The Mote in God's Eye

“That’s right I watched them test that joint. It’ll turn the torso to face straight backward. Impressed?”

Rod nodded and turned the page. In that picture the surgeons had exposed the skull.

Small wonder the head was lopsided. Not only was the left side of the brain larger, to control the sensitive, complexly innervated right arms; but the massive tendons of the left shoulder connected to knobs on the left side of the skull for greater leverage.

“All designed around the arms,” Sally said. “Think of the Motie as a toolmaker and you’ll see the point. The right arms are for the fine work such as fixing a watch. The left arm lifts and holds. He could probably lift one end of an air car with the left hand and use the right arms to tinker with the motors. And that idiot Horowitz thought it was a mutation!” She turned more pages. “Look.”

“Right, I noticed that myself. The arms fit too well.” The photographs showed the right arms in various positions, and they could not be made to get in each other’s way. The arms were about the same length when extended; but the bottom arm had a long forearm and short humerus, whereas in the top arm the forearm and humerus were about the same length. With the arms at the alien’s side, the fingertips of the top arm hung just below the bottom arm’s wrist.

He read on. The alien’s chemistry was subtly different from the human but not wildly so, as anyone might have expected from previous extraterrestrial biology. All known life was sufficiently similar that some theorists held to spore dispersion through interstellar space as the origin of life everywhere. The theory was not widely held, but it was defensible, and the alien would not settle the matter.

Long after Sally left, Rod was still studying the report. When he was finished, three facts stuck in his mind:

The Motie was an intelligent toolmaker.

It had traveled across thirty-five light years to find human civilization.

And Rod Blaine had killed it.

9. His Highness Has Decided

The Viceregal Palace dominated New Scotland’s only major city. Sally stared in admiration at the huge structure and excitedly pointed out the ripple of colors that changed with each motion of the flyer.

“How did it get that effect?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem like an oil film.”

“Cut from good New Scot rock,” Sinclair answered. “You’ve nae seen rock like this before. There was nae life here until the First Empire seeded the planet; yon palace is rock wi’ all the colors just as it boiled out of the interior,”

“It’s beautiful,” she told him. The Palace was the only building with open space around it. New Scotland huddled in small warrens, and from the air it was easy to see circular patterns like growth rings of a tree circle making the construction of larger field generators for protection of the city. Sally asked, “Wouldn’t it be simpler to make a city plan using right angles now?”

“Simpler, aye,” Sinclair answered. “But we’ve been through two hundred years of war, lass. Few care to live wi’ nae Field for protection—not that we do no trust the Navy and Empire,” he added hastily. “But ‘tis no easy to break habits that old. We’d rather stay crowded and ken we can fight.”

The flyer circled in to rest on the scarred lava roof of the Palace. The streets below were a bustle of color, tartans and plaids, everyone jostling his neighbor in the narrow streets. Sally was surprised to see just how small the Imperial Sector Capital was.

Rod left Sally and his officers in a comfortable lounge and followed starched Marine guides. The Council Chamber was a mixture of simplicity and splendor, walls of unadorned rock contrasting with patterned wool carpets and tapestries. Battle banners hung from high rafters.

The Marines showed Rod to a seat. Immediately in front of him was a raised dais for the Council and its attendants, and above that the viceregal throne dominated the entire chamber; yet even the throne was overshadowed by an immense solido of His Most Royal and Imperial Highness and Majesty, Leonidas IX, by Grace of God Emperor of Humanity. When there was a message from the Throne world the image would come alive, but now it showed a man no more than forty dressed in the midnight black of an Admiral of the Fleet, unadorned by decorations or medals. Dark eyes stared at and through each person in the chamber.

The chamber filled rapidly. There were Sector Parliament members, military and naval officers, scurrying civilians attended by harried clerks. Rod had no idea what to expect, but he noted jealous glances from those behind him. He was by far the most junior officer in the front row of the guest seats, Admiral Cranston took a seat two places to Blaine’s left and nodded crisply to his subordinate.