The Mote in God's Eye

“Guns will continue to fire. Launch another torpedo attack,” Kutuzov ordered.

Another fleet of glowing darts arced out. They exploded all across the violet shimmering surface. More white spots rippled across, and there was an expanding ripple of violet flame.

And then MacArthur was as she was. A violet fire balloon a full kilometer in diameter, tethered by threads of green light.

A mess steward handed Rod a cup of coffee. Absently he sipped. It tasted terrible.

“Shoot!” Kutuzov commanded. He glared at the screens in hatred. “Shoot!”

And suddenly it happened. MacArthur’s Field expanded enormously, turned blue, yellow—and vanished. Automatic scanners whirred and the magnification of the screens increased. The ship was there.

She glowed red, and parts had melted. She should not have been there at all. When a Field collapses, everything inside it vaporizes…

“They must have fried in there,” Rod said mechanically.

“Da. Shoot!”

The green lights stabbed out. MacArthur changed, bubbled, expanded, fuming air into space. A torpedo moved almost slowly to her and exploded. Still the laser batteries fired. When Kutuzov finally ordered them off, there was nothing left but vapor.

Rod and the Admiral watched the empty screen for a long time. Finally the Admiral turned away. “Call in the boats, Captain Mikhailov. We are going home.”

33. Planetfall

Three smallish cones, falling. A man nested in each, like an egg in an egg cup.

Horst Staley was in the lead. He could see forward on a small square screen, but his rear view was all around him. Except for his pressure suit he was naked to space. He turned gingerly, to see two other flame-tipped cones behind him. Somewhere, far beyond the horizon, were MacArthur and Lenin. There was no chance that his suit radio would carry that far, but he turned to the hailing frequency and called anyway. There was no answer.

It had all happened so fast. The cones had fired retrorockets and by the time he had called Lenin it had been too late. Perhaps the signal crew had been busy with something else, perhaps he had been slow— Horst felt suddenly alone.

They continued to fall. The rockets cut off.

“Horst!” It was Whitbread’s voice. Staley answered.

“Horst, these things are going to reenter!”

“Yeah. Stick with it. What else can we do?”

That did not call for an answer. In lonely silence three small cones fell toward the bright green planet below. Then: reentry.

It was not the first time for any of them. They knew the colors of the plasma field that builds before a ship’s nose, colors differing according to the chemistry of the ablation shield. But this time they were practically naked to it. Would there be radiation? Heat?

Whitbread’s voice reached Staley through the static. “I’m trying to think like a Brownie, and it isn’t easy. They knew about our suits. They’d know how much radiation they’d stop. How much do they think we can take? And heat?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Staley heard Potter say. “I am not going down.”

Staley tried to ignore their laughter. He was in charge of three lives, and he took it seriously. He tried to relax his muscles as he waited for heat, turbulence, unfelt radiation, tumbling of the cone, discomfort and death.

Landscape streamed past him through plasma distortions. Circular seas and arcs of river. Vast stretches of city. Mountains cased in ice and cityscape, the continuous city engulfing the slopes to the snowy peaks. A long stretch of ocean; would the damn cones float? More land. The cones slowing, the features getting larger. Air whipping around them now. Boats on a lake, tiny specks, hordes of them. A stretch of green forest, sharply bounded, laced by roads.

The rim of Staley’s cone opened and a ring of parachute streamed back. Staley sagged deep into the contoured seat. For a minute he saw only blue sky. Then came a bone-jarring thump. He cursed in his mind. The cone teetered and toppled on its side.

Potter’s voice rang in Staley’s ears. “I hae found the hover controls! Look for a sliding knob near the center, if the beasties hae done the same to all. That is the thrust control, and moving the whole bloody control panel on its support tilts the rocket.”

Too bad he hadn’t found it sooner! Staley thought. He said, “Get near the ground and hover there. The fuel may burn out. Did you find a parachute release, Potter?”

“No. ‘Tis hanging under me. Yon rocket flame must hae burned it away by now. Where are you?”

“I’m down. Let me just get loose—” Staley opened the crash webbing and tumbled out on his back. The seat was 30 cm lower within the cone. He drew his weapon and burned out a hole to examine the space below. Compressible foam filled the compartment. “When you get down, make sure there are no Brownies aboard the lifeboat,” he ordered crisply.

“Damn! I nearly flipped over,” came Whitbread’s voice. “These things are tricky—”

“I see you, Jonathon!” Potter shouted. “Just hover and I’ll come to you.”

“Then look for my parachute,” Staley ordered.