The Mote In God's Eye

That term was very nearly official. The men tended to use a lot of Mote terms. When a man won a big hand at poker he was likely to shout "Fyunch(click) !" And yet, Captain Herb Colvin mused, most of us have never seen a Motie. We hardly see their ships: just targets, helpless after transition.

A few had made it out of the Eye, but every one had been so badly damaged that it was hardly spaceworthy.

There was always plenty of time to warn the ships outside the Eye that another Mode was on the way-if the Eye hadn't killed them first.

The last few ships had emerged from the Crazy Eddie point at initial velocities up to a thousand km per second. How the hell could the Moties hit a Jump point at such speeds? Ships within the Eye couldn't catch them. They didn't need to, with the Mode crews-and autopilots-helpless in Jump shock and unable to decelerate. The fleeing black blobs had run up through the rainbow and exploded every time. Where the Modes used their unique expanding fields, they exploded sooner, picking up heat faster from the yellow-hot photosphere.

Herb Colvin laid down the latest report on Motie tricks and technology. He'd written a lot of it himself, and it all added up to hopeless odds against the - Modes. They couldn't beat ships that didn't have to carry an Alderson

Drive, ships on station and waiting for Modes who still feel sorry for them.

Colvin took a bottle from the cabinet on the bulkhead of his patrol cabin and poured expertly despite the Coriolis forces. He carried his glass to his chair and sank into it. A packet of mail lay on his desk, the most recent letter from -his wife already ripped open so that he could be sure there was nothing wrong at home. Now he could read the letters in order. He raised his glass to Grace's picture on the desk.

She hadn't heard much from New Chicago, but things were all right there the last time her sister had written. Mail service to New Scotland was slow. The house she'd found was outside the New Scot defensive system, but she wouldn't won)' because Herb had told her the Moties couldn't get through. She'd -taken a lease for the whole three years they'd be out here.

Herb nodded in agreement. That would save money- three years on this blockade, then home, where he'd be Commodore of New Chicago's Home Fleet. Put the Aldemon engines back in Defiant: she'd be flagship when he took her home. A few years on blockade service was a small price to pay for the concessions the Empire offered.

It took the Moties to do it, Herb thought. Without them we'd still be fighting. There were still worlds outside the Empire and always would be, but in Trans-Coalsack unification was proceeding smoothly and there was more jawboning than fighting. The Moties did that for us, anyway.

A name caught Herb Colvin's eye. Lord Roderick Blaine, Chairman of the Imperial Commission Extraordinary- Colvin looked up at the bulkhead to see the familiar spot where Defiant had been patched following her battle with MacArthur. Blame's prize crew had done that, and a pretty good job it was. He's a competent man, Colvin admitted reluctantly. But heredity's still a hell of a way to choose leaders. The rebel democracy in New Chicago hadn't done too well either. He went back to Grace's letter.

My Lord Blaine had a new heir, his second. And Grace was helping out at this Institute Lady Blaine had set up.

His wife was excited because she often talked with Lady Sally and had even been invited out to the manor house to see the children.

The letter went on, and Colvin dutifully read it, but it was an effort. Would she never get tired of gushing about the aristocracy? We'll never agree on politics, he decided and looked up fondly at her picture again. Lord, I miss you- Chimes sounded through the ship and Herb stuffed the letters into his desk. It was time to go to work; tomorrow Commodore Cargill would come aboard for Fleet inspection. Herb rubbed his hands in anticipation. This time he'd show the Imperials just how a ship ought to be run. The winner of this inspection would get extra time ashore next leave, and he intended to have that for his crew.

As he stood a small yellow point of light flashed through the view port. One of these days, Herb thought. Someday we're going in there. With all the talent the Empire's got working on the problem we'll find a way to govern the Moties.

And what will we call ourselves then? he wondered. The Empire of Man and Motie? He grinned and went out to inspect his ship.

Blaine Manor was large, with sheltered gardens overhung with trees to protect their eyes from the bright sun.

Their quarters were very comfortable, and the Mediators had become accustomed to the ever present Marine guards. Ivan, as always, treated them as he would his own Warriors.

There was work. They had daily conferences with the Institute scientists, and for the Mediators there were the Blaine children. The oldest could speak a few words of Language and could read gestures as well as a young Master.