The Mote in God's Eye

“Coffeepot, Mr. Renner. It has been altered by the aliens, and the technique used could be of great value to the Empire. You will see other strange objects, Mr. Staley. Use your judgment about bringing them out—but under no circumstances will you send out anything that might contain a live alien. And watch the crewmen. The miniatures have killed several people, used their heads as decoys, and inhabited their battle armor. Be sure that a man in armor is a man, Mr. Staley. We haven’t seen them try that trick with a skintight pressure suit yet, but be damned careful.”

“Yessir,” Staley snapped. “Can we regain control of the ship, sir?”

“No.” Blaine fought visibly for control of himself. “You will not have long, Mister. Forty minutes after you enter MacArthur, activate all conventional destruct systems, then start the timer on that torpedo we rigged. Report to me in the main port entryway when you’ve got it done. Fifty-five minutes after you enter, Lenin will commence firing on MacArthur in any event. You have that?”

“Yes, sir,” Horst Staley said quietly. He looked at the others. Potter and Whitbread looked back uncertainly.

“Captain,” Renner said. “Sir, I remind you that I’m senior officer here.”

“I know that, Renner. I have a mission for you too. You will take Chaplain Hardy back aboard MacArthur’s cutter and assist him in recovering any equipment or notes that might be required. Another of Lenin’s boats will come for that, and you will see that everything is packed into a sealed container the boat will bring.”

“But—sir, I should be leading the boarding party!”

“You’re not a combat officer, Renner. Do you recall what you told me at lunch yesterday?”

Renner did. “I did not tell you I was a coward,” he grated.

“I’m aware of that. I am also aware that you are probably the most unpredictable officer I have. The Chaplain has been told only that there is a plague epidemic aboard MacArthur, and that we’re going back to the Empire before it spreads to everybody. That will be the official story to the Moties. They may not believe it, but Hardy’ll have a better chance of selling it to them if he believes it himself. I have to have somebody who knows the real situation along too.”

“One of the midshipmen—”

“Mr. Renner, get back aboard MacArthur’s cutter. Staley, you have your orders.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Renner departed, seething.

Three midshipmen and a dozen Marines hung from crash webbing in the main cabin of Lenin

’s cutter. The civilians and regular crew were gone, and the boat moved away from Lenin’s black bulk.

“All right, Lafferty,” Staley said. “Take us to MacArthur’s starboard side. If nothing attacks us, you will ram, aiming for the tankage complex aft of bulkhead 185.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Lafferty did not react noticeably. He was a big-boned man, a plainsman from Tabletop. His hair was ash-blond and very short, and his face was all planes and angles.

The crash webbing was designed for high impacts. The midshipmen hung like flies in some monstrous spider web. Staley glanced at Whitbread. Whitbread looked at Potter.

Both looked away from the Marines behind them. “OK. Go,” Staley ordered. The drive roared.

The real defensive hull of any warship is the Langston Field. No material object could withstand the searing heat of fusion bombs and high energy lasers. Since anything that can get past the Field and the ship’s defensive fire will evaporate anything below, the hull of a warship is a relatively thin skin. It is, however, only relatively thin. A ship must be rigid enough to withstand high acceleration and jolt.

Some compartments and tanks, however, are big, and in theory can be crushed by enough impact momentum. In practice nobody had ever taken a combat party aboard a ship that way as far as Staley’s frantically searching memory could tell him. It was in the Book, though. You could get aboard a crippled ship with her Field intact by ramming. Staley wondered what damn fool had first tried it.

The long black blob that enclosed MacArthur became a solid black wall without visible motion. Then the shovel blade reentry shield went up. Horst watched blackness grow on the forward view screen as he peered over Lafferty’s shoulder.

The cutter surged backward. An instant of cold as they passed through the Field, then the screaming of grinding metal. They stopped.

Staley unclasped his crash webbing. “Get moving,” he ordered. “Kelley, cut our way through those tanks.”

“Yes, sir.” The Marines swept past. Two aimed a large cutting laser at the buckled metal that had once been the interior wall of a hydrogen tank. Cables stretched from the weapon back into the mangled cutter.

The tank wall collapsed, a section blown outward and narrowly missing the Marines. More air whistled out, and dead miniature Moties blew about like autumn leaves.