The Mote in God's Eye

“Aye aye, sir.” Rod sat impassively in his command chair. Now, do I agree with that? he thought. I should be shocked, but—

“Do you still wish to ask under those circumstances, Doctor?” Kutuzov asked.

“Yes. I expected nothing else from you anyway.” Horvath’s lips were pressed tightly against his teeth. “We now have the main question: the Moties have invited us to take orbit around their planet. Why they have done so is a matter for interpretation. I think it is because they genuinely want to develop trade and diplomatic relations with us, and this is the logical way we should go about it. There is no evidence for any other view. You, of course, have your own theories…”

Kutuzov laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh. “Actually, Doctor, I may believe same as you. What has that to do with anything? Is my task to keep Empire safe. What I believe has no importance.” The Admiral stared coldly into the screens. “Very well. Captain, I give you discretion to act in this situation. However, you will first arm torpedo-destruct systems for your ship. You understand that MacArthur cannot be allowed to fall into Motie hands?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You may go, Captain. We will follow in Lenin. You will transmit records of all information you obtain every hour—and you understand that if there is threat to your ship, I will not attempt to rescue you if there is any possibility of danger to Lenin? That my first duty is to return with information including, if this is so, how you were killed?” The Admiral turned so that he gazed directly at Horvath. “Well, Doctor, do you still want to go to Mote Prime?”

“Of course.”

Kutuzov shrugged. “Carry on, Captain Blaine. Carry on.”

MacArthur’s towboats had retrieved an oil-drum-shape cylinder half the size of the Motie embassy ship. It was very simple: a hard, thick shell of some foamed material heavy with liquid hydrogen, spinning slowly, with a bleeder valve at the axis. Now it was strapped to the embassy ship aft the toroidal living spaces. The slender spine meant to guide the plasma flow for the fusion drive had been altered too, bent far to the side to direct the thrust through the new center of mass. The embassy ship was tilted far back on her drive, like a smaller but very pregnant woman trying to walk.

Moties—Brown-and-whites, guided by one of the Browns—were at work disassembling the air-lock bridge, melting it down, and reshaping the material into ring shaped support platforms for the fragile toroids. Others worked within the ship, and three small brown-and-white shapes played among them. Again the interior changed like dreams. Free-fall furniture was reshaped. Floors were slanted, vertical to the new line of thrust.

There were no Moties aboard the cutter now; they were all at work; but contact was maintained. Some of the midshipmen took their turns doing simple muscle work aboard the embassy ship.

Whitbread and Potter were working in the acceleration chamber, moving the bunks to leave room for three smaller bunks. It was a simple rewelding job, but it took muscle. Perspiration collected in beads inside their filter helmets, and soaked their armpits.

Potter said, “I wonder what a man smells like to a Motie? Dinna answer if you find the question offensive,” he added.

“ ’Tis a bit hard to say,” Potter’s Motie answered. “My duty it is, Mr. Potter, to understand everything about my Fyunch(click). Perhaps I fit the part too well. The smell of clean sweat wouldna offend me even if ye had nae been working in our own interest. What is it ye find funny, Mr. Whitbread?”

“Sorry. It’s the accent.”

“What accent is that?” Potter wondered.

Whitbread and Whitbread’s Motie burst out laughing. “Well, it is funny,” said Whitbread’s Motie. “You used to have trouble telling us apart.”

“Now it’s the other way around,” Jonathon Whitbread said. “I have to keep counting hands to know if I’m talking to Renner or Renner’s Motie. Give me a hand here, will you, Gavin?… And Captain Blaine’s Motie. I have to keep shaking myself out of the Attention

position, and then she’ll say something and I’ll snap right back into it. She’ll give orders like she’s master of the cutter, and we’ll obey, and then she’ll say, ‘Just a minute, Mister,’ and order us to forgive her. It’s confusing.”

“Even so,” said Whitbread’s Motie, “I wonder sometimes whether we’ve really got you figured out. Just because I can imitate you doesn’t mean I can understand you…”

“ ’Tis our standard technique, as old as the hills, as old as some mountain ranges. It works. What else can we do, Jonathan Whitbread’s Fyunch(click)?”

“I wondered, that’s all. These people are so versatile. We can’t match all of your abilities, Whitbread. You find it easy to command and easy to obey; how can you do both? You’re good with tools—”

“So are you,” said Whitbread, knowing it was an understatement.

“But we tire easily. You’re ready to go on working, aren’t you? We’re not.”