The Mote in God's Eye

Something moved among the plants. Three guns came up. The twisted thing plodded toward them… and Staley said, “At ease. It’s a Farmer.”

Whitbread’s Motie moved up beside the midshipmen. She brushed dirt off her fur with all her hands. “There’ll be more of those here. They may even try to smooth out the hole. Farmers aren’t too bright. They don’t have to be. What now, Horst?”

“We walk until we can ride. If you see planes—hmm.”

“Infrared detectors,” said the Motie.

“Do you have tractors in these fields? Could we grab one?” Staley asked.

“They’ll be in the shed by now. They don’t usually work in the dark… of course the Farmers may bring one to smooth out that hole.”

Staley thought a moment. “Then we don’t want one. Too conspicuous. Let’s hope we look like Farmers on an infrared screen.”

They walked. Behind them the Farmer began straightening plants and smoothing the soil around their roots. She twittered to herself, but Whitbread’s Motie didn’t translate. Staley idly wondered if Farmers ever said anything, or if they merely cursed, but he didn’t want to talk just yet. He had to think.

The sky darkened. A red point glowed overhead: Murcheson’s Eye. Ahead of them was the yellow city-glow of (Bird Whistle). They walked on in silence, the midshipmen alert, weapons ready, the Moties following with their torsos swiveling periodically.

By and by Staley said to the Motie, “I’ve been wondering what’s in this for you.”

“Pain. Exertion. Humiliation. Death.”

“That’s the point. I keep wondering why you came.”

“No, you don’t, Horst. You keep wondering why your Fyunch(click) didn’t.”

Horst looked at her. He had wondered that. What was his twin mind doing while demons hunted her own Fyunch(click) across a world? It brought dull pain.

“We’re both duty oriented, Horst, your Fyunch(click) and I. But your Fyunch(click)’s duty is to her, let us say, her superior officer. Gavin—”

“Aye.”

“I tried to talk your Fyunch(click) into coming down, but she’s got this Crazy Eddie idea that we can end the Cycles by sending our surplus population to other stars. At least neither will help the others find us.”

“Could they?”

“Horst, your Motie must know exactly where you are, assuming I got here; and she’ll know that when she finds out about the dead Warriors.”

“We’d better flip a coin the next time we get a choice. She can’t predict that.”

“She won’t help. Nobody would expect a Mediator to help hunt down her own Fyunch(click).”

“But don’t you have to obey your Master’s orders?” Staley asked.

The Motie swiveled her body rapidly. It was a gesture they hadn’t seen before, obviously not copied from anything human. She said, “Look. Mediators were bred to stop wars. We represent the decision makers. We speak for them. To do our job we have to have some independence of judgment. So the genetic engineers work at the balance. Too much independence and we don’t represent the Masters properly. We get repudiated. Wars start.”

“Aye,” Potter broke in. “And too little independence makes for inflexible demands, and you hae the wars anyway.” Potter trudged in silence for a moment. “But if obedience is a species-specific thing, then ye’ll be unable simply to help us alone. Ye’ll be taking us to another Master because ye hae nae choice.”

Staley gripped the rocket launcher tighter. “Is this true?”

“Some,” Whitbread’s Motie admitted. “Not as completely as you think. But, yes, it’s easier to choose among many orders than try to act with none at all.”

“And what does King Peter believe should be done?” Staley demanded. “Just what are we walking into?”

The other Motie twittered. Whitbread’s Motie answered. The conversation went on for many seconds, very long for Moties. The sunset light died, and Murcheson’s Eye blazed a hundred times brighter than Earth’s full Moon. There were no other stars in the Coal Sack. Around them the fields of plants were dark red, with sharp black shadows of infinite depth.

“Honesty,” Charlie said at last. “My Master believes we must be honest with you. It is better to live by the ancient pattern of the Cycles than chance total destruction and the doom of all our descendants.”

“But…” Potter stammered in confusion. “But why is it nae possible to colonize other stars? The Galaxy is big enough for all. You would nae attack the Empire?”

“No, no,” Whitbread’s Motie protested. “My own Master wants only to buy land as bases on Empire worlds, then move outside the Empire entirely. Eventually we’d be colonizing worlds around the edges of the Empire. There’d be commerce between us. I don’t think we’d try to share the same planets.”

“Then why—” Potter asked.

“I don’t think you could build that many space craft,” Whitbread interrupted.