The Mote in God's Eye

“Thank you.” Hardy was going to say something else, but Kelley came purposefully across the wardroom and saluted.

“Cap’n, I’ve got your gear sent off to Hermes, and Lady Sally’s as well, and them orders did say ‘soonest.’ ”

“My conscience,” Rod laughed. “But he’s right. Sally, we’d better get ready.” He groaned. “It’s going to be tough facing three gravs after that dinner—”

“I must leave also,” Kutuzov said. “I have dispatches to put aboard Hermes.” He smiled awkwardly. “Farewell, my lady. And you also, Captain. Godspeed. You have been good officer.”

“Why— Thank you, sir.” Rod looked around the wardroom and spotted Bury across the compartment. “Kelley, the Admiral’s assuming responsibility for His Excellency—”

“With your permission I will continue Gunner Kelley in command of Marine guards,” Kutuzov said.

“Certainly, sir. Kelley, be damn careful when we get to New Scotland. He may or may not try to escape. I don’t have any idea of what he’s got to face when we get there, but the orders are plain enough, we’re to keep him in custody. He may try to bribe one of your men—”

Kelley snorted. “He’d better not.”

“Yeah. Well, so long, Kelley. Don’t let Nabil put a dagger in your ribs. I’ll want you with me on New Scotland.”

“Yes, sir, you be careful, Captain. The Marquis will kill me if something happens to you. Told me that before we left Crucis Court.”

Kutuzov cleared his throat loudly. “Our guests must leave immediately,” he announced. “With our final congratulations.”

Rod and Sally left the wardroom to a chorus of shouts, some overloud. The party seemed destined to last a long time.

The message sloop Hermes was a tiny affair. Her living space was no larger than MacArthur’s cutter, although overall she was much bigger. Aft of the life-support systems she was tankage and engines and little else but access crawlways. They were hardly aboard before they were under way.

There was little to do in the tiny ship, and the heavy acceleration made real work impossible anyway. The surgeon’s mate examined his passengers at eight-hour intervals to be sure they were able to take Hermes’ three gees, and approved Rod’s request that they get it over with sooner and boost up to 3.5 gravs. Under that weight it was better to sleep as much as possible and confine mental activities to light conversation.

Murcheson’s Eye was enormous behind them when they reached the Alderson Point. An instant later, the Eye was only a bright red star against the Coal Sack. It had a small yellow mote.

48. Civilian

They were rushed aboard a landing craft the instant Hermes made orbit around New Scotland. Sally barely had time to say her farewells to the sloop’s crew, then they were strapped in.

“VISITORS CLEAR LANDING BOAT. PASSENGERS SECURE FOR REENTRY.”

There were clunks as the air locks were closed. “Ready, sir?” the pilot called.

“Yeah—”

The retros fired. It wasn’t a smooth reentry at all; the pilot was in too much of a hurry, They dropped low over New Scotland’s craggy rocks and spouting geysers. When they arrived at the city they still had too much speed and the pilot had to circle twice; then the boat came in slowly, hovered, and settled on the roof landing port of Admiralty House.

“There’s Uncle Ben!” Sally shouted. She rushed forward to fling herself into his arms.

Benjamin Bright Fowler was eighty standard years old, and looked it; before regeneration therapy men would have guessed he was fifty and in his prime intellectual years. They would have been right about the latter guess.

He stood 174 cm and massed ninety kilos: a portly, short man, nearly bald, with a fringe of dark hair graying around a shiny dome. He never wore a hat except in the coldest weather, and usually forgot it then.

Senator Fowler was dressed outlandishly in baggy trousers flaring over soft, polished leather boots. A knee length and very battered camel’s-hair coat covered his upper body. His clothes were very expensive and never properly cared for. His dreamy eyes that tended to water and his rumpled appearance did not make him an impressive figure, and his political enemies had more than once made the mistake of taking his looks as a sign of his abilities. Sometimes, when the occasion was important enough, he’d let his valet choose his clothes and dress him properly, and then, for a few hours at least, he looked appropriate; he was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the Empire. Usually, though, he put on the first thing he found in his wardrobe, and since he would never let his servants throw out anything he’d once liked, he often wore old clothes.

He grasped Sally in a bear hug while she kissed his forehead. Sally was taller than her uncle and was tempted to plant a kiss on the top of his head, but she knew better. Benjamin Fowler neglected his appearance and became angry if anyone reminded him of that, but actually he was a little sensitive about his baldness. He also absolutely refused to allow cosmetic physicians to do anything for it.