The Mote In God's Eye

"Ye are nae believers. What business hae ye here?"

"We only want to see the picture of the Co-of the Face of Him in its glory. Having seen this, we depart. If you won't let us in, we may be able to force you by going through channels. This is Navy business."

The priest looked scorn. "This is New Scotland, not one 0' yer primitive colonies wi' nae government but blasphemin' Marines. ‘Twould take the Viceroy's orders to force yer way here. And ye're but tourists."

"Have you heard of the alien probe?"

The priest lost some of his assurance. "Aye."

"We believe it was launched by laser cannon. From the Mote."

The priest was nonplussed. Then he laughed long and loud. Still laughing, he ushered them in. He would say no word to them, but he led them over the chipped tiles through an entry hail and into the main sanctuary. Then he stood aside to watch their faces.

The Pace of Him occupied half the wall. It looked like a huge holograph. The stars around the edge were slightly blurred, as would be the case with a very old holograph. And there was the holograph sense of looking into infinity.

The Eye in that Face blazed pure green, with terrifying intensity. Pure green with a red fleck in it.

"My God!" Staley said, and hastily added, "I don't mean it the way it sounds. But-the power! It'd take the industrial might of an advanced world to put out that much light from thirty-five light years away!"

"I thought I had remembered it bigger than it was," Potter whispered.

"Ye see!" the priest crowed. "And ye think that could baa been a natural phenomenon! Well, hae ye seen enough?"

"Yah," said Renner, and they left.

They stopped outside in the failing sunlight. Renner was shaking his head. "I don't blame Littlemead a damn bit," he said. "The wonder is he didn't convince everyone on the planet."

"We're a stubborn lot," said Potter. "Yon squinting silhouette in the night sky may hae been too obvious, too..."

"Here I am, stupid!" Renner suggested.

"Aye. New Scots dinna like being treated as dullards, not even by Him."

Remembering the decayed building with its shabby interior, Rennet said, "The Church of Him seems to have fallen on evil days since Littlemead saw the light."

"Aye. In 2902 the light went out. One hundred and fifteen years ago. That event was verra well documented. ‘Twas the end o' astronomy here until the Empire returned."

"Did the Mote go out suddenly?"

Potter shrugged. "None know. It must hae happened around the other side o' the world, you see. Ye must hae noticed that civilization here is but a spreading patch on a barren world. Mr. Renner. When the Coal Sack rose that night it rose like a blinded man. To the Himmists it must have seemed that God had gone to sleep again."

"Rough on them?"

"Howard Grote Littlemead took an overdose of sleeping pills. The Himmists say he hastened to meet his God."

"Possibly to demand an explanation," said Renner. "You're very quiet, Mr. Staley."

Horst looked up grim-faced. "They can build laser cannon that fill the sky. And we're taking a military expedition there."

12 Descent into Hell

It was just possible to assemble everyone on hangar deck. The closed launching hatch doors-repaired, but obviously so-were the only open space large enough for the ship's company and the scientific personnel to gather, and it was crowded even there. The hangar compartment was stuffed with gear: extra landing craft, the longboat and the cutter, crated scientific equipment, ship's stores, and other crates whose purpose even Blaine didn't know. Dr. Horvath's people insisted on carrying nearly every scientific instrument used in their specialties on the chance that it might be useful; the Navy could hardly argue with them, since there were no precedents for an expedition of this kind.

Now the huge space was packed to overflowing. Viceroy Merrill, Minister Armstrong, Admiral Cranston, Cardinal Randolph, and a host of lesser officials stood confusedly about while Rod hoped that his officers had been able to complete preparations for the ship's departure. The last days had been a blur of unavoidable activities, mostly social, with little time for the important work of preparing his ship. Now, waiting for the final ceremonies, Rod wished he'd got out of Capital social life and stayed aboard his ship like a hermit. For the next year or so he'd be under the command of Admiral Kutuzov, and he suspected that the Admiral was not wholly pleased with his subordinate ship commander. The Russian was conspicuously absent from the ceremonies on MacArthur's hangar doors.