The Mote in God's Eye (39 page)

Rod thought of his own family home. “Crucis Court used to be surrounded by villages and fields—but of course all the villages were fortified after the Secession Wars. So was the Court, for that matter.”

“Odd you should say that,” Horvath mused. “There was a sort of square fortified shape to the ‘barony’ too. Big atrium in the middle. For that matter, all the residential skyscrapers have no windows on the lower floors, and big roof gardens. Quite self-sufficient. Looked very military. We don’t have to report that impression to the Admiral, do we? He’d be sure we’d discovered militaristic tendencies.”

“Are you so sure he’d be wrong?” Jack Cargill asked. “From what I’ve heard, every one of those givers of orders has a self-sufficient fortress. Roof gardens. Brownies to fix all the machinery—too bad we can’t tame some of them to help Sinclair.” Cargill noted his captain’s black look and hurriedly added, “Anyway, the agriculturist might have a better chance in a fight, but both those places sound like forts. So do all the other residential palaces I’ve heard about.”

Dr. Horvath had been struggling to control himself, while Sally Fowler attempted without success to hide her amusement. Finally she laughed. “Commander Cargill, the Moties have had space travel and fusion power for
centuries
. If their buildings still have a fortress look, it must be traditional—there’s no possible purpose! You’re the military expert, just how would building your house that way help you against modern weapons?”

Cargill was silenced, but his expression showed he wasn’t convinced.

“You say they try to make their houses self-sufficient?” Rod asked. “Even in the city? But that
is
silly. They’d still have to bring in water.”

“It rained a lot,” said Renner. “Three days out of six.” Rod looked at the Sailing Master. Was he serious? “Did you know there are left-handed Moties?” Renner continued. “Everything reversed. Two six-fingered left hands, one massive right arm, and the swelling of the skull is on the right.”

“It took me half an hour to notice,” Whitbread laughed. “The new Motie behaved just like Jackson’s old one. He must have been briefed.”

“Left-handed,” said Rod. “Why not?” At least they’d changed the subject. The stewards brought in lunch and everyone fell to. When they finished it was time to leave for the Mote.

“A word with you, Mr. Renner,” Rod said as the Sailing Master was about to go. He waited until everyone but Cargill was gone. “I need an officer down there, and you’re the one senior man that I can spare who meets the Admiral’s restrictions. But although you’ve no weapons but your side arms, and no Marines, that’s a military expedition, and if it comes to it, you’re in charge.”

“Yes, sir,” Renner said. He sounded puzzled.

“If you had to shoot a man or a Motie, could you do it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You answered that very quickly, Mr. Renner.”

“I thought it over very slowly, some time past, when I knew I was joining the Navy. If I had decided I was incapable of shooting anyone, I’d have had to make damned sure the Captain knew it.”

Blaine nodded. “Next question. Can you recognize the need for military action in time to do something? Even if what you do is hopeless?”

“I think so. Captain, can I bring up something else? I do want to go back, and—”

“Speak your piece, Mr. Renner.”

“Captain, your Fyunch(click) went mad.”

“I’m aware of that,” Captain Blaine said coldly.

“I think the Tsar’s hypothetical Fyunch(click) would go mad much faster. What you want is the one officer aboard this ship who is least inclined to the military way of thinking.”

“Get aboard, Mr. Renner. And good luck.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Renner made no attempt to hide his lopsided grin as he left the cabin.

“He’ll do, Captain,” Cargill said.

“I hope so, Number One. Jack, do you think it was our
military
manner that drove my Motie crazy?”

“No, sir.” Cargill seemed positive.

“Then what did?”

“Captain, I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things about those bug-eyed monsters. There’s only one thing I
am
sure of, and that is they’re learning more about us than we are about them.”

“Oh, come on, Number One. They take our people anywhere they ask to go. Sally says they’re bending over backwards—well, for them, that isn’t so hard to do—but anyway, she says they’re very cooperative. Not hiding a thing. You’ve always been scared of the Moties, haven’t you? Any idea why?”

“No, Captain.” Cargill looked closely at Blaine and decided that his boss wasn’t accusing him of funk. “I just don’t like the feel of this.” He glanced at his pocket computer to note the time. “I’ve got to hurry, Skipper. I’m supposed to help Mr. Bury with that coffee business.”

“Bury— Jack, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about him. His Motie lives on the embassy ship now. Bury’s moved to the cutter. What do they talk about?”

“Sir? They’re supposed to be negotiating trade deals—”

“Sure, but Bury knows a lot about the Empire. Economy, industry, general size of the Fleet, how many outies we’ve got to deal with, you name it and he’d probably know it.”

Cargill grinned. “He hasn’t let his right hand know how many fingers there are on the left, Captain. What’s he going to give the Motie for free? Besides, I’ve sort of made sure he won’t say anything you wouldn’t approve of.”

“Now how did you do that?”

“I told him we’d bugged every inch of the cutter, sir.” Cargill’s grin broadened. “Sure, he knows we can’t listen to every one of those bugs every time, but—”

Rod returned the grin. “I expect that’ll work. OK, you’d better move along to the Kaffee Klatsch—you sure you don’t mind helping with this?”

“Hell, Skipper, it was my idea. If Bury can show the cooks how to make better coffee during combat alerts, I might even change my opinion of him. Just why is he being kept a prisoner on this ship, anyway?”

“Prisoner? Commander Cargill
—
”

“Skipper, everybody in the crew knows there’s something funny about that man’s being aboard. The grapevine has it he’s implicated in the New Chicago revolt and you’re hanging onto him for the Admiralty. That’s about right, isn’t it?”

“Somebody’s doing a lot of talking, Jack. Anyway, I can’t say anything about it.”

“Sure. You’ve got your orders, Skipper. But I notice you aren’t trying to deny it. Well, it figures. Your old man is richer than Bury—I wonder how many Navy people might be for sale? It scares me, having a guy who could buy a whole planet as our prisoner.” Cargill moved quickly through the companionway to the main crew kitchen.

The night before, the dinner party conversation had somehow turned to coffee, and Bury had lost his usual bored detachment when he spoke at length on the subject. He had told them of the historic Mocha-Java blend still grown in places like Makassar, and the happy combination of pure Java and the
grua
distilled on Prince Samual’s World. He knew the history of Jamaica Blue Mountain although, he’d said, not its taste. As dessert was ending he suggested a “coffee tasting” in the manner of a winetasting party.

It had been an excellent ending to an excellent dinner, with Bury and Nabil moving like conjurors among filter cones and boiling water and hand-lettered labels. All the guests were amused, and it made Bury a different man somehow; it had been hard to think of him as a connoisseur of any kind.

“But the basic secret is to keep the equipment truly clean,” he had said. “The bitter oils of yesterday’s coffee will accumulate in the works, especially in percolators.”

It had ended with Bury’s offer to inspect
MacArthur
’s coffee-making facilities the next day. Cargill, who thought coffee as vital to a fighting-ship as torpedoes, accepted happily. Now he watched as the bearded Trader examined the large percolator and gingerly drew a cup.

“The machine is certainly well kept,” he said. “Very well kept. Absolutely clean, and the brew is not reheated too often. For standard coffee, this is excellent, Commander.”

Puzzled, Jack Cargill drew a cup and tasted it. “Why, that’s better than the stuff the wardroom gets.”

There were sidelong glances among the cooks. Cargill noticed them. He noticed something else, too. He ran a finger along the side of the percolator and brought it away with a brown oilstain.

Bury repeated the gesture, sniffed at his finger, and touched the tip of his tongue to it. Cargill tasted the oil in his hand. It was like all the bad coffee he had ever swallowed for fear of falling asleep on duty. He looked again at the percolator and stared at the spigot handle.

“Miniatures,” Cargill growled. “Take that damned thing apart.”

They emptied the machine and disassembled it—as far as it would go. Parts made to unscrew were now a fused unit. But the secret of the magic percolator seemed to be selective permeability in the metal shell. It would pass the older oils.

“My company would like to purchase that secret from the Navy,” said Bury.

“We’d like to have it to sell. OK, Ziffren, how long has this been going on?”

“Sir?” The petty officer cook seemed to be thinking. “I don’t know, sir. Maybe two months.”

“Was it this way
before
we sterilized the ship and killed off the miniatures?” Cargill demanded.

“Uh, yessir,” the cook said. But he said it hesitantly, and Cargill left the mess with a frown.

Cargill made his way to Rod’s cabin. “I think we’ve got Brownies again, Skipper.” He told why.

“Have you talked to Sinclair?” Rod asked. “Jesus, Number One, the Admiral will go out of his mind. Are you sure?”

“No, sir. But I intend to find out. Skipper, I’m
positive
we looked everywhere when we cleaned out the ship. Where could they have hidden?”

“Worry about that when you know we’ve got them. OK, take the Chief Engineer and go over this ship again, Jack. And make damned sure this time.”

“Aye aye, Skipper.”

Blaine turned to the intercom screens and punched inputs. Everything known about miniatures flashed across the screen. There was not very much.

The expedition to Mote Prime had seen thousands of the miniatures throughout Castle City. Renner’s Motie called them “Watchmakers,” and they functioned as assistants to the brown “Engineers.” The big Moties insisted the Watchmakers were not intelligent but inherited an ability to tinker with tools and equipment, as well as the typical Motie instinct of obedience to the higher castes. They required training, but the adult Watchmakers took care of most of that. Like other subservient castes they were a form of wealth, and the ability to support a large household of Watchmakers, Engineers, and other lower forms was one measure of the importance of a Master. This last was a conclusion of Chaplain Hardy, and not definitely confirmed.

An hour passed before Cargill called. “We’ve got ‘em, Skipper,” the First Lieutenant said grimly. “The B-deck air adsorber-converter—remember that half-melted thing Sandy repaired?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it doesn’t stick out into the corridor any more. Sandy says it can’t possibly work, and he’s digging into it now—but it’s enough for me. We’ve got ‘em.”

“Alert the Marines, Number One. I’m going to the bridge.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Cargill turned back to the air maker. Sinclair had the cover off and was muttering to himself as he examined the exposed machinery.

The guts had changed. The casing had been reshaped. The second filter Sinclair had installed was gone, and the remaining filter had been altered beyond recognition. Goop seeped from one side into a plastic bag that bulged with gas; the goop was highly volatile.

“Aye,” Sinclair muttered. “And the other typical signs, Commander Cargill. Screw fastenings fused together. Missing parts and the rest.”

“So it’s Brownies.”

“Aye,” Sinclair nodded. “We thought we’d killed the lot months ago—and my records show this was inspected last week. T’was normal then.”

“But where did they hide?” Cargill demanded. The chief Engineer was silent. “What now, Sandy?”

Sinclair shrugged. “I’d say we look to hangar deck, sir. ‘Tis the place least used aboard this ship.”

“Right.” Cargill punched the intercom again. “Skipper, we’re going to check hangar deck—but I’m afraid there’s no question about it. There are live Brownies aboard this ship.”

“Do that, Jack. I’ve got to report to
Lenin
.” Rod took a deep breath and gripped the arms of his command chair as if he were about to enter combat. “Get me the Admiral.”

Kutuzov’s burly features swam on the screen. Rod reported in a rush of words. “I don’t know how many, sir,” he finished. “My officers are searching for additional signs of the miniatures.”

Kutuzov nodded. There was a long silence while the Admiral stared at a point over Blaine’s left shoulder. “Captain, have you followed my orders concerning communications?” he asked finally.

“Yes, sir. Constant monitoring of all emissions to and from
MacArthur
. There’s been nothing.”

“Nothing so far as we know,” the Admiral corrected. “We must assume nothing, but it is possible that these creatures have communicated with other Moties. If they have, we no longer have any secrets aboard
MacArthur
. If they have not— Captain, you will order the expedition to return to
MacArthur
immediately, and you will prepare to depart for New Caledonia the instant they are aboard. Is this understood?”

“Aye aye, sir,” Blaine snapped.

“You do not agree?”

Rod pondered for a moment. He hadn’t thought beyond the screams he’d get from Horvath and the others when they were told. And, surprisingly, he did agree. “Yes, sir. I can’t think of a better course of action. But suppose I can exterminate the vermin, sir?”

“Can you
know
you have done that, Captain?” Kutuzov demanded. “Nor can I know it. Once away from this system we can disassemble
MacArthur
piece by piece, with no fear that they will communicate with others. So long as we are here, that is constant threat, and it is risk I am not prepared to take.”

“What do I tell the Moties, sir?” Rod asked.