The Mote in God's Eye

The Motie looked around the lounge, swiveling at the torso, staring at each of the scientists, then at other equipment, looking and waiting, waiting.

One of the miniatures sat cross-legged in front of Renner, also watching and waiting. It seemed totally unafraid. Renner reached to scratch it behind the ear, the right ear. Like the big Motie, it had no left ear; shoulder muscles for the upper left arm depended from the top of the head. But it seemed to enjoy the scratching. Renner carefully avoided the ear itself, which was large and fragile.

Sally watched, wondering what to do next, and wondering also what bothered her about Renner’s performance. Not the incongruity of a ship’s officer scratching the ear of what seemed to be an alien monkey, but something else, something about the ear itself…

16. Idiot Savant

Dr. Buckman was on duty in the observation room when the blinding laser signal from the inner system went out.

There was a planet there all right, about the size of Earth, with a distorting fringe of transparent atmosphere. He nodded in satisfaction; that was a lot of detail to see at this distance. The Navy had good equipment and they used it well. Some of the petty officers would make good astronomical assistants; pity they were wasted here.

What was left of his astronomy section went to work analyzing data from observations of the planet, and Buckman called Captain Blaine.

“I wish you’d get me back some of my men,” he complained. “They’re all standing around the lounge watching the Motie.”

Blaine shrugged. He could hardly order the scientists around. Buckman’s management of his department was his own affair. “Do the best you can, Doctor. Everyone’s curious about the alien. Even my Sailing Master, who’s got no business down there at all. What have you got so far? Is it a terrestrial planet?”

“In a manner of speaking. A touch smaller than Earth, with a water-oxygen atmosphere. But there are traces in the spectrum that have me intrigued. The helium line is very strong, far too strong. I suspect the data.”

“A strong helium line? One percent or thereabouts?”

“It would be if the reading were correct, but frankly— Why did you say that?”

“The breathing air in the Motie ship was 1 percent helium, with some rather odd components; I think your reading is accurate.”

“But, Captain, there’s no way a terrestrial planet could hold that much helium! It has to be spurious. Some of the other lines are even worse.”

“Ketones? Hydrocarbon complexes?”

“Yes!”

“Dr. Buckman, I think you’d better have a look at Mr. Whitbread’s report on the atmosphere in the Mote ship. You’ll find it in the computer. And take a neutrino reading, please.”

“That won’t be convenient, Captain.”

“Take it anyway,” Rod told the stubborn, bony face on the intercom screen. “We need to know the state of their industry.”

Buckman snapped, “Are you trying to make war on them?”

“Not yet,” Blaine answered; and let it go at that. “While you’ve got the instrumention set up, take a neutrino reading on the asteroid the Motie ship came from. It’s quite a way outside the Trojan point cluster, so you won’t have a problem with background emissions.”

“Captain, this will interfere with my work!”

“I’ll send you an officer to help out.” Rod thought rapidly. “Potter. I’ll give you Mr. Potter as an assistant.” Potter should like that. “This work is necessary, Dr. Buckman. The more we know about them, the more easily we can talk to them. The sooner we can talk to them, the sooner we can interpret their own astronomical observations.” That ought to get him.

Buckman frowned. “Why, that’s true. I hadn’t thought of that at all.”

“Fine, Doctor.” Rod clicked off before Buckman could voice a further protest. Then he turned to Midshipman Whitbread in the doorway. “Come in and sit down, Mr. Whitbread.”

“Thank you, sir.” Whitbread sat. The chairs in the Captain’s watch cabin were netting on a steel frame, lightweight but comfortable. Whitbread perched on the very edge of one. Cargill handed him a coffee cup, which he held in both hands. He looked painfully alert.

Cargill said, “Relax, boy.”

Nothing happened.

Rod said, “Whitbread, let me tell you something. Everyone on this ship wants to pick your brain, not later, but now. I get first crack because I’m Captain. When we’re finished, I’ll turn you over to Horvath and his people. When they’re finished with you, if ever, you’ll go off watch. You’ll think then that you’re about to get some sleep, but no. The gun room will want the whole story. They’ll be coming off watch at staggered intervals, so you’ll have to repeat everything half a dozen times. Are you getting the picture?”

Whitbread was dismayed—as he ought to have been.

“Right, then. Set your coffee down on the niche. Good. Now slide back until your spine touches the chair back. Now relax, dammit! Close your eyes.”

For a wonder, Whitbread did. After a moment he smiled blissfully.