The Mote in God's Eye

“Some of the men in my watch section, Captain—they say that if ye leave some food-grain, cereals, mess leftovers, anything at all—in the corridors or under your bunk along with something that needs fixing, it gets fixed.” Potter looked uncomfortable. It was obvious he thought he was reporting nonsense. “One of the men called them ‘Brownies.’ I thought it a joke.”

Once Potter had spoken there were a dozen others, even some of the scientists. Microscopes with smoother focusing operations than the best things ever made by Leica Optical. A handmade lamp in the biology section. Boots and shoes customized to individual feet. Rod looked up at that one.

“Kelley. How many of your troops have sidearms individualized like yours and Mr. Renner’s?”

“Uh—I don’t know, sir.”

“I can see one from here. You, man, Polizawsky, how did you come by that weapon?”

The Marine stammered. He wasn’t used to speaking to officers, certainly not the Captain, and most certainly not the Captain in an ugly mood. “Uh, well, sir, I leaves my weapon and a bag o’ popcorn by my bunk and next morning it’s done, sir. Like the others said, Captain.”

“And you didn’t think this unusual enough to report to Gunner Kelley?”

“Uh—sir—uh, some of the others, we thought maybe, uh, well, the Surgeon’s been talking about hallucinations in space, Captain, and we, uh—”

“Besides, if you reported it I might stop the whole thing,” Rod finished for him. Oh, God damn it to hell! How was he going to explain all this? Busy, too busy arbitrating squabbles with the scientists— But the fact stood out. He’d neglected his naval duties, and with what outcome?

“Aren’t you taking all this too seriously?” Horvath asked. “After all, Captain, the Viceroy’s orders were given before we knew much about Moties. Now, surely, we can see they aren’t dangerous, and they certainly aren’t hostile.”

“Are you suggesting, Doctor, that we put ourselves in the position of countermanding an Imperial Directive?”

Horvath looked amused. His grin spread slowly across his face. “Oh no,” he said. “I don’t even imply, it. I only suggest that if and when—when, really, it’s inevitable—that policy is changed, all this will seem a trifle silly, Captain Blaine. Childish in fact.”

“Be damned to you!” Sinclair exploded. “That’s nae way to talk to the Captain, mon!”

“Gently, Sandy,” First Lieutenant Cargill interjected. “Dr. Horvath, I take it you’ve never been involved in military intelligence? No, of course not. But you see, in intelligence work we have to go by capabilities, not by intentions. If a potential enemy can do something to you, you have to prepare for it, without regard to what you think he wants to do.”

“Exactly,” Rod said. He was glad of the interruptions. Sinclair was still fuming at his end of the table, and it wouldn’t take much to make him explode again. “So first we have to find out what the potential of the miniatures is. From what I’ve seen of the air-lock construction, plus what we gather about the ‘Brownies,’ that’s quite high.”

“But they’re only animals,” Sally insisted. She looked at the fuming Sinclair, the sardonically smiling Horvath and Rod’s worried face. “You don’t understand. This business with tools—well, yes, they’re good with tools, but it’s not intelligence

. Their heads are too small. The more brain tissue they use for this instinct to make tools work, the more they have to give up. They’ve virtually no sense of smell or taste. They’re very nearsighted. They’ve less sense of language than a chimpanzee. Their space perception is good, and they can be trained, but they don’t make tools, they only fix or change things. Intelligence!” She exploded. “What intelligent being would have custom formed the grip on Mr. Battson’s toothbrush?

“As for spying on us, how could they? Nobody could have trained them for it. They were randomly selected the first place.” She looked around at their faces, trying to judge if she was getting through.

“You’re really sure the escaped miniatures are alive?” The voice was hearty, tinged with New Scot accent. Rod looked across to Dr. Blevins, a colonial veterinarian drafted into the expedition. “My own miniature is dying, Captain. Nothing I can do about it. Internal poisoning, glandular deterioration—the symptoms seem to be similar to old age.”

Blaine shook his head slowly. “I wish I could think so Doc, but there are too many Brownie stories in this ship. Before this meeting I talked to some of the other chiefs and it’s the same on the lower decks. Nobody wanted report it because first, we’d think they were crazy, and second, the Brownies were too useful to risk losing. No, for all of Gunner Kelley’s Irish folk tales, there have never been any Little People on Navy ships—it has to be the miniatures.”

There was a long silence. “What harm are they doing anyway?” Horvath asked. “I’d think some Brownies would be an asset, Captain.”