The Mote in God's Eye

The sloop returned with more messages masered even before the message ship could rendezvous. The Sector Capital was wild with enthusiasm, and the Viceroy was planning a gala reception for the Motie ambassadors. War Minister Armstrong sent a muted “well done” and a thousand questions.

There was also a message for Rod Blaine. He learned of it when he was summoned to Kutuzov’s cabin by the Admiral’s Marine orderly.

“This is probably it,” Rod told Sally. “Put Blaine under arrest until he can be tried by court-martial.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiled encouragement. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“If they ever let me come back to my cabin.” He turned to the Marine. “Lead on, Ivanov.”

When he was let into the Admiral’s cabin it was a shock. Rod had expected a bare room, functional and cold; instead it was a bewildering variety of colors, oriental carpets, tapestries on the walls, the inevitable icon and portrait of the Emperor but much more. There were even leather-bound books in a shelf above Kutuzov’s desk. The Admiral indicated a Spartan rose teak chair. “Will you have tea?” he asked.

“Well—thank you, sir.”

“Two glasses tea, Keemun.” The steward drew them from a silver thermos shaped like an ancient Russian samovar, and served the tea in crystal cups.

“You may go. Captain Blaine, I have orders concerning you.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod said. He might at least have waited until I’d enjoyed the tea.

“You will be leaving this ship. As soon as the sloop makes rendezvous you are to go aboard for return to New Caledonia at maximum acceleration flight surgeon will approve.”

“Yes, sir—are they that eager to haul me in front of a court-martial?”

Kutuzov looked puzzled. “Court-martial? I do not think so, Captain. There must be formal court of inquiry, certainly. That is in regulations. But I would be surprised if court of inquiry made charges against you.”

Kutuzov turned to his elaborately carved desk. There was a message tape on the polished wood surface. “This is for you. It is marked ‘personal and urgent’ and doubtless it will explain.”

Rod took the tape and examined it curiously.

“It is in commanding-officer code, of course,” the Admiral said. “My flag secretary will assist you if you like.”

“Thank you.”

The Admiral used the intercom to summon a lieutenant, who fed decoding tapes into the code machine. It clattered out a thin form.

“Will that be all, Admiral?” the Lieutenant asked.

“Yes. Captain, I leave you to read your message. Good morning.” Admiral and lieutenant left the cabin as the code machine continued to chatter. The message flimsy wormed out of the machine’s innards.

Rod tore it off and read in growing wonder.

He read it again on his way back to his cabin. Sally stood when he came in. “Rod, that’s the strangest look I’ve ever seen!”

“Got a letter,” he said.

“Oh—news from home?’

“Sort of.”

She smiled, but her voice was puzzled. “How is everyone? Your father all right?” Rod seemed very nervous and excited, but he was too cheerful to have got bad news. So what was upsetting him? It was as if he had some task to carry out, something he wanted to do but was afraid of—

“My family’s fine. So is yours—you’ll know about that soon enough. Senator Fowler is in New Scotland.”

She looked at him incredulously. “Uncle Ben is out here? But why?”

“He says he got worried about you. Nobody to take care of you, so he had to—”

She put her tongue out at him and grabbed for the message blank. Rod dodged nimbly despite the gravity-and-a-half acceleration.

“All right,” he told her. He laughed, but it was strained. “The Emperor sent him. As his personal representative, to chair an Imperial Commission to negotiate with the Moties.” Rod paused. “We’re both appointed to the Commission.”

She looked at him blankly. Slow comprehension invaded her eyes. This was professional recognition beyond anything she’d imagined.

“Congratulations, Commissioner,” Rod laughed. He caught her wrist in both hands and held her at arm’s length. “The Lord President of His Majesty’s Commission Extraordinary also asks me when we’re getting married. I think it’s a pretty fair question.”

“But—I—Rod—we—” She caught her breath.

“By God, I’ve got you at a loss for words. Just once you’re not talking.” He took advantage of the opportunity to kiss her. Then again. That lasted a long time.

“I think I’d better read that letter,” she said when they parted. “If you please.”

“You still haven’t answered your uncle’s question, and I won’t let you read it until you do.”

“His question!” Her eyes flashed. “Rod Blaine, if I do marry anyone—if, mind you—he’s going to ask me himself!”

“All right. Lady Sandra Liddell Leonovna Bright Fowler, will you marry me?” The banter was gone from his voice, and although he tried to keep his grin he lost that too. He looked like a four-year-old about to sit on Father Christmas’ lap for the first time. “When we get back to New Scotland—”

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you—New Scotland? Rod, your father will expect us to be married at Court. All our friends are on Sparta—”