The Mote in God's Eye

“Somebody’s doing a lot of talking, Jack. Anyway, I can’t say anything about it.”

“Sure. You’ve got your orders, Skipper. But I notice you aren’t trying to deny it. Well, it figures. Your old man is richer than Bury—I wonder how many Navy people might be for sale? It scares me, having a guy who could buy a whole planet as our prisoner.” Cargill moved quickly through the companionway to the main crew kitchen.

The night before, the dinner party conversation had somehow turned to coffee, and Bury had lost his usual bored detachment when he spoke at length on the subject. He had told them of the historic Mocha-Java blend still grown in places like Makassar, and the happy combination of pure Java and the grua distilled on Prince Samual’s World. He knew the history of Jamaica Blue Mountain although, he’d said, not its taste. As dessert was ending he suggested a “coffee tasting” in the manner of a winetasting party.

It had been an excellent ending to an excellent dinner, with Bury and Nabil moving like conjurors among filter cones and boiling water and hand-lettered labels. All the guests were amused, and it made Bury a different man somehow; it had been hard to think of him as a connoisseur of any kind.

“But the basic secret is to keep the equipment truly clean,” he had said. “The bitter oils of yesterday’s coffee will accumulate in the works, especially in percolators.”

It had ended with Bury’s offer to inspect MacArthur’s coffee-making facilities the next day. Cargill, who thought coffee as vital to a fighting-ship as torpedoes, accepted happily. Now he watched as the bearded Trader examined the large percolator and gingerly drew a cup.

“The machine is certainly well kept,” he said. “Very well kept. Absolutely clean, and the brew is not reheated too often. For standard coffee, this is excellent, Commander.”

Puzzled, Jack Cargill drew a cup and tasted it. “Why, that’s better than the stuff the wardroom gets.”

There were sidelong glances among the cooks. Cargill noticed them. He noticed something else, too. He ran a finger along the side of the percolator and brought it away with a brown oilstain.

Bury repeated the gesture, sniffed at his finger, and touched the tip of his tongue to it. Cargill tasted the oil in his hand. It was like all the bad coffee he had ever swallowed for fear of falling asleep on duty. He looked again at the percolator and stared at the spigot handle.

“Miniatures,” Cargill growled. “Take that damned thing apart.”

They emptied the machine and disassembled it—as far as it would go. Parts made to unscrew were now a fused unit. But the secret of the magic percolator seemed to be selective permeability in the metal shell. It would pass the older oils.

“My company would like to purchase that secret from the Navy,” said Bury.

“We’d like to have it to sell. OK, Ziffren, how long has this been going on?”

“Sir?” The petty officer cook seemed to be thinking. “I don’t know, sir. Maybe two months.”

“Was it this way before we sterilized the ship and killed off the miniatures?” Cargill demanded.

“Uh, yessir,” the cook said. But he said it hesitantly, and Cargill left the mess with a frown.

29. Watchmakers

Cargill made his way to Rod’s cabin. “I think we’ve got Brownies again, Skipper.” He told why.

“Have you talked to Sinclair?” Rod asked. “Jesus, Number One, the Admiral will go out of his mind. Are you sure?”

“No, sir. But I intend to find out. Skipper, I’m positive we looked everywhere when we cleaned out the ship. Where could they have hidden?”

“Worry about that when you know we’ve got them. OK, take the Chief Engineer and go over this ship again, Jack. And make damned sure this time.”

“Aye aye, Skipper.”

Blaine turned to the intercom screens and punched inputs. Everything known about miniatures flashed across the screen. There was not very much.

The expedition to Mote Prime had seen thousands of the miniatures throughout Castle City. Renner’s Motie called them “Watchmakers,” and they functioned as assistants to the brown “Engineers.” The big Moties insisted the Watchmakers were not intelligent but inherited an ability to tinker with tools and equipment, as well as the typical Motie instinct of obedience to the higher castes. They required training, but the adult Watchmakers took care of most of that. Like other subservient castes they were a form of wealth, and the ability to support a large household of Watchmakers, Engineers, and other lower forms was one measure of the importance of a Master. This last was a conclusion of Chaplain Hardy, and not definitely confirmed.

An hour passed before Cargill called. “We’ve got ‘em, Skipper,” the First Lieutenant said grimly. “The B-deck air adsorber-converter—remember that half-melted thing Sandy repaired?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it doesn’t stick out into the corridor any more. Sandy says it can’t possibly work, and he’s digging into it now—but it’s enough for me. We’ve got ‘em.”

“Alert the Marines, Number One. I’m going to the bridge.”