards,” Kutuzov said.

“Certainly, sir. Kelley, be damn careful when we get to New Scotland. He may or may not try to escape. I don’t have any idea of what he’s got to face when we get there, but the orders are plain enough, we’re to keep him in custody. He may try to bribe one of your men—”

Kelley snorted. “He’d better not.”

“Yeah. Well, so long, Kelley. Don’t let Nabil put a dagger in your ribs. I’ll want you with me on New Scotland.”

“Yes, sir, you be careful, Captain. The Marquis will kill me if something happens to you. Told me that before we left Crucis Court.”

Kutuzov cleared his throat loudly. “Our guests must leave immediately,” he announced. “With our final congratulations.”

Rod and Sally left the wardroom to a chorus of shouts, some overloud. The party seemed destined to last a long time.

The message sloop
Hermes
was a tiny affair. Her living space was no larger than
MacArthur
’s cutter, although overall she was much bigger. Aft of the life-support systems she was tankage and engines and little else but access crawlways. They were hardly aboard before they were under way.

There was little to do in the tiny ship, and the heavy acceleration made real work impossible anyway. The surgeon’s mate examined his passengers at eight-hour intervals to be sure they were able to take
Hermes
’ three gees, and approved Rod’s request that they get it over with sooner and boost up to 3.5 gravs. Under that weight it was better to sleep as much as possible and confine mental activities to light conversation.

Murcheson’s Eye was enormous behind them when they reached the Alderson Point. An instant later, the Eye was only a bright red star against the Coal Sack. It had a small yellow mote.

They were rushed aboard a landing craft the instant
Hermes
made orbit around New Scotland. Sally barely had time to say her farewells to the sloop’s crew, then they were strapped in.

“VISITORS CLEAR LANDING BOAT. PASSENGERS SECURE FOR REENTRY.”

There were
clunks
as the air locks were closed. “Ready, sir?” the pilot called.

“Yeah—”

The retros fired. It wasn’t a smooth reentry at all; the pilot was in too much of a hurry, They dropped low over New Scotland’s craggy rocks and spouting geysers. When they arrived at the city they still had too much speed and the pilot had to circle twice; then the boat came in slowly, hovered, and settled on the roof landing port of Admiralty House.

“There’s Uncle Ben!” Sally shouted. She rushed forward to fling herself into his arms.

Benjamin Bright Fowler was eighty standard years old, and looked it; before regeneration therapy men would have guessed he was fifty and in his prime intellectual years. They would have been right about the latter guess.

He stood 174 cm and massed ninety kilos: a portly, short man, nearly bald, with a fringe of dark hair graying around a shiny dome. He never wore a hat except in the coldest weather, and usually forgot it then.

Senator Fowler was dressed outlandishly in baggy trousers flaring over soft, polished leather boots. A knee length and very battered camel’s-hair coat covered his upper body. His clothes were very expensive and never properly cared for. His dreamy eyes that tended to water and his rumpled appearance did not make him an impressive figure, and his political enemies had more than once made the mistake of taking his looks as a sign of his abilities. Sometimes, when the occasion was important enough, he’d let his valet choose his clothes and dress him properly, and then, for a few hours at least, he looked appropriate; he was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the Empire. Usually, though, he put on the first thing he found in his wardrobe, and since he would never let his servants throw out anything he’d once liked, he often wore old clothes.

He grasped Sally in a bear hug while she kissed his forehead. Sally was taller than her uncle and was tempted to plant a kiss on the top of his head, but she knew better. Benjamin Fowler neglected his appearance and became angry if anyone reminded him of that, but actually he was a little sensitive about his baldness. He also absolutely refused to allow cosmetic physicians to do anything for it.

“Uncle Ben, I’m glad to see you!” Sally pushed herself away before he crushed a rib. Then, with mock anger: “You’ve been rearranging my life! Did you
know
that radiogram would make Rod propose to me?”

Senator Fowler looked puzzled. “You mean he hadn’t already?” He pretended to examine Rod with microscopic care. “He looks normal enough. Must be internal damage. How are you, Rod? You look good, boy.” He enfolded Rod’s hand in his own. His grip was strong enough to hurt. With his left hand Fowler extracted his pocket computer from beneath the disreputable folds of his thick coat. “Sorry to rush kids, but we’re late. Come on, come on—” He turned and darted for the elevator, leaving them to follow helplessly.

They went down twelve floors and Fowler led them around twists of corridors. Marines stood guard outside a door. “Inside, inside,” the Senator urged. “Can’t keep all those admirals and captains waiting. Come on, Rod!”

The Marines saluted and Rod absently responded. He entered in bewilderment: a large room, paneled in dark wood, with an enormous marble table across its length.

Five captains and two admirals were seated at the table. A legal officer sat at a smaller desk, and there were places for a recorder and clerks. As soon as Rod entered someone intoned, “This Court of Inquiry is now in session. Step forward and be sworn. State your name.”

“Your name, Captain,” the Admiral at the center of the table snapped. Rod didn’t recognize him; he knew only half the officers in the room. “You do know your name, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir— Admiral, I wasn’t told I was coming directly to a Court of Inquiry.”

“You know it now.
Please state your name.
”

“Roderick Harold, Lord Blaine, Captain, Imperial Space Navy; formerly master aboard INS
MacArthur
.”

“Thank you.”

They shot questions at him. “Captain, when did you first learn that the miniature aliens were capable of using tools and performing useful work?” “Captain, please describe the sterilization procedures you employed.” “Captain, in your judgment, did the aliens outside the ship ever know you had miniatures loose aboard your vessel?”

He answered as best he could. Sometimes one officer would ask a question, only to have another say, “That’s in the report, damn it. Didn’t you listen to the tapes?”

The inquiry moved at blinding speed. Suddenly it was over. “You may retire for the moment, Captain,” the presiding Admiral said.

Sally and Senator Fowler were waiting in the hall. There was a young woman in kilts with a businesslike brief case standing with them.

“Miss McPherson. My new social secretary,” Sally introduced her.

“Very pleased to meet you, my lord. My lady, I had best be—”

“Certainly. Thank you.” McPherson left with a click of heels on marble floors. She had a nice walk. “Rod,” Sally said. “Rod, do you know how many parties we’ve got to go to?”

“Parties! My God, woman, they’re deciding my fate in there and you—”

“Nonsense,” Senator Fowler snapped. “That was decided weeks ago. When Merrill, Cranston, Armstrong, and I listened to Kutuzov’s report. There I was, your appointment from His Majesty in my pocket, and you’d gone and lost your ship! It’s a good thing your Admiral’s an honest man, boy. Damn good thing.”

The door opened. “Captain Blaine?” a clerk called.

He entered to stand in front of the table. The Admiral held up a paper and cleared his throat.

“Unanimous findings of a special Court of Inquiry convened to examine the circumstances surrounding the loss of His Imperial Majesty’s General Class battle cruiser
MacArthur
. One. This Court finds that the vessel was lost through accidental infestation by alien life forms and was properly destroyed to prevent contamination of other vessels. Two. This Court honorably acquits her master, Captain Roderick Blaine, ISN, of negligence. Three. This Court orders the surviving officers of
MacArthur
to prepare a detailed report of procedures whereby such losses can be prevented in future. Four. This Court notes that the search and sterilization of
MacArthur
was hindered by the presence of a large number of civilian scientists and their equipment property aboard, and that Minister Anthony Horvath, senior scientist, protested the sterilization and advised minimum disruption of the civilian experiments. Five. This Court notes that Captain Blaine would have been more diligent in searching his vessel except for the difficulties noted in point four; and this court recommends no reprimand for her master. These findings being unanimous, this Court is adjourned. Captain, you may go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Yeah. That was pretty sloppy, Blaine. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” My God, how many times have I thought about it?

“But I doubt if anyone in the Navy could have done better. The ship must have been a madhouse with all those civilians aboard. All right, Senator, he’s all yours. They’re ready in Room 675.”

“Good. Thank you, Admiral.” Fowler hustled Blaine out of the hearing room and down the corridor to the elevator. A petty officer had one waiting.

“Now where are we going?” Rod demanded. “Six seventy five? That’s retirement!”

“Of course,” the senator said. They entered the elevator. “You didn’t think you could stay in the Navy and be on that Commission, did you? That’s why we had to hurry that Inquiry through. Until it was on the record you couldn’t be retired.”

“But, Senator—”

“Ben. Call me Ben.”

“Yes, sir. Ben, I don’t
want
out! The Navy’s my career—”

“No more.” The elevator stopped and Fowler hustled Rod out. “You’d have had to leave eventually. Family’s too important. Can’t have the peers neglecting government to go chasing around in those ships all their lives. You knew you’d have to retire early.”

“Yes, sir. After my brothers were killed there wasn’t any question of it. But not yet! Look, can’t they give me a leave of absence?”

“Don’t be an idiot. The Motie question’s going to be with us a long time. Sparta’s too far away to handle it. Here we are.” Fowler led him through the door.

His retirement papers were already made out. Roderick Harold, Lord Blaine: to be promoted to Rear Admiral and placed on the inactive list by order of His Imperial Majesty. “Retirement pay to be sent where, sir?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re entitled to retirement pay. Where do you want us to send it, my lord?” To the Yeoman clerk Rod was already a civilian.

“Can I donate it to the Navy Relief Fund?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do that.”

The clerk wrote rapidly. There were other questions, all trivial. The documents were made out and thrust at him, and the Yeoman held out a pen. “Just sign here, my lord.”

The pen was cold in his hand. Rod didn’t want to touch it.

“Come on, come on, there’re a dozen appointments waiting,” Senator Fowler urged. “You and Sally both. Come on, boy, sign!”

“Yes, sir.” No point in delaying. There’s nothing to argue about. If the Emperor himself named me to that damned Commission— He scrawled rapidly; then placed his thumb print on the papers.

A taxi whisked them through New Scotland’s narrow streets. Traffic was thick and the cab had no official flags to open holes for them. It was an unusual experience for Rod to travel this way; usually he’d had Navy fliers to take him from rooftop to rooftop, and the last time in New Scotland he’d had his own gig with waiting crew. No more, no more.

“I’ll have to buy a flier and get a chauffeur,” Rod said. “I take it Commissioners rate an air transport license?”

“Surely. You rate anything you want,” Senator Fowler said. “In fact the appointment carries a titular baronage, not that
you
need it, but it’s another reason why we’re getting so popular lately.”

“Just how many Commissioners will there be?”

“I’ve got discretion on that, too. We won’t want too many.” The taxi lurched as the driver nearly hit a pedestrian. Fowler took out his pocket computer. “Late again. Appointments at the Palace. You’ll be staying there, of course. Servant’s quarters will be crowded, but we’ll squeeze your man in—got anybody, or you want my secretary to arrange it?”

“Kelley’s in
Lenin
. I guess he’ll stay with me.” Another good man lost for the Navy.

“Kelley! How is the old scoundrel?”

“He’s fine.”

“Glad to hear that. Your father wanted me to ask about him, now I think of it. You know that Marine’s my age? I can remember him in uniform when your father was a lieutenant, and that was a
long
time ago.”

“Where’s Sally?” When Rod came out of 675 she had been gone. He’d been just as pleased; with his retirement papers bulging in his tunic he didn’t feel much like talking.

“Out shopping for clothes, of course. You won’t have to do that. One of my people got your sizes from Navy records and brought you a couple of suits. They’re at the Palace.”

“Ben—you’re moving pretty fast, Ben,” Rod said carefully.

“Have to. By the time
Lenin
orbits we need some answers. Meanwhile you’ve got to study the political situation out here. It’s all tied together. ITA wants trade, soonest. Humanity League wants cultural exchanges, ditto. Armstrong wants his fleet to deal with outies, but he’s scared of Moties. That’s got to be settled before Merrill can get on with the reconquest of Trans-Coalsack. Stock markets from here to Sparta are jumpy—just what will Motie technology do to the economy? What blue-chip companies are going to get ruined? Who gets rich? And every damn bit of that’s in our hands, boy.
We’ve
got to make the policies.”