The Mote In God's Eye

Demons moved on the street below. They came forward in a twisting, flickering quick run, then suddenly raised their weapons and fired down the street. Horst turned and saw another group melting for cover; they left a third of their number dead. Battle sounds filtered through the thick windows.

"What is it, Horst?" Whitbread called. "It sounds like shots."

"It is shots. Two groups of Warriors in a battle. Over us?"

"Certainly," Whitbread's Motie answered. "You know what this means, don't you?" She sounded very resigned.

-When there was no answer she said, "It means the humans won't be coming back. They're gone."

Staley cried, "I don't believe it! The Admiral wouldn't leave us! He'd take on the whole damn planet-"

"No, he wouldn't, Horst," Whitbread said. "You know his orders."

Horst shook his head, but he knew Whitbread was right. He called, "Whitbread's Motie! Come here and tell me which side is which."

"No."

Horst looked around. "What do you mean, no? I need to know who to shoot at!"

"I don't want to get shot."

Whitbread's Motie was a coward! "I haven't been shot, have I? Just don't expose yourself."

Whitbread's voice said, "Horst, if you've exposed an eye, any Warrior could have shot it out. Nobody wants you dead now. They haven't used artillery, have they? But they'd shoot me."

"All right. Charlie! Come here and-"

"I will not."

Horst didn't even curse. Not cowards, but Brown-and whites. Would his own Motie have come?

The demons had all found cover: cars parked or abandoned, doorways, the fluting along the sides of one building. They moved from cover to cover with the flickering speed of houseflies. Yet every time a Warrior fired, a Warrior died. There had not been all that much gunfire, yet two thirds of the Warriors in sight were dead. Whitbread's Motie had been right about -their marksmanship. It was inhumanly accurate.

Almost below Horst's window, a dead Warrior lay with its right arms blown away. A live one waited for a lull, suddenly broke for closer cover-and the fallen one came to life. Then it happened too fast to follow: the gun flying, the two Warriors colliding like a pair of buzz saws, then flying away, broken dolls still kicking and spraying blood.

Something crashed below. There were sounds in the stairwell. Hooves clicked on marble steps. The Moties twittered. Charlie whistled, loudly, and again. There was an answering call from below, then a voice spoke in David Hardy's perfect Anglic.

"You will not be mistreated. Surrender at once."

"We've lost," Charlie said.

"My Master's troops. What will you do, Horst?"

For answer Staley crouched in a corner with the x-ray rifle aimed at the stairwell. He waved frantically at the other midshipmen to take cover.

A brown-and-white Mode turned the corner and stood in the hallway. It had Chaplain Hardy's voice, but none of his mannerisms. Only the perfect Anglic, and the resonant tones. The Mediator was unarmed. "Come now, be reasonable. Your ship has gone. Your officers believe you are dead. There is no reason to harm you. Don't get your friends killed over nothing, come out and accept our friendship."

"Go to hell!"

"What can you gain by this?" the Motie asked. "We only wish you well-"

There were sounds of firing from below. The shots rebounded through the empty rooms and hallways of the Castle. The Mediator with Hardy's voice whistled and clicked to the other Moties.

"What's she saying?" Staley demanded. He looked around: Whitbread's Motie was crouched against the wall, frozen. "Jesus, now what?"

"Leave her alone!" Whitbread shouted. He moved from his post to stand beside the Motie and put his arm on her shoulder. "What should we do?"

The battle noises moved closer, and suddenly two demons were in the hallway. Staley aimed and fired in a smooth motion, cutting down one Warrior. He began to swing the beam toward the other. The demon fired, and Staley was flung against the far wall of the corridor. More demons bounded into the hallway, and there was a burst of fire that held Staley upright for a second. His body was chewed by dragon's teeth, and he fell to lie very still. Potter fired the rocket launcher. The shell burst at the end of the hallway. Part of the walls fell in, littering the floor with rubble and partly burying the Mediator and Warriors.

"It seems to me that no matter who wins yon fight below, we know aye more about the Langston Field than is safe," Potter said slowly. "What do ye think, Mr. Whitbread? ‘Tis your command now."

Jonathon shook himself from his reverie. His Motie was stock-still, unmoving- Potter drew his pistol and waited. There were scrabbling sounds in the hallway. The sounds of battle died away.

"Your friend is tight, brother," Whitbread's Mode said. She looked at the unmoving form of Hardy's Fyunch(click). "That one was a brother too..."

Potter screamed. Whitbread jerked around.