The Mote In God's Eye

He had trapped cabin air under his faceplate. The stink caught at his throat, so that he stopped breathing; then self-consciously he sniffed at it in case anyone wanted to know what it was.

He smelled animals and machines, ozone, gasoline, hot oil, halitosis, old sweat socks, burning, glue, and things he had never smelled before. It was unbelievably rich-and his suit was removing it, thank God.

He asked, "Did you hear me yell?"

"Yes, and so did everyone in this ship," said Cargill's voice. "I don't think there's a man aboard who isn't following you, unless it's Buckman. Any result?"

"He turned off the force field. Right away. He was just waiting for me to remind him.

"And I'm in the cabin now. I told you about the repairs? It's all repairs, all hand made, even the control panels. But it's all well done, nothing actually in the way, for a Motie, that is. Me, I'm too big. I don't dare move.

"The little ones have all disappeared. No, there's one peeping out of a corner…the big one is waiting to see what I do. I wish he'd stop that."

"See if he'll come back to the ship with you-"

"I'll try, sir."

The alien had understood him before, or seemed to, but it did not understand him now. Whitbread thought furiously. Sign language? His eye fell on something that had to be a Motie pressure suit.

He pulled it from its rack, noting its lightness: no weaponry, no armor. He handed it to the alien, then pointed to MacArthur beyond the bubble.

The alien began dressing at once. In literally seconds it was in full gear, in a suit that, inflated, looked like ten beach balls glued together. Only the gauntlets were more than simple inflated spheres.

It took a transparent plastic sack from the wall and reached suddenly to capture one of the ½ -meter-high miniatures. He stuffed it into the sack headfirst while the miniature wriggled, then turned to Whitbread and rushed at the middle with lightning speed. It had reached behind Whitbread with two right hands and was already moving away when Whitbread reacted: a violent and involuntary yip.

"Whitbread? What's happening? Answer me!" Another voice in the background of Whitbread's suit said crisply, "Marines, stand by."

"Nothing, Commander Cargill. It's all right. No attack, I mean, I think the alien's ready to go-no, it isn't. It's got two of the parasites in a plastic sack, and it's inflating the sack from an air spiggot. One of the little beasts was on my back. I never felt it.

"Now the alien's making something. I don't understand what's keeping it. It knows we want to go to MacArthur-it put on a pressure suit."

"What's it doing?"

"It's got the cover off the control panel. It's rewiring things. A moment ago it was squeezing sliver toothpaste in a ribbon along the printed circuitry. I'm only telling you what it looks like, of course. YIPE!"

"Whitbread?"

The midshipman was caught in a hurricane. Arms and legs flailing, he snatched frantically for something, anything solid. He was scraped along the side of the air lock, reached and found nothing to grasp. Then night and stars whirled past him.

"The Motie opened the air lock," he reported. "No warning. I'm outside, in space." His hands used attitude jets to stop his tumbling. "I think he let all the breathing air out. There's a great fog of ice crystals around me, and-Oh, Lord, it's the Motie! No, it isn't, it's not wearing a pressure suit. There goes another one.

"They must be the little ones," Cargill said.

"Right He's killed all the parasites. He probably has to do it every so often, to clear them out. He doesn't know how long he'll be aboard MacArthur and he doesn't want them running wild. So he's evacuated the ship."

"He should have warned you."

"Damn right he should! Excuse me, sir."

"Are you all right, Whitbread?", A new voice. The Captain's.

"Yessir. I'm approaching the alien's ship. Ah, here he comes now. He's jumping for the taxi." Whitbread stopped his approach and turned to watch the Motie. The alien sailed through space like a cluster of beach balls, but graceful, graceful. Within a transparent balloon fixed to its torso, two small, spidery figures gestured wildly. The alien paid them no attention.

"A perfect jump," Whithread muttered. "Unless-he's cutting it a bit fine. Jesus!" The alien was still decelerating as it flew through the taxi door, dead centered, so that it never touched the edges. "Ho must be awfully sure of his balance."

"Whitbread, is that alien inside your vehicle? Without you?"

Whitbread winced at the bite in the Captain's voice. "Yes, sir. I'm going after him."

"See you do, Mister."