The Mote in God's Eye

“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 an 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.

Everyone was concerned about the brown miner. She became steadily worse, eating as little of the food provided by the Moties as she had of MacArthur’s provisions. It was frustrating, and Dr. Blevins tried endless tests with no results. The miniatures had waxed fat and fecund while loose aboard MacArthur, and Blevins wondered if they had been eating something unexpected, like missile propellant, or the insulation from cables. He offered her a variety of unlikely substances, but the Brown’s eyesight grew dim, her fur came out in patches, and she howled. One day she stopped eating. The next she was dead.

Horvath was beside himself with fury.

Blaine thought it fitting to call the embassy ship. The gently smiling Brown-and-white that answered could only be Horvath’s Motie, although Blaine would have been hard-pressed to say how he knew. “Is my Fyunch(click) available?” Rod asked. Horvath’s Motie made him uncomfortable.

“I’m afraid not, Captain.”

“All right. I called to report that the Brown we had aboard this ship is dead. I don’t know how much it means to you, but we did our best. The entire scientific staff of MacArthur tried to cure her.”

“I’m sure of that, Captain. It doesn’t matter. May we have the body?”

Rod considered it a moment. “I’m afraid not.” He couldn’t guess what the Moties could learn from the corpse of an alien that had never communicated when alive; but perhaps he was learning from Kutuzov. Could there have been microtattooing below the fur…? And why weren’t the Moties more concerned about the Brown? That was something he certainly couldn’t ask. Best to be thankful they weren’t upset. “Give my regards to my Fyunch(click).”