The Mote in God's Eye

“Captain Mikhailov. Please take us back a klick.” The lines on the Admiral’s brow deepened as Lenin’s drive moved her gently away from MacArthur.

MacArthur shaded green with faintly bluish spots. The image receded on the screens. Hot spots vanished as the lasers spread slightly. A thousand kilometers away she glowed richly in the telescopes.

“Captain, are we at rest with respect to MacArthur?” Kutuzov asked.

“Da, Admiral.”

“She appears to move closer.”

“Da, Admiral. Her Field is expanding.”

“Expanding?” Kutuzov turned to Rod. “You have explanation?”

“No, sir.” He wanted nothing more than oblivion. Speaking was pain, awareness agony. But he tried to think. “The Brownies must have rebuilt the generator, sir. And they always improve anything they work on.”

“It seems pity to destroy it,” Kutuzov muttered. “Expanded like that, with that great radiating surface, MacArthur would be match for any vessel in Fleet…”

MacArthur’s Field was violet now, and huge. It filled the screens, and Kutuzov adjusted his to drop the magnification by a factor of ten. She was a great violet balloon tethered by green threads. They waited, fascinated, as ten minutes went by. Fifteen.

“No ship has ever survived that long in violet,” Kutuzov muttered. “Are you still convinced we deal only with animals, Captain Blaine?”

“The scientists are convinced, sir. They convinced me,” he added carefully. “I wish Dr. Horvath were here now.”

Kutuzov grunted as if struck in the belly. “That fool. Pacifist. He would not understand what he saw.” They watched in silence for another minute.

The intercom buzzed. “Admiral, there is a signal from the Mote embassy ship,” the communications officer announced.

Kutuzov scowled. “Captain Blaine. You will take that call.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Answer the call from the Moties. I will not speak to any alien directly.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Its face was any Motie’s face, but it sat uncomfortably erect, and Rod was not surprised when it announced, “I am Dr. Horvath’s Fyunch(click). I have distressing news for you, Captain Blaine. And by the way, we appreciate the warning you gave us—we don’t understand why you wish to destroy your ship, but if we had been alongside—”

Blaine rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We’re fighting a plague. Maybe killing MacArthur stopped it. We can hope. Listen, we’re a little busy now. What’s your message?”

“Yes, of course. Captain, the three small craft which escaped from MacArthur have attempted reentry to Mote Prime. I am sorry, but none survived.”

Lenin’s bridge seemed to fog. “Reentry with lifeboats? But that’s plain silly. They wouldn’t—”

“No, no, they tried to land. We tracked them part way— Captain, we have recordings of them, They burned up, completely—”

“God damn it to hell! They were safe!”

“We’re terribly sorry.”

Kutuzov’s face was a mask. He mouthed: “Recordings.”

Rod nodded. He felt very tired. He told the Motie, “We would like those recordings. Are you certain that none of my young officers survived?”

“Quite certain, Captain. We are very distressed by this. Naturally, we had no idea they would attempt such a thing, and there was absolutely nothing we could do under the circumstances.”

“Of course not. Thank you.” Rod turned off the screen and looked back at the battle display in front of him.

Kutuzov muttered, “So there are no bodies and no wreckage. Very convenient.” He touched a button on the arm of his command couch and said, “Captain Mikhailov, please send cutter to look for the midshipmen.” He turned back to Rod. “There will be nothing, of course.”

“You don’t believe the Moties, do you, sir?” Rod asked.

“Do you, Captain?”

“I—I don’t know, sir. I don’t see what we can do about it.”

“Nor I, Captain. The cutter will search, and will find nothing. We do not know where they attempted reentry. The planet is large. Even if they survive and are free, we could search for days and not find them. And if they are captives—they will never be found.” He grunted again and spoke into his command circuit. “Mikhailov, see that the cutter searches well. And use torpedoes to destroy that vessel, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” Lenin’s captain spoke quietly at his post on the opposite side of the big bridge. A score of torpedoes arced out toward MacArthur. They couldn’t go through the Field; the stored energy there would fuse them instantly. But they exploded all at once, a perfect time-on-target salvo, and a great ripple of multicolored light swept around MacArthur’s violet-glowing surface. Bright white spots appeared and vanished.

“Burn-through in nine places,” the gunnery officer announced.

“Burn-through into what?” Rod asked innocently. She was still his ship, and she was fighting valiantly for her life…

The Admiral snarled. The ship was five hundred meters inward from that hellish violet surface—the bright flashes might never have reached her, or might have missed entirely.