The Mote In God's Eye

Whitbread's Motie told of the incident with the midshipmen. "I'm certain they meant it all," she concluded.

To Potter's Motie the Master said, "Do you agree?"

"Yes, completely."

There was a panicky undercurrent of whispers, some Motie tongues, some in Anglic. It cut off when the Master said, "What did you tell them?"

"We told them the disease might well be a diet deficiency-"

There was shocked human-sounding laughter among the Mediators, none at all among the few who had not been assigned Fyunch(click)s.

"-and gave them food for the Engineer. It will not help, of course."

"Were they fooled?"

"Difficult to tell. We are not good at lying directly. It is not our specialty," said Potter's Motie.

A buzz of talk rose in the toroid. The Master allots it for a time. Presently she spoke. "What can it mean? Speak of this."

One answered. "They cannot be so different from us. They fight wars. We have heard hints of whole plan rendered uninhabitable."

Another interrupted. There was something gracefully human-feminine, in the way she moved. It seemed grotesque to the Master. "We think we know what causes humans to fight. Most animals on our world and the have a surrender reflex that prevents one member of a species from killing another. Humans use weapons instinctively. It makes the surrender reflex too slow."

"But it was the same with us, once," said a third. "Evolution of the Mediator mules put an end to that. Do you say that humans do not have Mediators?"

Sally Fowler's Motie said, "They have nothing that bred for the task of communicating and negotiating between potential enemies. They are amateurs at everything, second-best at everything they do. Amateurs do their negotiating. When negotiations break down, they fight.

"They are amateurs at playing Master, too," one said. Nervously she stroked the center of her face. "They take turns at playing Master. In their warships they station Marines between fore and aft, in case the aft section should wish to become masters of the ship. Yet, when Lenin speaks, Captain Blaine obeys like a Brown. It is," she said, "difficult to be Fyunch(click) to a part-time Master."

"Agreed," said Whitbread's Motie. "Mine is not a Master, but will be someday."

Another said, "Our Engineer has found much that needs improvement in their tools. There is now no class to fit Dr. Hardy-"

"Stop this," said the Master, and the noise stopped. "Our concern is more specific. What have you learned of their mating habits?"

"They do not speak of this to us. Learning will be difficult. There seems to be only one female aboard."

"ONE female?"

"To the best that we can learn."

"Are the rest neuters, or are most neuters?"

"It would seem that they are not. Yet the female is not pregnant, has not been pregnant at any time since our arrival."

"We must learn," said the Master. "But you must also conceal. A casual question. It must be asked very carefully, to reveal as little as possible. If what we suspect is true-can it be true?"

One said, "All of evolution is against it. Individuals that survive to breed must carry the genes for the next generation. How, then-?"

"They are alien. Remember, they are alien," said Whitbread's Motie.

"We must find out. Select one among you, and formulate your question, and select the human you will ask. The rest of you must avoid the subject unless the aliens introduce it."

"I think we must conceal nothing." One stroked the center of her face as if for reassurance. "They are alien. They may be the best hope we have ever had. With their help we may break the ancient pattern of the Cycles."

The Master showed her surprise. "You will conceal the crucial difference between Man and ourselves. They will not learn of it."

"I say we must not!" cried the other. "Listen to me! They have their own ways-they solve problems, always-" The others converged on her. "No, listen! You must listen!"

"Crazy Eddie," the Master said wonderingly. "Confine her in comfort. We will need her knowledge. No other must be assigned to her Fyunch(click), since the strain has driven her mad."

Blaine let the cutter lead MacArthur to Mote Prime at .780 gee. He was acutely aware that MacArthur was at alien warship capable of devastating half the Motie planet, and did not like to think of what weaponry might be trained on her by uneasy Moties. He wanted the embassy ship to arrive first-not that it would really help, but it might.

The cutter was almost empty now. The scientific personnel were living and working aboard MacArthur, reading endless data into the computer banks, cross-checking and codifying, and reporting their findings to the Captain for transmission to Lenin. They could have reported directly, of course, but there are many privileges to rank, MacArthur's dinner parties and bridge games tended to become discussion groups.