The Mote in God's Eye

“Sure.” Whitbread unstraped from his web hammock. They climbed down two decks to scientist country. Most of the civilians worked in the relatively high gravity areas near the outer surface of MacArthur, but bunked nearer the ship’s core.

The 120-cm globe was set up in a small lounge used by the astronomy section. During action stations the compartment would be occupied by damage-control parties and used for emergency-repair assemblies. Now it was empty. A chime announced three bells in the last watch.

The planet was mapped completely except for the south pole, and the globe indicated the planet’s axial tilt. MacArthur’s light-amplifying telescopes had given a picture much like any Earth-type planet: deep and varied blues smeared with white frosting, red deserts, and white tips of mountains. The films had been taken at various times and many wave lengths so that the cloud covers didn’t obscure too much of the surface. Industrial centers marked in gold dotted the planet.

Whitbread studied it carefully while Potter poured coffee from Dr. Buckman’s Dewar flask. Buckman, for some reason, always had the best coffee in the ship—at least the best that middies had access to.

“Mr. Potter, why do I get the feeling that it looks like Mars?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Whitbread. What’s a Mars?”

“Sol Four. Haven’t you ever been to New Annapolis?”

“I’m Trans-Coalsack, remember.”

Whitbread nodded. “You’ll get there, though. But I guess they skip part of the training for colonial recruits. It’s a pity. Maybe the Captain can arrange it for you. The fun thing is that last training mission, when they make you calculate an emergency minimum fuel landing on Mars, and then do it with sealed tanks. You have to use the atmosphere to brake, and since there isn’t very damned much of it, you almost have to graze the ground to get any benefit.”

“That sounds like fun, Mr. Whitbread. A pity I have dentist appointment that day—”

Whitbread continued to stare at the globe while he sipped coffee. “It bothers me, Gavin. It really does. Let’s go ask somebody.”

“Commander Cargill’s still out at the Beehive.” As First Lieutenant, Cargill was officially in charge of midshipman training. He was also patient with the youngsters, when many other officers were not.

“Maybe somebody will still be up,” Whitbread suggested. They went forward toward the bridge, and saw Renner with flecks of soap on his chin. They did not hear him cursing because he now had to share a head with nine other officers.

Whitbread explained his problem. “And it looks like Mars, Mr. Renner. But I don’t know why.”

“Beats me,” Renner said. “I’ve never been anywhere near Sol.” There was no reason for merchant ships to go closer to Sol than the orbit of Neptune, although as the original home of humanity Sol was centrally located as transfer point to other and more valuable systems. “Never heard anything good about Mars, either. Why is it important?”

“I don’t know. It probably isn’t.”

“But you seem to think it is.”

Whithread didn’t answer.

“There’s something peculiar about Mote Prime, though. It looks like any random world in the Empire, except— Or is it just because I know it’s covered with alien monsters? Tell you what, I’m due for a glass of wine with the Captain in five minutes. Just let me get my tunic and you come along. We’ll ask him.”

Renner darted into his stateroom before Whitbread and Potter could protest. Potter looked at his companion accusingly. Now what kind of trouble had he got them into?

Renner led them down the ladders into the high-gravity tower where the Captain’s patrol cabin was. A bored Marine sat at the desk outside Blaine’s quarters. Whitbread recognized him—reputedly, Sergeant Maloney’s vacuum still, located somewhere forward of the port torpedo room, made the best Irish Mist in the fleet. Maloney strove for quality, not quantity.

“Sure, bring the middies in,” Blaine said. “There’s not much to do until the cutter gets back. Come in, gentlemen. Wine, coffee, or something stronger?”

Whitbread and Potter settled for sherry, although Potter would have preferred Scotch. He had been drinking it since he was eleven. They sat in small folding chairs which fitted into dogs scattered around the deck of Blaine’s patrol cabin. The observation ports were open and the ship’s Field off, so MacArthur’s bulk hovered above them. Blaine noted the middies’ nervous glances and smiled. It got to everybody at first.

“What’s the problem?” Blaine asked. Whitbtead explained.

“I see. Mr. Potter, would you get that globe on my intercom? Thank you.” Rod studied the image on the screen. “Hm. Normal-looking world. The colors are off, somehow. Clouds look—well, dirty. Not surprising. There’s all kinds of crud in the atmosphere. You’d know that, Mr. Whitbread.”

“Yes, sir.” Whitbread wrinkled his nose. “Filthy stuff.”

“Right. But it’s the helium that’s driving Buckman up the bulkhead. I wonder if he’s figured it out yet? He’s had several days… Dammit, Whitbread, it does look like Mars. But why?”