The Mote in God's Eye

“Yes. Place of origin, dates, labels, ability to travel in free fall, what wines go with what foods.” Bury grimaced. “I have listened, but I know nothing of this. I find it annoying and expensive that some of my ships must move under constant acceleration merely to protect a wine bottle from its own sediments. Why can they not simply be centrifuged on arrival?”

“And coffees? They all drink coffee. Coffee varies according to its genetics, soil, climate, method of roasting. I know this is so. I have seen your stores.”

“I have much greater variety aboard MacArthur. Yes, and there is variety among coffee drinkers. Cultural differences. On an American-descended world like Tabletop they would not touch the oily brew preferred in New Paris, and they find the brew of Levant much too sweet and strong.”

“Ah.”

“Have you heard of Jamaica Blue Mountain? It grows on Earth itself, on a large island; the island was never bombed, and the mutations were weeded out in the centuries following the collapse of the CoDominium. It cannot be bought. Navy ships carry it to the Imperial Palace on Sparta.”

“How does it taste?”

“As I told you, it is reserved for the Royal—” Bury hesitated. “Very well. You know me that well. I would not pay such a price again, but I do not regret it.”

“The Navy misjudges your worth because you lack knowledge of wines.” Bury’s Motie did not seem to be smiling. Its bland expression was a Trader’s: it matched Bury’s own. “Quite foolish of them, of course. If they knew how much there was to learn about coffee—”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You have stores aboard. Teach them about coffee. Use your own stores for the purpose.”

“My stores would not last a week among the officers of a battle cruiser!”

“You would show them a similarity between your culture and theirs. Or do you dislike that idea? No, Bury, I am not reading your mind. You dislike the Navy; you tend to exaggerate the differences between them and you. Perhaps they think the same way?”

“I am not reading your mind.” Bury suppressed the fury building in him—and at that moment he saw it. He knew why the alien kept repeating that phrase. It was to keep him off balance. In a trading situation.

Bury smiled broadly. “A week’s worth of good will. Well, I will try your suggestion when we are back in orbit and I dine aboard MacArthur. Allah knows they have much to learn about coffee. Perhaps I can even teach them how to use their percolators correctly.”

28. Kaffee Klatsch

Rod and Sally sat alone in the Captain’s patrol cabin. The intercom screens were off, and the status board above Rod’s desk showed a neat pattern of green lights. Rod stretched his long legs out and sipped at his drink. “You know, this is about the first time we’ve had alone together since we left New Caledonia. It’s nice.”

She smiled uncertainly. “But we don’t have very long—the Moties are expecting us to come back, and I’ve got dictating to do… How much longer can we stay in the Mote system, Rod?”

Blaine shrugged. “Up to the Admiral. Viceroy Merrill wanted us back as soon as possible, but Dr. Horvath wants to learn more. So do I. Sally, we still

don’t have anything significant to report! We don’t know whether the Moties are a threat to the Empire or not.”

“Rod Blaine, will you stop acting like a Regular Navy officer and be yourself? There is not one shred of evidence that the Moties are hostile. We haven’t seen any signs of weapons, or wars, or anything like that—”

“I know,” Rod said sourly. “And that worries me. Sally, have you ever heard of a human civilization that didn’t have soldiers?”

“No, but Moties aren’t human.”

“Neither are ants, but they’ve got soldiers— Maybe you’re right, I’m catching it from Kutuzov. Speaking of which, he wants more frequent reports. You know that every scrap of data gets transmitted raw to Lenin inside an hour? We’ve even sent over samples of Motie artifacts, and some of the modified stuff the Brownies worked on…”

Sally laughed. Rod looked pained for a moment, then joined her. “I’m sorry, Rod. I know it must have been painful to have to tell the Tsar that you had Brownies on your ship—but it was

funny!”

“Yeah. Funny. Anyway, we send everything we can to Lenin—and you think I’m paranoid? Kutuzov has everything inspected in space, then sealed into containers filled with ciphogene and parked outside his ship! I think he’s afraid of contamination.” The intercom buzzed. “Oh, damn.” Rod tuned to the screen. “Captain here.”

“Chaplain Hardy to see you, Captain,” the Marine sentry announced. “With Mr. Renner and the scientists.”

Rod sighed and gave Sally a helpless look. “Send them in and send in my steward. I imagine they’ll all want a drink.”

They did. Eventually everyone was seated, and his cabin was crowded. Rod greeted the Mote expedition personnel, then took a sheaf of papers from his desk. “First question: Do you need Navy ratings with you? I understand they’ve nothing to do.”