The Mote in God's Eye

“Aye aye, sir.” Cargill turned back to the air maker. Sinclair had the cover off and was muttering to himself as he examined the exposed machinery.

The guts had changed. The casing had been reshaped. The second filter Sinclair had installed was gone, and the remaining filter had been altered beyond recognition. Goop seeped from one side into a plastic bag that bulged with gas; the goop was highly volatile.

“Aye,” Sinclair muttered. “And the other typical signs, Commander Cargill. Screw fastenings fused together. Missing parts and the rest.”

“So it’s Brownies.”

“Aye,” Sinclair nodded. “We thought we’d killed the lot months ago—and my records show this was inspected last week. T’was normal then.”

“But where did they hide?” Cargill demanded. The chief Engineer was silent. “What now, Sandy?”

Sinclair shrugged. “I’d say we look to hangar deck, sir. ‘Tis the place least used aboard this ship.”

“Right.” Cargill punched the intercom again. “Skipper, we’re going to check hangar deck—but I’m afraid there’s no question about it. There are live Brownies aboard this ship.”

“Do that, Jack. I’ve got to report to Lenin.” Rod took a deep breath and gripped the arms of his command chair as if he were about to enter combat. “Get me the Admiral.”

Kutuzov’s burly features swam on the screen. Rod reported in a rush of words. “I don’t know how many, sir,” he finished. “My officers are searching for additional signs of the miniatures.”

Kutuzov nodded. There was a long silence while the Admiral stared at a point over Blaine’s left shoulder. “Captain, have you followed my orders concerning communications?” he asked finally.

“Yes, sir. Constant monitoring of all emissions to and from MacArthur. There’s been nothing.”

“Nothing so far as we know,” the Admiral corrected. “We must assume nothing, but it is possible that these creatures have communicated with other Moties. If they have, we no longer have any secrets aboard MacArthur

. If they have not— Captain, you will order the expedition to return to MacArthur immediately, and you will prepare to depart for New Caledonia the instant they are aboard. Is this understood?”

“Aye aye, sir,” Blaine snapped.

“You do not agree?”

Rod pondered for a moment. He hadn’t thought beyond the screams he’d get from Horvath and the others when they were told. And, surprisingly, he did agree. “Yes, sir. I can’t think of a better course of action. But suppose I can exterminate the vermin, sir?”

“Can you know you have done that, Captain?” Kutuzov demanded. “Nor can I know it. Once away from this system we can disassemble MacArthur piece by piece, with no fear that they will communicate with others. So long as we are here, that is constant threat, and it is risk I am not prepared to take.”

“What do I tell the Moties, sir?” Rod asked.

“You will say there is sudden illness aboard your vessel, Captain. And that we are forced to return to Empire. You may tell them your commander has ordered it and you have no other explanation. If later explanations are necessary, Foreign Office will have time to prepare them. For now, this will do.”

“Yes, sir.” The Admiral’s image faded. Rod turned to the watch officer. “Mr. Crawford, this vessel will be leaving for home in a few hours. Alert the department heads, and then get me Renner on Mote Prime.”

A muted alarm sounded in the Castle. Kevin Renner looked up sleepily to see his Motie at the intercom screen that formed inside one of the decorative paintings on the wall.

Renner glanced at his pocket computer. It was almost noon on MacArthur but the middle of the night in Castle City. He climbed sleepily to his feet and went to the screen. The expression on Blaine’s face brought him to full alert. “Yes, Skipper?”

“There’s a small emergency aboard, Mr. Renner. You’ll have to ask the Moties to send up all our personnel. Yourself included.”

“Dr. Horvath won’t want to come, sir,” Renner said. His mind raced furiously. There was something very wrong here, and if he could read it, so could the Moties.

Blaine’s image nodded. “He’ll have to nonetheless, Mister. See to it.”

“Yes, sir. What about our Moties?”

“Oh, they can come up to the cutter with you,” Blaine said. “It’s not all that serious. Just an OC matter.”

It took a second for that to sink in. By the time it did, Renner was in control of himself. Or hoped he was. “Aye aye, Captain. We’re on the way.”

He went back to his bunk and sat carefully on the edge. As he put on his boots he tried to think. The Moties couldn’t possibly know the Navy’s code designations, but OC meant top military priority… and Blaine had been far too casual when he had said that.

OK, he thought. The Moties know I’m acting. They have to. There’s a military emergency out there somewhere, and I’m to get the hostages off this planet without letting the Moties know it. Which means the Moties don’t know there’s a military emergency, and that doesn’t make sense.

“Fyunch(click),” his Motie reminded him. “What is the matter?”