The Mote in God's Eye

Staley took it. “That’s what we need. Tell me about the others later. Now get into the doorway and stay there.” Staley positioned himself where the passenger ramp ended, just to one side of the tunnel entrance. Nothing would see him until it was coming out of that tunnel. He wondered how good Motie armor was. Would it stop an x-ray laser? There was no sound, and he waited, impatiently.

This is silly, he told himself. But what else is there? Suppose they come in planes and land outside the dome? Should have closed the door and left somebody. Not too late for that, either.

He started to turn toward the others behind him, but then he heard it; a low humming from far down the track. It actually relaxed him. There were no more choices to make. Horst moved cautiously and took a better grip on the unfamiliar weapon. The car was coming fast…

It was much smaller than Staley had expected: a toy of a streetcar, whistling past him. Its wind buffeted his face. The car stopped with a jerk, while Staley waved the gun like a magician’s wand, back and forth across it. Was anything coming out the other side? No. The gun was working properly. The beam was invisible, but crisscross lines of red-hot metal lined the vehicle. He swiped the beam across the windows, where nothing showed, and along the roof, then stepped quickly out into the tunnel and fired down its length.

There was another car there. Staley ducked back to cover most of his body but continued to fire, aiming the gun at the oncoming car. How the hell would he know when the battery—or whatever it used for power—quit? A museum piece, for God’s sake! The second car was past, and there were cherry-red lines across it. He swept the weapon along it, then stepped out to fire down the tunnel again. There was nothing there.

No third car. Good. Systematically he fired at the second car. Something had stopped it just behind the first—some kind of collision avoidance system? He couldn’t know. He ran toward the two cars. Whitbread and Potter came out to join him.

“I told you to stay put!”

Whitbread said, “Sorry, Horst.”

“This is a military situation, Mr. Whitbread. You can call me Horst when people aren’t shooting at us.”

“Yes, sir. I wish to point out that nobody has fired except you.”

There was a smell from the car: burning meat. The Moties came out from hiding. Staley carefully approached the cars and looked inside. “Demons,” he said.

They examined the bodies with interest. Except for statues they’d never seen the type before. Compared to the Mediators and Engineers they seemed wire-thin and agile, like greyhounds next to pugs. The right arms were long, with short thick fingers and only one thumb; the other edge of the right hand was smooth with callus. The left arm was longer, with fingers like sausages. There was something under the left arm.

The demons had teeth, long and sharp, like true monsters from childhood books and half-forgotten legends.

Charlie twittered to Whitbread’s Motie. When there was no answer she twittered again, more shrill, and waved at the Brown. The Engineer approached the door and began to examine it closely. Whitbread’s Motie stood petrified, staring at the dead Warriors.

“Look out for booby traps!” Staley yelled. The Brown paid no attention and began to feel cautiously at the door.

“Watch out!”

“They will have traps, but the Brown will see them,” Charlie said very slowly. “I will tell her to be careful.” The voice was precise and had no accent at all.

“You can talk,” Staley said.

“Not well. It is difficult to think in your language.”

“What’s wrong with my Fyunch(click)?” Whitbread demanded.

Instead of answering, Charlie twittered again. The tones rose sharply. Whitbread’s Motie seemed to jerk and turned toward them.

“Sorry,” she said. “Those are my Master’s Warriors. Damn, damn, what am I doing?”

“Let’s get in there,” Staley said nervously. He raised his gun to cut through the side of the car. The Brown was still inspecting the door, very carefully, as if afraid of it.

“Allow me, sir.” Whitbread must have been kidding. He was holding a thick-handled short sword. Horst watched him cut a square doorway in the metal side of the subway car with one continuous smooth, slow sweep of the blade.

“It vibrates,” he said. “I think.”

A few smells got through their air filters. It must have been worse for the Moties, but they didn’t seem to mind. They crawled inside the second car.

“You better look these over,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She sounded much better now. “Know your enemy.” She twittered at the Brown, and it went to the controls of the car and examined them carefully, then sat in the driver’s seat. She had to toss a Warrior out to do it.

“Have a look under the left arm,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “That’s a second left arm, vestigial in most Mote subspecies. Only thing is, it’s all one nail, like a—” She thought for a moment. “A hoof. It’s a gutting knife. Plus enough muscle to swing it.”