The Mote in God's Eye

“But a proper woman doesn’t use them,” Sally’s Motie suggested.

“No.”

“When will you get married?”

“When I find the right man.” She thought for a moment, hesitated, and added, “I may have found him already.” And the damn fool may already be married to his ship, she added to herself.

“Then why don’t you marry him?”

Sally laughed. “I don’t want to jump into anything. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ I can get married any time.” Her trained objectivity made her add, “Well, any time within the next five years. I’ll be something of a spinster if I’m not married by then.”

“Spinster?”

“People would think it odd.” Curious now, she asked, “What if a Motie doesn’t want children?”

“We don’t have sexual relations,” Sally’s Motie said primly.

There was an almost inaudible clunk as the ground-to-orbit ship secured alongside.

The landing boat was a blunt arrowhead coated with ablative material. The pilot’s cabin was a large wrap-around transparency, and there were no other windows. When Sally and her Motie arrived at the entryway, she was startled to see Horace Bury just ahead of her.

“You’re going down to the Mote, Your Excellency?” Sally asked.

“Yes, my lady.” Bury seemed as surprised as Sally. He entered the connecting tube to find that the Moties had employed an old Navy trick—the tube was pressurize with a lower pressure at the receiving end, so that the passengers were wafted along. The interior was surprisingly large, with room for all: Renner, Sally Fowler, Chaplain Hardy—Bury wondered if they would ship him back up to MacArthur every Sunday—Dr. Horvath, Midshipmen Whitbread and Staley, two ratings Bury did not recognize—and alien counterparts for all but three of the humans. He noted the seating arrangements with an amusement that only partly covered his fears: four abreast, with a Motie seat beside each of the human seats. As they strapped in he was further amused. They were one short.

But Dr. Horvath moved forward into the control cabin and took a seat next to the brown pilot. Bury settled into the front row, where seats were only two abreast—and a Motie took the other. Fear surged into his throat. Allah is merciful, I witness that Allah is One— No! There was nothing to fear and he had done nothing dangerous.

And yet—he was here, and the alien was beside him, while behind him on MacArthur, any accident might bring the ship’s officers to discover what he had done to his pressure suit.

A pressure suit is the most identity-locked artifact a man of space can own. It is far more personal than a pipe or a toothbrush. Yet others had exposed their suits to the ministrations of the unseen Brownies. During the long voyage to Mote Prime, Commander Sinclair had examined the modifications the Brownies had made.

Bury had waited. Presently he learned through Nabil that the Brownies had doubled the efficiency of the recycling systems. Sinclair had returned the pressure suits to their owners—and begun modifying the officers’ suits in a similar fashion.

One of the air tanks on Bury’s suit was now a dummy. It held half a liter of pressurized air and two miniatures in suspended animation. The risks were great. He might be caught. The miniatures might die from the frozen-sleep drugs. Someday he might need air that was not there. Bury had always been willing to take risks for sufficient profit.

When the call came, he had been certain he was discovered. A Navy rating had appeared on his room screen, said, “Call for you, Mr. Bury,” smiled evilly, and switched over. Before he could wonder Bury found himself facing an alien.

“Fyunch(click),” said the alien. It cocked its head and shoulders at him. “You seem confused. Surely you know the term.”

Bury had recovered quickly. “Of course. I was not aware that any Motie was studying me.” He did not like the idea at all.

“No, Mr. Bury, I have only just been assigned. Mr. Bury, have you thought of coming to Mote Prime?”

“No, I doubt that I would be allowed to leave the ship.”

“Captain Blaine has given permission, if you-urr willing. Mr. Bury, we would deeply appreciate your comments regarding the possibilities for trade between the Mote and the Empire. It seems likely we would both profit.”

Yes! Beard of the Prophet, an opportunity like that— Bury had agreed quickly. Nabil could guard the hidden Brownies.

But now, as he sat aboard the landing boat, it was difficult to control his fears. He looked at the alien beside him.

“I am Dr. Horvath’s Fyunch(click),” the Motie said. “You should relax. These boats are well designed.”