The Mote In God's Eye

"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 then 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 mote 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 soppy, 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 67S."

"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?"