The Mote in God's Eye

“Exactly.” Kutuzov emphasized the word by pounding the arm of the command chair with his closed fists. “They have technology, beyond ours. They speak our language and you say we will never speak theirs. They know the Alderson effect, and now they know Langston Fields exist. Perhaps, Dr. Horvath, we should go home. Now.”

“But—” Horvath began.

“And yet,” Kutuzov continued. “I would not like to fight war with these Moties without knowing more about them. What are planetary defenses? Who governs Moties? I notice for all your work you cannot answer that question. You do not even know who is commanding that ship of theirs.”

“True.” Horvath nodded vigorously. “It’s a very strange situation. Sometimes I honestly think they don’t have a commander, but on the other hand they do seem to refer back to their ship for instructions sometimes… and then there’s the sex matter.”

“You play games with me, Doctor?”

“No, no,” Horvath said with irritation. “It’s quite straightforward. All of the Brown-and-whites have been female since their arrival. In addition, the brown female has become pregnant and has given birth to a brown-and-white pup. Now it’s a male.”

“I know of sex changes in aliens. Perhaps one Brown-and-white was male until shortly before embassy ship arrived?”

“We thought of that. But it seems more likely that the Brown-and-whites haven’t been breeding because of population pressure. They all stay female—they may even be mules, since a Brown is mother of one. Crossbreed between the Brown and something else? That would point to a something else aboard the embassy ship.”

“They got an admiral aboard their ship,” Kutuzov said positively. “Just as we do. I knew it. What do you tell them when they ask of me?”

Rod heard a snort behind him and guessed that Kevin Renner was strangling. “As little as possible, sir,” Rod said. “Only that we’re subject to orders from Lenin. I don’t think they know your name, or if there’s one man or a council aboard.”

“Just so.” The Admiral almost smiled. “Just what you know about their command, da? You watch, they got an admiral aboard that ship, and he’s decided he wants you closer to their planet. Now my problem is, do I learn more by letting you go than he learns by getting you there?”

Horvath turned away from the screen and sent a pleading look to Heaven, Its Wonders, and All the Saints. How could he deal with a man like that, the look asked.

“Any sign of little Moties?” Kutuzov asked. “Have you still Brownies aboard His Imperial Majesty’s General Class battle cruiser MacArthur?”

Rod shuddered at the heavy sarcasm. “No, sir. I’ve evacuated the hangar deck and opened everything in it space. Then I put all MacArthur’s passengers and crew into hangar deck and opened up the ship. We fumigated the plant rooms with ciphogene, poured carbon monoxide through all the vents, opened to space again, and after we came back from hangar deck we did the same thing there. The miniatures are dead, Admiral. We have the bodies. Twenty-four of them, to be exact, although we didn’t find one of them until yesterday. It was pretty ripe after three weeks…”

“And there are no signs of Brownies? Or of mice?”

“No, sir. Rats, mice, and Moties—all dead. The other miniature, the one we had caged—it’s dead too, sir. The vet thinks it was old age.”

Kutuzov nodded. “So that problem is solved. What of adult alien you have aboard?”

“It’s sick,” Blaine said. “Same symptoms as the miniature had.”

“Yes, that’s another thing,” Horvath said quickly. “I want to ask the Moties what to do for the sick miner, but Blaine won’t let me without your permission.”

The Admiral reached somewhere off screen. When he faced them again he held a glass of tea, which he blew on noisily. “The others know you have this miner aboard?”

“Yes,” Horvath said. When Kutuzov glared, the Science Minister continued quickly, “They seem to have always known it. None of us told them, I’m sure of that.”

“So they know. Have they asked for the miner? Or to see it?”

“No.” Horvath frowned deeply again. His voice was incredulous. “No, they haven’t. In fact, they haven’t shown the least concern about the miner; no more than they might have for the miniatures—you’ll have seen the pictures of the Moties evacuating their ship, Admiral? They have to kill off the little beasts too. The things must breed like hive rats.” Horvath paused, his brow wrinkled even more deeply. Then, abruptly, “Anyway, I want to ask the others what to do for the sick miner. We can’t just let it die.”

“That might be best for all,” Kutuzov mused. “Oh, very well, Doctor. Ask them. It is hardly admitting anything important about Empire to tell them we do not know proper diet for Moties. But if you ask and they insist on seeing that miner, Blaine, you will refuse. If necessary, miner will die—tragically and suddenly, by accident, but die. Is that clearly understood? It will not talk to other Moties, not now and not ever.”