The Mote in God's Eye

The plane landed near the orange rags of a parachute and the remains of a cone. The open doorway was an accusing mouth just beyond.

Whitbread’s Motie jumped from the plane and rushed over to the cone. She twittered, and the pilot bounded from the ship to join her. “They opened it,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “I never thought Jonathon would solve it. It must have been Potter. Horst, is there any chance at all they didn’t go inside?”

Staley shook his head.

The Motie twittered to the Brown again. “Watch for aircraft, Horst,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She spoke to the other Brown-and-white, who left the airplane and stared at the skies.

The Brown picked up Whitbread’s empty pressure suit and armor. She worked rapidly, shaping something to take the place of the missing helmet and closing the suit top. Then she worked on the air regenerator, picking at the insides with tools from a belt pouch. The suit inflated and was set upright. Presently the Brown closed the panel and the suit was taut, like a man in vacuum. She tied lengths of line to constrict the shoulders and punched a hole at each wrist.

The empty man raised his arms to the sound of hissing air blowing out the wrist holes. The pressure dropped and the arms fell. Another spurt of hissing, and the arms rose again…

“That ought to do it,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “We set your suit up the same way, and raised the temperature to your body normal. With luck they may blast it without checking to see if you’re in it.”

“Blast it?”

“We sure can’t count on it, though. I wish there were some way to make it fire on an aircraft…”

Staley shook the Motie’s shoulder. The Brown stood by watching with the tiny half-smile that meant nothing at all. The equatorial sun was high overhead. “Why would anyone want to kill us?” Staley demanded.

“You’re all under death sentence, Horst.”

“But why? Is it the dome? Is there a taboo?”

“The dome, yes. Taboo, no. What do you take us for, primitives? You know too much, that’s all. Dead you-name-its tell no tales. Now come on, we’ve got to find them and get out of here.”

Whitbread’s Motie stooped to get under the door. Needlessly: but Whitbread would have stooped. The other Brown-and-white followed silently, leaving the Brown standing outside, her face a perpetual gentle smile.

35. Run Rabbit Run

They saw the other midshipmen near the cathedral. Horst Staley’s boots clumped hollowly as they approached. Whitbread looked up, noticed the Motie’s walk, and said “Fyunch(click)?”

“Fyunch(click).”

“We’ve been exploring your—”

“Jonathon, we don’t have time,” the Motie said. The other Brown-and-white eyed them with an air of impatience.

“We’re under a death sentence for trespassing,” Staley said flatly. “I don’t know why.”

There was silence. Whitbread said, “Neither do I. This is nothing but a museum—”

“Yes,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “You would have to land

here. It’s not even bad luck. Your dumb animal miniatures must have programmed the reentry cones not to hit water or cities or mountain peaks. You were bound to come down in farm lands. Well, that’s where we put museums.”

“Out here? Why?” Potter asked. He sounded as if he already knew. “There are nae people here—”

“So they won’t get bombed.”

The silence was part of the age of the place. The Motie said, “Gavin, you aren’t showing much surprise.”

Potter attempted to rub his jaw. His helmet prevented it. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of persuading you that we hae learned nothing?”

“Not really. You’ve been here three hours.”

Whitbread broke in. “More like two. Horst, this place is fantastic! Museums within museums; it goes back incredibly far—is that the secret? That civilization is very old here? I don’t see why you’d hide that.”

“You’ve had a lot of wars,” Potter said slowly.

The Motie bobbed her head and shoulder. “Yah.”

“Big wars.”

“Right. Also little wars.”

“How many?”

“God’s sake, Potter! Who counts? Thousands of Cycles. Thousands of collapses back to savagery. Crazy Eddie eternally trying to stop it. Well, I’ve had it. The whole decision-maker caste has turned Crazy Eddie, to my mind. They think they’ll stop the pattern of Cycles by moving into space and settling other solar systems.”

Horst Staley’s tone was flat. As he spoke he looked carefully around the dome and his hand rested on his pistol butt. “Do they? And what is it we know too much of?”

“I’m going to tell you. And then I’m going to try to get you to your ship, alive—” She indicated the other Motie, who had stood impassively during the conversation. Whitbread’s Motie whistled and hummed. “Best call her Charlie,” she said. “You can’t pronounce the name. Charlie represents a giver of orders who’s willing to help you. Maybe. It’s your only chance, anyway—”

“So what do we do now?” Staley demanded.