The Mote in God's Eye

“The man who fired on the first alien contact the human race ever made,” Cranston said coldly. “Crippled their probe. You know we only found one passenger, and he’s dead? Life-system failure, maybe,” Cranston fingered the sheaf of papers and viciously thrust them away. “Damned civilians, they always end up influencing the Navy. They leave me no choice.

“All right. Captain Blaine, as Fleet Admiral of this Sector I hereby confirm your promotion to captain and assign you to command of His Majesty’s battle cruiser MacArthur. Now sit down.” As Rod dazedly looked for a chair, Cranston grunted. “That’ll show the bastards. Try to tell me how to run my command, will they? Blaine, you’re the luckiest officer in the Service. A board would have confirmed your promotion anyway, but without this you’d never have kept that ship.”

“Yes. Sir.” It was true enough, but that couldn’t keep the note of pride out of Rod’s voice. And MacArthur was his— “Sir? Have they found out anything about the probe? Since we left the probe in orbit I’ve been busy in the Yards getting MacArthur refitted.”

“We’ve opened it, Captain. I’m not sure I believe what we found, but we’ve got inside the thing. We found this.” He produced an enlarged photograph.

The creature was stretched out on a laboratory table. The scale beside it showed that it was small, 1.24 meters from top of head to what Rod at first thought were shoes, then decided were its feet. There were no toes, although a ridge of what might have been horn covered the forward edges.

The rest was a scrambled nightmare. There were two slender right arms ending in delicate hands, four fingers and two opposed thumbs on each. On the left side was a single massive arm, virtually a club of flesh, easily bigger than both right arms combined. Its hand was three thick fingers closed like a vise.

Cripple? Mutation? The creature was symmetrical below where its waist would have been; from the waist up it was—different.

The torso was lumpy. The musculature was more complex than that of men. Rod could not discern the basic bone structure beneath.

The arms—well, they made a weird kind of sense. The elbows of the right arms fitted too well, like nested plastic cups. Evolution had done that. The creature was not a cripple.

The head was the worst.

There was no neck. The massive muscles of the left shoulder sloped smoothly up to the top of the alien’s head. The left side of the skull blended into the left shoulder and was much larger than the right. There was no left ear and no room for one. A great membranous goblin’s ear decorated the right side, above a narrow shoulder that would have been almost human except that there was a similar shoulder below and slightly behind the first.

The face was like nothing he had ever seen. On such a head it should not even have been a face. But there were two symmetrical slanted eyes, wide open in death, very human, somehow oriental. There was a mouth, expressionless, with the lips slightly parted to show points of teeth.

“Well, how do you like him?”

Rod answered, “I’m sorry it’s dead. I can think of a million questions to ask it— There was only this one?”

“Yes. Only him, inside the ship. Now look at this.”

Cranston touched a corner of his desk to reveal a recessed control panel. Curtains on the wall to Rod’s left parted and the room lights dimmed. A screen lighted uniformly white.

Shadows suddenly shot in from the edges, dwindled as they converged toward the center, and were gone, all in a few seconds.

“We took that off your sun-side cameras, the ones that weren’t burned off. Now I’ll slow it down.”

Shadows moved jerkily inward on a white background. There were half a dozen showing when the Admiral stopped the film.

“Well?”

“They look like—like that,” said Rod.

“Glad you think so. Now watch.” The projector started again. The odd shapes dwindled, converged, and disappeared, not as if they had dwindled to infinity, but as if they had evaporated.

“But that shows passengers being ejected from the probe and burned up by the light sail. What sense does that make?”

“It doesn’t. And you can find forty explanations out at the university. Picture’s not too clear anyway. Notice how distorted they were? Different sizes, different shapes. No way to tell if they were alive. One of the anthropologist types thinks they were statues of gods thrown out to protect them from profanation. He’s about sold that theory to the rest of ‘em, except for those who say the pictures were flawed film, or mirages from the Langston Field, or fakes.”

“Yes, sir.” That didn’t need comment, and Blaine made none. He returned to his seat and examined the photograph again. A million questions… if only the pilot were not dead.