The Mote in God's Eye

That isn’t going to make me popular with Horvath, Rod reflected. At first the Science Minister will be glad to take anything; but it won’t be long before he’ll want something I can’t be sure of. “Yes, sir. I’ll go over and see to it myself. Uh—I’ll need Miss Fowler.”

Kutuzov’s eyes narrowed. “Bah. You will be responsible for her safety.”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Dismissed.” As Rod and Sally left the bridge, Commander Borman looked curiously at his Admiral. He wondered if he saw a grin. No, of course not. It simply wasn’t possible.

If there had been an officer of higher rank than Blaine present at the time, Kutuzov might have explained, but he would not discuss a captain—and future marquis—with Borman. What he might have said, though, was, “It is worth risk of Miss Fowler to keep Blaine active. When he does not brood, he is good officer.” Kutuzov might never leave the bridge, but the morale of his officers was part of his duty; and like all duties he took it seriously.

The conflicts developed immediately, of course. Horvath wanted everything, and assumed that Rod had merely been humoring the Admiral; when he found that Blaine took his promise seriously, the honeymoon was over. He was midway between rage and tears as Blake’s crewmen began to disassemble the gift ship, ripping apart delicate assemblies—sometimes cutting at random to prevent the possibility that the Moties had predicted what humans would do—and packing them in plastic containers.

For Rod, it was a period of useful activity again; and this time he had Sally for company. They could talk for hours when they were not working. They could drink brandy, and invite Chaplain Hardy in. Rod began to learn something of anthropology as he listened to Sally and Hardy argue over theoretical niceties of cultural development.

As they approached the Crazy Eddie point, Horvath became almost frantic. “You’re as bad as the Admiral, Blaine,” he charged as he watched an artificer use a cutting torch on an assembly that generated the complex field altering molecular structures in another magic coffeepot. “We’ve already got one of those aboard Lenin. What harm would another do?”

“The one we have wasn’t designed by Moties who knew it would go aboard the battleship,” Sally answered. “And this one is different.”

“Everything the Moties make is different,” snapped Horvath. “You’re the worst of the lot—more cautious than Blaine, by God. I’d have thought you’d know better.”

She smiled demurely and tossed a coin. “Better cut it there too,” she told the artificer.

“Yes, miss.” The spacer shifted his torch and began again.

“Bah.” Horvath stamped out to find David Hardy. The chaplain had assumed the role of peacemaker, and it was just as well; without him communications on the cutter would have ceased within hours.

The spacer finished slicing the assembly and packed it into the waiting box. He poured plastic around it and sealed the lid. “Got a steel crate outside, sir. I’ll just go weld it in.”

“Good. Carry on,” Blaine told him. “I’ll inspect it later.” When the spacer had left the cabin, he turned to Sally. “You know, I never noticed, but Horvath’s right. You are more cautious than I am. Why?”

She shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t, then.”

“There’s Buckman’s protostar,” she said. She flicked off the lights, then took his hand and led him to the viewport. “I never get tired of looking at it.”

There were a few moments before their eyes adjusted and the Coal Sack was more than endless blackness. Then the reds began to show, and there was a small whirlpool of red on black.

They stood very close. They did a lot of that lately, and Rod liked it. He ran his fingers up her spine until he was scratching her gently beneath the right ear.

“You’ll have to tell the Motie ambassadors pretty soon,” she said. “Thought of what you’ll say to them?”

“More or less. Might have been better to give them some warning, but—well, the Admiral’s way may be safer.”

“I doubt if it makes any difference. It will be nice to get back where there are more stars. I wonder— Rod, what do you think the Motie ambassadors will be like?”

“No idea at all. I guess we’ll know soon enough. You talk too much.”

“That’s what Uncle Ben tells me.”

They were quiet for a long time.

“Stand by. They’re coming aboard.”

“OPEN HANGAR DECK HATCHES. LINE CARRIERS AWAY.”

“STAND BY WINCHES.”

The gig was brought down into Lenin’s maw. Another boat stood by with the Moties’ baggage; everything, even the pressure suits the Moties had worn aboard the gig, had been transferred over in a separate boat. The passenger gig landed on the steel decks with a clunk.

“Ship’s company, ATTENTION.”

“Marines, PRESENT ARMS!”

The air lock opened and a full boatswains’ chorus sounded the pipes. A brown-and-white face appeared. Then another. When the two Mediators were entirely outside the gig, the third Motie emerged.

It was pure white, with silky tufts at the armpits, and there was gray around the muzzle and dotted through the torso.