The Mote in God's Eye

Two examined his teeth, which were clenched. Others traced his bones with their fingers: his ribs, his spine, the shape of his head, his pelvis, the bones of his feet. They palpated his hands and moved the fingers in ways they were not meant to go. Although they were gentle enough, it was all thoroughly unpleasant.

The chattering rose to a crescendo. Some of the sounds were so shrill they were nearly inaudible shrieks and whistles, but behind them were melodious mid-range tones. One phrase seemed to be repeated constantly in high tenor. Then they were all behind him, showing each other his spine. They were very excited about Whitbread’s spine. A Motie signaled him by catching his eye and then hunching back and forth. The joints jutted as if its back were broken in two places. Whitbread felt queasy watching it, but he got the idea. He curled into fetal position, straightened, then curled up again. A dozen small alien hands probed his back.

Presently they backed away. One approached and seemed to invite Whitbread to explore his (her, its) anatomy. Whitbread shook his head and deliberately looked away. That was for the scientists.

He received his helmet and spoke into the mike. “Ready to report, sir. I’m not sure what to do next. Shall I try to get of them to come back to MacArthur with me?”

Captain Blaine’s voice sounded strained. “Definitely not. Can you get outside their ship?”

“Yes, sir, if I have to.”

“We’d rather you did. Report on a secure line, Whitbread.”

“Uh—yes, sir.” Jonathon signaled the Moties, pointed to his helmet and then to the air lock. The one who had been conducting him around nodded. He climbed back into his suit with help from the brown Motie, dogged the fastenings and attached his helmet. A Brown-and-white led him to the air lock.

There was no convenient place outside to attach the safety line, but after a glance his Motie escort glued a hook onto the ship’s surface. It did not look substantial, that hook. Jonathon worried about it briefly. Then frowned. Where was the ring the Motie had held when Whitbread first approached? It was gone. Why?

Oh, well. MacArthur was close. If the hook broke they would come get him. Gingerly he pushed away from the Motie ship until he hung in empty space. He used helmet sights to line up exactly with the antenna protruding from MacArthur’s totally black surface. Then he touched the SECURITY stud with his tongue.

A thin beam of coherent light stabbed out from his helmet. Another came in from MacArthur

, following his own into a tiny receptacle set into the helmet. A ring around that receptacle stayed in darkness; if there were any spillover the tracking system on MacArthur would correct it or, if the spill touched still a third ring around Whitbread’s receiving antenna, cut off communication entirely.

“Secure, sir,” he reported. He let an irritated but puzzled note creep into his voice. After all, he thought, I’m entitled to a little expression of opinion. Aren’t I?

Blaine answered immediately. “Mr. Whitbread, the reason for this security is not merely to make you uncomfortable. The Moties do not understand our language now, but they can make recordings; and later they will understand Anglic. Do you follow me?”

“Why—yes sir.” Ye gods, the Old Man was really thinking ahead.

“Now, Mr. Whitbread, we cannot allow any Motie aboard MacArthur until we have disposed of the problem of the miniatures, and we will do nothing to let the Moties know we have such a problem. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. I’m sending a boatload of scientists your way—now that you’ve broken the ground, so to speak. By the way, well done. Before I send the others, have you further comments?”

“Um. Yes, sir. First, there are two children aboard. I saw them clinging to the backs of adults. They’re bigger than miniatures, and colored like the adults.”

“More evidence of peaceful intent,” Blaine said. “What else?”

“Well, I didn’t get a chance to count them, but it looks like twenty-three Brown-and-whites and two brown asteroid-miner types. Both of the children were with the Browns. I’ve been wondering why.”

“Eventually we’ll be able to ask them. All right, Whitbread, we’ll send over the scientists. They’ll have the cutter. Renner, you on?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Work out a course. I want MacArthur fifty kilometers from the Motie ship. I don’t know what the Moties will do when we move, but the cutter’ll be over there first.”

“You’re moving the ship, sir?” Renner asked incredulously. Whitbread wanted to cheer but restrained himself.

“Yes.”

Nobody said anything for a long moment.

“All right,” Blaine capitulated. “I’ll explain. The Admiral is very concerned about the miniatures. He thinks they might be able to talk about the ship. We’ve orders to see that the escaped miniatures have no chance to communicate with an adult Motie, and one klick is just a bit close.”

There was more silence.