The miniatures weren't doing anything interesting at the moment either. It wasn't necessary for Hardy to watch them continuously. Everything was holographed anyway, and as MacArthur's linguist, Hardy would be informed if anything happened. He was already certain the miniatures were neither intelligent nor human.
He sighed deeply. What is man that Thou art mindful of him, O Lord? And why is it my problem to know what place Moties have in Thy plan? Well, that at least was straightforward. Second-guessing God is an old, old game. On paper he was the best man for the job, certainly the best man in Trans-Coalsack Sector.
Hardy had been fifteen years a priest and twelve years a Navy chaplain, but he was only beginning to think of it as his profession. At age thirty-five he had been a full professor at the Imperial University on Sparta, an expert in ancient and modern human languages and the esoteric art called linguistic archeology. Dr. David Hardy had been happy enough tracing the origins of recently discovered colonies lost for centuries. By studying their languages and their words for common objects he could tell what part of space the original colonists had come from. Usually he could pinpoint the planet and even the city.
He liked everything about the university except the students. He had not been particularly religious until his wife was killed in a landing boat crash; then, and he was not sure even yet how it happened, the Bishop had come to see him, and Hardy had looked long and searchingly at his life—and entered seminary. His first assignment after ordination had been a disastrous tour as chaplain to students. It hadn't worked, and he could see that he was not cut out for a parish priest. The Navy needed chaplains, and could always use linguists. . .
Now, at age fifty-two, he sat in front of an intercom screen watching four-armed monsters playing with cabbages. A Latin crossword puzzle lay on the desk at his left hand, and Hardy played idly with it. Domine, non______sum . . .
"Dignis, of course." Hardy chuckled to himself. Precisely what he had said when the Cardinal gave him the assignment of accompanying the Mote expedition. "Lord, I am not worthy. . ."
"None of us is, Hardy," the Cardinal had said. "But then we're not worthy of the priesthood either, and that's more presumption than going out to look at aliens."
"Yes, my lord." He looked at the crossword puzzle again. It was more interesting than the aliens at the moment.
Rod Blaine would not have agreed, but then the Captain didn't get as many chances to watch the playful little creatures as the Chaplain did. There was work to do but for now it could be neglected. His cabin intercom buzzed insistently, and the miniatures vanished to be replaced by the smooth round face of his clerk. "Dr. Horvath insists on speaking with you."
“Put him on," said Rod.
As usual, Horvath's manner was a study in formal cordiality. Horvath must be getting used to getting along with men he could not allow himself to dislike. "Good morning, Captain. We have our first pictures of the alien ship. I thought you'd like to know."
"Thank you, Doctor. What coding?"
"They're not filed yet. I have them right here." The image split, Horvath's face on one half, and a blurred shadow on the other. It was long and narrow, with one end wider than the other, and it seemed to be translucent. The narrow end terminated in a needle spine.
"We caught this picture when the alien made mid-course turnover. Enlargement and noise eliminators gave us this and we won't have better until it's alongside." Naturally, Rod thought. The alien ship would now have its drive pointed toward MacArthur.
"The spine is probably the Motie fusion drive." An arrow of light sprang into the picture. "And these formations at the front end— Well, let me show you a density pattern."
The density pattern showed a pencil-shaped shadow circled by a row of much wider, almost invisible toroids. "See? An inner core, rigid, used for launching. We can guess what's in there: the fusion motor, the air and water regeneration chamber for the crew. We've assumed that this section was launched via linear accelerator at high thrust."
"And the rings?"
"Inflatable fuel tanks, we think. Some of them are empty now, as you can see. They may have been kept as living space. Others were undoubtedly ditched."
"Uh huh." Rod studied the silhouette while Horvath watched him from the other side of the screen. Finally Rod said, "Doctor, these tanks couldn't have been on the ship when it was launched."
"No. They may have been launched to meet the core section. Without passengers, they could have been given a much higher thrust."
"In a linear accelerator? The tanks don't look metallic."
"Er—no. They don't seem to be metallic."
"The fuel has to be hydrogen, right? So how could those have been launched?"
"We . . . don't know." Horvath hesitated again. "There may have been a metal core. Also ditched."
"Um. All right. Thank you."
After some thought, Rod put the pictures on the intercom. Nearly everything went on the intercom, which served as library, amusement center, and communications for MacArthur. In intervals between alerts, or during a battle, one channel of the intercom might show— anything. Canned entertainments. Chess tournaments. Spatball games between the champions of each watch. A play, if the crew had that much time on their hands—and they did, sometimes, on blockade duty.
The alien ship was naturally the main topic of conversation in the wardroom.
"There are shadows in yon hollow doughnuts," Sinclair stated. "And they move."
"Passengers. Or furniture," Renner said. "Which means that at least these first four sections are being used as living space. That could be a lot of Moties."
"Especially," Rod said as he entered, "if they're as crowded as that mining ship was. Sit down, gentlemen. Carry on." He signaled to a steward for coffee.
"One for every man aboard MacArthur," Renner said. "Good thing we've got all this extra room, isn't it?"
Blaine winced. Sinclair looked as if the next intercom event might star the Chief Engineer and the Sailing Master, fifteen rounds. . .
"Sandy, what do you think of Horvath's idea?" Renner asked. "I don't care much for his theory of launching the fuel balloons with a metal core. Wouldn't metal shells around the tanks be better? More structural support. Unless . . ."
"Aye?" Sinclair prompted. Renner said nothing.
"What is it, Renner?" Blaine demanded.
"Never mind, sir. It was a real blue-sky thought. I should learn to discipline my mind."
"Spill it, Mr. Renner."
Renner was new to the Navy, but he was learning to recognize that tone. "Yessir. It occurred to me that hydrogen is metallic at the right temperature and pressure. If those tanks were really pressurized, the hydrogen would carry a current—but it would take the kind of pressures you find at the core of a gas giant planet."
"Renner, you don't really think—"
"No, of course not, Captain. It was just a thought."
Renner's oddball idea bothered Sandy Sinclair well into the next watch. Engineer officers normally stand no watches on the bridge, but Sinclair's artificers had just finished an overhaul of the bridge life-support systems and Sinclair wanted to test them. Rather than keep another watch officer in armor while the bridge was exposed to vacuum, Sandy took the watch himself.
His repairs worked perfectly, as they always did. Now, his armor stripped off, Sinclair relaxed in the command chair watching the Moties. The Motie program had tremendous popularity throughout the ship, with attention divided between the big Motie in Crawford's stateroom and the miniatures. The big Motie had just finished rebuilding the lamp in her quarters. Now it gave a redder, more diffused light, and she was cutting away at the length of Crawford's bunk to give herself nearly a square meter of working space. Sinclair admired the Motie's work; she was deft, as sure of herself as anyone Sinclair had ever seen. Let the scientists debate, Sandy thought; that beastie was intelligent.
On Channel Two, the miniatures played. People watched them even more than the big Motie; and Bury, watching ev
eryone watch the little Moties, smiled to himself.
Channel Two caught Sinclair's eye and he looked away from the big Motie, then suddenly sat bolt upright. The miniatures were having sexual intercourse. "Get that off the intercom!" Sinclair ordered. The signal rating looked pained, but switched the screen so that Channel Two went blank. Moments later, Renner came onto the bridge.
"What's the matter with the intercom, Sandy?" he asked.
"There is nothing wrong with the intercom," Sinclair said stiffly.
"There is too. Channel Two is blank."
"Aye, Mr. Renner. 'Tis blank at my orders." Sinclair looked uncomfortable.
Renner grinned. "And who did you think would object to the—ah, program?" he asked.
"Mon, we will nae show dirty pictures aboard this ship—and with a chaplain aboard! Not to mention the lady."
The lady in question had been watching Channel Two also, and when it faded Sally Fowler put down her fork and left the mess room. Beyond that point she practically ran, ignoring the looks of those she passed. She was puffing when she reached the lounge—where the miniature Moties were still in flagrante delicto. She stood beside the cage and watched them for almost a minute. Then she said, not to anyone in particular, "The last time anyone looked, those two were both female."
Nobody said anything.
"They change sex!" she exclaimed. "I'll bet it's pregnancy that triggers it. Dr. Horvath, what do you think?"
"It seems likely enough," Horvath said slowly. "In fact . . . I'm almost sure the one on top was the mother of the little one." He seemed to be fighting off a stutter. Definitely he was blushing.
"Oh, good heavens," said Sally.
It had only just occurred to her what she must have looked like. Hurrying out of the mess room the moment the scene went off the intercom. Arriving out of breath. The Trans-Coalsack cultures had almost universally developed intense prudery within their cultures . . .
And she was an Imperial lady, hurrying to see two aliens make love, so to speak.
She wanted to shout, to explain. It's important! This change of sex, it must hold for all the Moties. It will affect their life styles, their personalities, their history. It shows that young Moties become nearly independent at fantastically low ages . . . Was the pup weaned already, or did the "mother," now male, secrete milk even after the sex change? This will affect everything about Moties, everything. It's crucial. That's why I hurried—
Instead, she left. Abruptly.
Chapter Twenty
Night Watch
For a wonder the gun room was quiet. With three junior lieutenants crammed in among six middies, it was usually a scene of chaos. Potter sighed thankfully to see that everyone was asleep except Jonathon Whitbread. Despite his banter, Whitbread was one of Potter's friends aboard MacArthur.
"How's astronomy?" Whitbread asked softly. The older midshipman was sprawled in his hammock. "Hand me a bulb of beer, will you, Gavin?"
Potter got one for himself too. "It's a madhouse down there, Jonathon. I thought it would be better once they found Mote Prime, but it isn't."
"Hm. Mapping a planet's no more than routine for the Navy," Whitbread told him.
"It might be routine for the Navy, but this is my first deep space cruise. They have me doing most of the work while they discuss new theories I can't understand. I suppose you'd say it's good training?"
"It's good training."
"Thank you." Potter gulped beer.
"It doesn't get any more fun, either. What have you got so far?"
"Quite a bit. There is one moon, you know, so getting the mass was straightforward. Surface gravity about 870 cm/sec square."
"Point 87 standard. Just what the Motie probe's accelerating. No surprises there."
"But they are in the atmosphere," Potter said eagerly. "And we've mapped the civilization centers. Neutrinos, roiled air columns above fusion plants, electromagnetics—they're everywhere, on every continent and even out into the seas. That planet's crowded." Potter said it in awe. He was used to the sparseness of New Scotland. "We've got a map, too. They were just finishing the globe when I left. Would you like to see it?"
"Sure." Whitbread unstrapped from his web hammock. They climbed down two decks to scientist country. Most of the civilians worked in the relatively high gravity areas near the outer surface of MacArthur, but bunked nearer the ship's core.
The 120-cm globe was set up in a small lounge used by the astronomy section. During action stations the compartment would be occupied by damage-control parties and used for emergency-repair assemblies. Now it was empty. A chime announced three bells in the last watch.
The planet was mapped completely except for the south pole, and the globe indicated the planet's axial tilt. MacArthur's light-amplifying telescopes had given a picture much like any Earth-type planet: deep and varied blues smeared with white frosting, red deserts, and white tips of mountains. The films had been taken at various times and many wave lengths so that the cloud covers didn't obscure too much of the surface. Industrial centers marked in gold dotted the planet.
Whitbread studied it carefully while Potter poured coffee from Dr. Buckman's Dewar flask. Buckman, for some reason, always had the best coffee in the ship—at least the best that middies had access to.
"Mr. Potter, why do I get the feeling that it looks like Mars?"
"I wouldn't know, Mr. Whitbread. What's a Mars?"
"Sol Four. Haven't you ever been to New Annapolis?"
"I'm Trans-Coalsack, remember."
Whitbread nodded. "You'll get there, though. But I guess they skip part of the training for colonial recruits. It's a pity. Maybe the Captain can arrange it for you. The fun thing is that last training mission, when they make you calculate an emergency minimum fuel landing on Mars, and then do it with sealed tanks. You have to use the atmosphere to brake, and since there isn't very damned much of it, you almost have to graze the ground to get any benefit."
"That sounds like fun, Mr. Whitbread. A pity I have a dentist appointment that day—"
Whitbread continued to stare at the globe while they sipped coffee. "It bothers me, Gavin. It really does. Let's go ask somebody."
"Commander Cargill's still out at the Beehive." As First Lieutenant, Cargill was officially in charge of midshipman training. He was also patient with the youngsters, when many other officers were not.
"Maybe somebody will still be up," Whitbread suggested. They went forward toward the bridge, and saw Renner with flecks of soap on his chin. They did not hear him cursing because he now had to share a head with nine other officers.
Whitbread explained his problem. "And it looks like Mars, Mr. Renner. But I don't know why."
"Beats me," Renner said. "I've never been anywhere near Sol." There was no reason for merchant ships to go closer to Sol than the orbit of Neptune, although as the original home of humanity Sol was centrally located as a transfer point to other and more valuable systems. "Never heard anything good about Mars, either. Why is it important?"
"I don't know. It probably isn't."
"But you seem to think it is."
Whitbread didn't answer.
"There's something peculiar about Mote Prime, though. It looks like any random world in the Empire, except— Or is it just because I know it's covered with alien monsters? Tell you what, I'm due for a glass of wine with the Captain in five minutes. Just let me get my tunic and you come along. We'll ask him."
Renner darted into his stateroom before Whitbread and Potter could protest. Potter looked at his companion accusingly. Now what kind of trouble had he got them into?
Renner led them down the ladders into the high-gravity tower where the Captain's patrol cabin was. A bored Marine sat at the desk outside Blaine's quarters. Whitbread recognized him—reputedly, Sergeant Maloney's vacuum still, located somewhere forward of the port torpedo room, made the best Irish Mist in the fleet. Maloney strove for quality, not quantity.
"Sure, bring the middies in," Blaine said. "There'
s not much to do until the cutter gets back. Come in, gentlemen. Wine, coffee, or something stronger?"
Whitbread and Potter settled for sherry, although Potter would have preferred Scotch. He had been drinking it since he was eleven. They sat in small folding chairs which fitted into dogs scattered around the deck of Blaine's patrol cabin. The observation ports were open and the ship's Field off, so MacArthur’s bulk hovered above them. Blaine noted the middies' nervous glances and smiled. It got to everybody at first.
"What's the problem?" Blaine asked. Whitbread explained.
"I see. Mr. Potter, would you get that globe on my intercom? Thank you." Rod studied the image on the screen. "Hm. Normal-looking world. The colors are off, somehow. Clouds look—well, dirty. Not surprising. There's all kinds of crud in the atmosphere. You'd know that, Mr. Whitbread."
"Yes, sir." Whitbread wrinkled his nose. "Filthy stuff."
"Right. But it's the helium that's driving Buckman up the bulkhead. I wonder if he's figured it out yet? He's had several days . . . Dammit, Whitbread, it does look like Mars. But why?"
Whitbread shrugged. By now he was sorry he'd raised the subject.
"It's hard to see the contours. It always is." Absently Rod carried his coffee and Irish Mist over to the intercom screen. Officially he didn't know where the Irish Mist came from. Kelley and his Marines always saw that the Captain had plenty, though. Cziller had liked slivovitz, and that had strained Maloney's ingenuity to the breaking point.
Blaine traced the outline of a small sea. "You can't tell land from sea, but the clouds always look like permanent formations . . ." He traced it again. "That sea's almost a circle."
"Yah. So's this one." Renner traced a faint ring of islands, much larger than the sea Blaine had studied. "And this—you can only see part of the arc." This was on land, an arc of low hills.
The Mote In God's Eye Page 18