The Mote in God's Eye (59 page)

Alarms rang, and human speech came through loud-speakers.

“Prepare for Crazy Eddie Drive. Final Warning,” one translated. They lay on the bunks. A louder tone sounded through the ship.

Then something horrible happened.

“Rod! Rod, look at the Moties!”

“Uh?” Blaine struggled for control of his traitor body. Awareness was difficult; concentration was impossible. He looked across to Sally, then followed her gaze to the intercom screen.

The Moties were twitching uncontrollably. They’d drifted free of their bunks, and the Ambassador floated about the cabin in complete disorientation. He caromed off a bulkhead and drifted toward the other side. The two Mediators watched, unable to do anything and in trouble themselves. One cautiously reached for the Master but lost her grip on the fur. All three were drifting helplessly about the compartment.

Jock was the first to anchor herself to a hand hold. She whistled and snorted, then Charlie drifted toward the Master. She caught his fur in the left arm, and Jock, holding the bulkhead with two rights, extended his left until Charlie could grasp it. They painfully worked their way back to the bunks and Jock strapped Ivan in. They lay disconsolately, whistling and clucking.

“Shouldn’t we help?” Sally asked.

Rod flexed his limbs and took a square root in his head. Then he tried two integrals and got them right. His mind was recovering enough to pay attention to Sally and the Moties. “No. Nothing we could do anyway—there’s no permanent effect ever been observed, barring a few who just go insane and never get back in contact with reality.”

“The Moties haven’t done that,” Sally said positively. “They acted purposefully, but they weren’t very good at it. We recovered much quicker than they did.”

“Nice to see something we’re better at than Moties are. Hardy ought to show up pretty soon—it’ll take him a while longer than us, though. He’s older.”

“ACCELERATION WARNING. STAND BY FOR ONE GRAVITY. ACCELERATION WARNING.” A Mediator twittered something, and the Master responded.

Sally watched them awhile. “I guess you’re right. They don’t seem in too much trouble, but the Master’s still a little twitchy.”

A tone sounded.
Lenin
jolted, and weight returned. They were under command and headed home. Rod and Sally looked at each other and smiled. Home.

“What could you do for the Master anyway?” Rod asked.

She shrugged helplessly. “Nothing, I suppose. They’re so
different
. And—Rod, what would you do if you were Imperial Ambassador to another race and they locked you in a little cabin with not one, but two spy eyes in each compartment?”

“I’ve been waiting for them to smash the damn things. They saw them, of course. We didn’t try to hide them. But if they said anything to Hardy we must have missed it.”

“I doubt if they did. They don’t act as if they care about them. Privacy ‘is not one of our species’ requirements,’ Charlie said.” Sally shuddered, “That’s
really
different.”

A buzzer sounded and Rod automatically turned toward his cabin door before he realized it had come over the intercom. One of the Moties walked carefully across the cabin and opened her door. Hardy came in.

“Everything all right?” he asked warily.

“You might have warned us about that,” Jock said. There was no accusation in the voice; it was a simple statement of fact. “Does the Crazy Eddie Drive affect humans like that?”

“Like what?” Hardy asked innocently.

“Disorientation. Vertigo. Inability to concentrate. Muscles out of control. Nausea. Death wish.”

Hardy looked surprised. Probably he was, Rod thought. The Chaplain wouldn’t watch the Moties without telling them he was doing it, even though half a dozen pairs of eyes would be staring at the screens every watch. “There is an effect on humans, yes,” came Hardy’s voice. “Not so violent as you describe. The Drive causes disorientation and a general inability to concentrate, but the effect passes rapidly. We didn’t know how it would affect you, but in all our history there have been few cases of irreversible effects, and those were all, uh, psychological.”

“I see,” said Charlie. “Dr. Hardy, if you will excuse us, we do not yet feel up to conversation. Perhaps in a few hours. And next time we will take your advice and be in our bunks, strapped down, and asleep, when you turn on your Crazy Eddie machine.”

“I’ll leave you then,” Hardy said. “Could we—is there anything you require? Is the Ambassador all right?”

“He is well enough. Thank you for your concern.”

Hardy left, and the Moties went back to their bunks. They twittered and whistled.

“And that,” Rod said, “is that. I can think of a lot of more interesting things to do than watch Moties lie around chattering in a language I don’t understand.”

And there’s plenty of time to study the Moties, Sally thought. For a wonder, we don’t either one of us have duties right now—and we do have privacy. “So can I,” she said demurely.

Despite the cubic kilometers of yellow-hot flame around her,
Lenin
was a happy ship. Kutuzov relaxed his vigil and let the crew resume normal watches for the first time since the destruction of
MacArthur
. Although the ship was deep within a sun, she had fuel, and her problems were in the Book. Navy routine would deal with them. Even the scientists forgot their disappointment at leaving the alien system with unanswered questions: they were going home.

The only woman in ten parsecs would have been a subject for speculation under any circumstances. Fights might have started over either of two questions.
What are my/your chances with her?
and
Is she being wasted?
But Sally had clearly chosen her man. It made life easier for those who worry over such problems, and for those whose duty it is to stop fist fights.

The first night after the Jump, Kutuzov held a dinner party. It was formal, and most of the guests did not enjoy themselves much; the Admiral’s table talk was confined to professional matters. However, he left early, and a much wilder party developed.

Rod and Sally stayed for three hours. Everyone wanted to talk about Moties, and Rod was surprised to find himself discussing them with only a hint of the dull pain that had formerly come over him when he thought of the aliens. Sally’s enthusiasm was enough in itself—and besides, she seemed as worried about
him
as about the aliens. She had even spent hours remaking Mikhailov’s extra dress uniform so that it almost fit.

When they left the party, neither Moties nor the Mote were mentioned during the hours they were together before going to their separate cabins.

The ship moved outward. Eventually the yellow beyond the Field turned to orange, then brick-red, and
Lenin
’s probes reported her Field hotter than the photosphere around her. Scientists and crew alike eagerly watched the screen, and when stars appeared against a red-black background everyone had a drink in celebration. Even the Admiral joined them, his features a broad and heavy smile.

Shortly afterward the communications officer established contact with a waiting tanker. There was also a small message sloop, fast, manned by young crewmen in perfect physical condition. Kutuzov dictated his report and sent it with two of his midshipmen, and the sloop accelerated at three gravities, racing for the Alderson point where it would Jump to the New Caledonia System and deliver the report of mankind’s first contact with an alien civilization.

The tanker carried mail and nearly a year’s worth of news. There had been more revolts in the sector. A former colony had allied with an armed outie system and defied the empire. New Chicago was occupied by the Army, and although the economy was working again much of the population was resentful of Imperial paternalism. The inflation of the crown was under control. Her Imperial Majesty had given birth to a boy, Alexander, and Crown Prince Lysander was no longer the only insurance of the present imperial line. That news was worth another celebration on
Lenin
, and it got so big that Mikhailov had to borrow
MacArthur
crewmen to man his ship.

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—”

“I think maybe you’d better read that message, sweetheart. We may not get to Sparta for a while.” He handed her the flimsy and perched on the arm of the chair she sank into. “It’s this part.” He pointed.

FIRST REACTION HERE UNCERTAIN WHETHER TO MAKE YOU HERO OR VILLAIN STOP LOSS OF
MACARTHUR
NOT GREETED WITH JOY AT ADMIRALTY STOP CRANSTON EXPLODED STOP ARMSTRONG SAID QUOTE HOW IN HELL CAN ANYONE LOSE A BATTLE CRUISER CLOSE QUOTE STOP

PARAGRAPH KUTUZOV REPORT IN YOUR FAVOR STOP KUTUZOV TAKES FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR LOSS STOP KUTUZOV REPORTS POSSIBLE SUPERIOR CASTES MOTIES COULD HAVE CLEARED
MACARTHUR
OF VERMIN BUT HIS DECISION RISK OF COMPROMISE OF IMPERIAL TECHNOLOGICAL SECRETS TOO GREAT STOP KUTUZOV STILL UNDECIDED EXTENT OF MOTIE THREAT BUT SUGGESTS ADMIRALTY ASSEMBLE LARGE BATTLE FLEET STOP HORVATH REPORT STATES MOTIES FRIENDLY NO FLEET NEEDED AND MOTIES QUOTE GREATEST OPPORTUNITY IN HISTORY CLOSE QUOTE STOP PROBLEM IN MY LAP STOP