The Mote in God's Eye

Cziller must have been reading his mind. It was an ability every officer under him had suspected. “Relax, Captain. They won’t replace you before you get to the Capital, and you’ll have had a lot of time aboard Old Mac by then. And don’t spend your time boning the board exams, either. It won’t do you a bit of good.” Cziller puffed at the huge pipe and let a thick stream of smoke pour from his mouth. “You’ve work to do, I won’t keep you. But when you get to New Scotland, make a point of looking at the Coal Sack. There are few sights in the galaxy to equal it. The Face of God, some call it.” Cziller’s image faded, his lopsided smile seeming to remain on the screen like the Cheshire cat’s.

3. Dinner Party

MacArthur accelerated away from New Chicago at one standard gravity. All over the ship crewmen worked to change over from the down-is-outboard orientation of orbit when spin furnished the gravity to the up-is-forward of powered flight. Unlike merchant ships, which often coast long distances from inner planets to the Alderson Jump points, warships usually accelerate continuously.

Two days out from New Chicago, Blaine held a dinner party.

The crew brought out linens and candelabra, heavy silver plate and etched crystal, products of skilled craftsmen on half a dozen worlds; a treasure trove belonging, not to Blaine, but to MacArthur herself. The furniture was all in place, taken from its spin position around the outer bulkheads and remounted on the after bulkheads—except for the big spin table, which was recessed into what was now the cylindrical wardroom wall.

That curved dining table had bothered Sally Fowler. She had seen it two days ago, when MacArthur was still under spin and the outer bulkhead was a deck, likewise curved. Now Blaine noted her moment of relief as she entered via the stairwell.

He remarked its absence in Bury, who was affable, very much at ease, and clearly enjoying himself. He had spent time in space, Blaine decided. Possibly more time than Rod.

It was Blaine’s first opportunity to meet the passengers formally. As he sat in his place at the head of the table, watching the stewards in spotless dress white bring in the first course, Blaine suppressed a smile. MacArthur had everything except food.

“I’m much afraid the dinner’s not up to the furnishings,” he told Sally. “But we’ll see what we find.” Kelley and the stewards had conferred with the chief petty officer cook all afternoon, but Rod didn’t expect much.

There was plenty to eat, of course. Ship’s fodder: bioplast, yeast steaks, New Washington corn plant; but Blaine had had no chance to lay in cabin stores for himself on New Chicago, and his own supplies had been destroyed in the battle with the rebel planetary defenses. Captain Cziller had of course removed his own personal goods. He’d also managed to take the leading cook and the number-three turret gunner who’d served as captain’s cook.

The first dish was brought in, an enormous platter with a heavy cover that looked like beaten gold. Golden dragons chased each other around the perimeter, while the good fortune hexagrams of the I Ching floated benignly above them. Fashioned on Xanadu, the dish and cover were worth the price of one of MacArthur’s gigs. Gunner Kelley stood behind Blaine, imperious in dress whites and scarlet sash, the perfect major-domo. It was difficult to recognize him as the man who could make new recruits faint from his chewing out, the sergeant who had led MacArthur’s Marines in battle against the Union Guard. Kelley lifted the cover with a practiced flourish.

“Magnificent!” Sally exclaimed. If she was only being polite, she carried it off well, and Kelley beamed. A pastry replica of MacArthur and the black-domed fortress she had fought, every detail sculpted more carefully than an art treasure in the Imperial Palace, lay revealed on the platter. The other dishes were the same, so that if they hid yeast cake and other drab fare, the effect was of a banquet. Rod managed to forget his concern and enjoy the dinner.

“And what will you be doing now, my lady?” Sinclair asked. “Hae you been to New Scotland before?”

“No, I was supposed to be traveling professionally, Commander Sinclair. It wouldn’t be flattering to your homeland for me to have visited there, would it?” She smiled, but there were light-years of blank space behind her eyes.

“And why would nae we be flattered from a visit by you? There’s nae place in the Empire that would no think itself honored.”

“Thank you—but I’m an anthropologist specializing in primitive cultures. New Scotland is hardly that,” she assured him. The accent sparked professional interest. Do they really talk that way in New Scotland? The man sounds like something from a pre-Empire novel. But she thought that very carefully, not looking at Sinclair as she did. She could sense the engineer’s desperate pride.