The Mote In God's Eye

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  "You're right. It didn't weather away, though. Look at how these members near the edge are twisted. Tornadoes? This part of the country seems flat enough."

  It took Potter a moment to understand. There were no tornadoes in the rough terraformed New Scotland. He remembered his meteorology lessons and nodded. "Aye. Maybe. Maybe." Beyond the fragments of the earlier dome Potter found a framework of disintegrating metal within what might have been a plastic shell. The plastic itself looked frayed and moth-eaten. There were two dates on the plaque, both in five figures. The sketch next to the plaque showed a narrow ground car, primitive looking, with three seats in a row. The motor hood was open.

  "Internal combustion," said Potter. "I had the idea that Mote Prime was short on fossil fuels."

  "Sally had an idea on that too. Their civilization may have gone downhill when they used up all their fossil fuels. I wonder."

  But the prize was behind a great glass picture window in one wall. They found themselves looking into the "steeple" past an ancient, ornately carved bronze plaque that had a smaller plaque on it.

  Within the "steeple" was a rocket ship. Despite the holes in the sides and the corrosion everywhere, it still held its shape: a long, cylindrical tank, very thin-walled, with a cabin showing behind a smoothly pointed nose.

  They made for the stairs. There must be another window on the first floor . . .

  And there was. They knelt to look into the motor.

  Potter said, "I don't quite. . ."

  "NERVA style," said Whitbread. His voice was almost a whisper. "Atomic. Very early type. You send some inert fuel through a core of uranium or plutonium or the like. Fission pile, prefusion . . ."

  "Are you sure?"

  Whitbread looked again before he nodded. "I'm sure."

  Fission had been developed after internal combustion; but there were still places in the Empire that employed internal combustion engines. Fission power was very nearly a myth, and as they stared the age of the place seemed to fall from the walls like a cloak and wrap them in silence.

  The plane landed near the orange rags of a parachute and the remains of a cone. The open doorway was an accusing mouth just beyond.

  Whitbread's Motie jumped from the plane and rushed over to the cone. She twittered, and the pilot bounded from the ship to join her. "They opened it," Whitbread's Motie said. "I never thought Jonathon would solve it. It must have been Potter. Horst, is there any chance at all they didn't go inside?"

  Staley shook his head.

  The Motie twittered to the Brown again. "Watch for aircraft, Horst," Whitbread's Motie said. She spoke to the other Brown-and-white, who left the airplane and stared at the skies.

  The Brown picked up Whitbread's empty pressure suit and armor. She worked rapidly, shaping something to take the place of the missing helmet and closing the suit top. Then she worked on the air regenerator, picking at the insides with tools from a belt pouch. The suit inflated and was set upright. Presently the Brown closed the panel and the suit was taut, like a man in vacuum. She tied lengths of line to constrict the shoulders and punched a hole at each wrist.

  The empty man raised his arms to the sound of hissing air blowing out the wrist holes. The pressure dropped and the arms fell. Another spurt of hissing, and the arms rose again . . .

  "That ought to do it," Whitbread's Motie said. “We set your suit up the same way, and raised the temperature to your body normal. With luck they may blast it without checking to see if you're in it."

  "Blast it?"

  "We sure can't count on it, though. I wish there were some way to make it fire on an aircraft. . ."

  Staley shook the Motie's shoulder. The Brown stood by watching with the tiny half-smile that meant nothing at all. The equatorial sun was high overhead. "Why would anyone want to kill us?" Staley demanded.

  "You're all under death sentence, Horst."

  "But why? Is it the dome? Is there a taboo?"

  "The dome, yes. Taboo, no. What do you take us for, primitives? You know too much, that's all. Dead you-name-its tell no tales. Now come on, we've got to find them and get out of here."

  Whitbread's Motie stooped to get under the door. Needlessly: but Whitbread would have stooped. The other Brown-and-white followed silently, leaving the Brown standing outside, her face a perpetual gentle smile.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Run Rabbit Run

  They saw the other midshipmen near the cathedral. Horst Staley's boots clumped hollowly as they approached. Whitbread looked up, noticed the Motie's walk, and said, "Fyunch(click)?"

  "Fyunch(click)."

  "We've been exploring your—"

  "Jonathon, we don't have time," the Motie said. The other Brown-and-white eyed them with an air of impatience.

  “We're under a death sentence for trespassing," Staley said flatly. "I don't know why."

  There was silence. Whitbread said, "Neither do I! This is nothing but a museum—"

  "Yes," Whitbread's Motie said. "You would have to land here. It's not even bad luck. Your dumb animal miniatures must have programmed the reentry cones not to hit water or cities or mountain peaks. You were bound to come down in farm lands. Well, that's where we put museums."

  "Out here? Why?" Potter asked. He sounded as if he already knew. "There are nae people here—"

  "So they won't get bombed."

  The silence was part of the age of the place. The Motie said, "Gavin, you aren't showing much surprise."

  Potter attempted to rub his jaw. His helmet prevented it. "I don't suppose there's any chance of persuading you that we hae learned nothing?"

  "Not really. You've been here three hours."

  Whitbread broke in. "More like two. Horst, this place is fantastic! Museums within museums; it goes back incredibly far—is that the secret? That civilization is very old here? I don't see why you'd hide that."

  "You've had a lot of wars," Potter said slowly.

  The Motie bobbed her head and shoulder. "Yah."

  "Big wars."

  "Right. Also little wars."

  "How many?"

  "God's sake, Potter! Who counts? Thousands of Cycles. Thousands of collapses back to savagery. Crazy Eddie eternally trying to stop it. Well, I've had it. The whole decision-maker caste has turned Crazy Eddie, to my mind. They think they'll stop the pattern of Cycles by moving into space and settling other solar systems."

  Horst Staley's tone was flat. As he spoke he looked carefully around the dome and his hand rested on his pistol butt. "Do they? And what is it we know too much of?"

  "I'm going to tell you. And then I'm going to try to get you to your ship, alive—" She indicated the other Motie, who had stood impassively during the conversation. Whitbread's Motie whistled and hummed. "Best call her Charlie," she said. "You can't pronounce the name. Charlie represents a giver of orders who's willing to help you. Maybe. It's your only chance, anyway—"

  "So what do we do now?" Staley demanded.

  "We try to get to Charlie's boss. You'll be protected there. (Whistle, click, whistle.) Uh, call him King Peter. We don't have kings, but he's male now. He's one of the most powerful givers of orders, and after he talks to you he'll probably be willing to get you home."

  "Probably," Horst said slowly. "Look, just what is this secret you're so afraid of?"

  "Later. We've got to get moving."

  Horst Staley drew his pistol. "No. Right now. Potter, is there anything in this museum that could communicate with Lenin? Find something."

  "Aye aye—do ye think ye must hae the pistol?"

  "Just find us a radio!"

  "Horst, listen," Whitbread's Motie insisted. "The decision makers know you landed near here somewhere. If you try to communicate from here, they'll cut you off. And if you do get a message through, they'll destroy Lenin." Staley tried to speak, but the Motie continued insistently. "Oh, yes, they can do it. It wouldn't be easy. That Field of yours is pretty powerful. But you've seen what our Engineers can come up with, and you've never see
n what the Warriors can do. We've seen one of your best ships destroyed now. We know how it can be done. Do you think one little battleship can survive against fleets from both here and the asteroid stations?"

  "Jesus, Horst, she may be right," Whitbread said.

  "We've got to let the Admiral know." Staley seemed uncertain, but the pistol never wavered. "Potter, carry out your orders."

  "You'll get a chance to call Lenin as soon as it's safe," Whitbread's Motie insisted. Her voice was almost shrill for a moment, then fell to a modulated tone. "Horst, believe me, it's the only way. Besides, you'll never be able to operate a communicator by yourself. You'll need our help, and we aren't going to help you do anything stupid. We've got to get out of here!"

  The other Motie trilled. Whitbread's Motie answered, and they twittered back and forth. Whitbread's Motie translated. "If my own Master's troops don't get here, the Museum Keeper's Warriors will. I don't know where the Keeper stands on this. Charlie doesn't know either. Keepers are sterile, and they're not ambitious, but they're very possessive of what they already have."

  "Will they bomb us?" Whitbread asked.

  "Not as long as we're in here. It would wreck the museum, and museums are important. But the Keeper will send troops—if my own Master's don't get here first."

  “Why aren't they here yet?" Staley demanded. "I don't hear anything."

  "For God's sake, they may be coming already! Look, my Master—my old Master—won jurisdiction over human studies. She won't give that up, so she won't invite anybody else in. She'll try to keep the locals out of this, and since her holdings are around the Castle it'll take a while to get Warriors here. It's about two thousand kilometers."

  "That plane of yours was a fast one," Staley said flatly.

  "An emergency Mediator's vehicle. Masters forbid each other to use them. Your coming to our system almost started a war over jurisdiction anyway, and putting Warriors in one of those could certainly do it. . ."

  "Don't your decision makers have any military planes at all?" Whitbread asked.

  "Sure, but they're slower. They might drive you to cover anyway. There's a subway under this building—"

  "Subway?" Staley said carefully. Everything was happening too fast. He was in command here, but he didn't know what to do.

  "Of course. People do visit museums sometimes. And it'll take a while to get here by subway from the Castle. Who knows what the Keeper will be doing meantime? He might even forbid my Master's invasion. But if he does, you can be sure he'll kill you, to keep any other Masters from fighting here."

  "Find anything, Gavin?" Staley shouted.

  Potter appeared at the doorway of one of the modernistic glass-and-steel pillars. "Nothing I can operate as a communicator. Nothing I can even be sure is one. And this is all the newer stuff, Horst. Anything in the older buildings may be rusted through."

  "Horst, we've got to get out of here!" Whitbread's Motie insisted again. "There's no time for talk—"

  "Those Warriors could come in planes to the next station and then take the subway from there," Whitbread reminded them. "We'd better do something, Horst."

  Staley nodded slowly. "All right. How do we leave? In your plane?"

  "It won't hold all of us," Whitbread's Motie said. "But we can send two with Charlie and I could—"

  "No." Staley's tone was decisive. "We stay together. Can you call a larger plane?"

  "I can't even be sure that one would escape. You're probably right. It would be better to stay together. Well, there's nothing left but the subway."

  "Which might be full of enemies right now." Staley thought for a moment. The dome was a bomb shelter and the mirror was a good defense against lasers. They could hole up here—but for how long? He began to feel the necessary paranoia of a soldier in enemy territory.

  “Where do we have to go to get a message through to Lenin?" he demanded. That was obviously the first thing.

  "King Peter's territory. It's a thousand kilometers, but that's the only place you could get equipment to send a message that couldn't be detected. Even that might not do it, but there's certainly nowhere else."

  "And we can't go by plane—OK. Where's the subway? We'll have to set up an ambush."

  "Ambush?" The Motie nodded agreement. "Of course. Horst, I'm not good at tactics. Mediators don't fight. I'm just trying to get you to Charlie's Master. You'll have to worry about them trying to kill us on the way. How good are your weapons?"

  "Just hand weapons. Not very powerful."

  "There are others in the museum. It's part of what museums are for. I don't know which ones still work."

  "It's worth a try. Whitbread. Potter. Get to looking for weapons. Now where's that subway?"

  The Moties looked around. Charlie evidently understood what was said, although she attempted no word of Anglic. They twittered for a moment, and Whitbread's Motie pointed. "In there." She indicated the cathedral-like building. Then she pointed at the statues of "demons" along the cornices. "Anything you see is harmless except those. They're the Warrior class, soldiers, bodyguards, police. They're killers, and they're good at it. If you see anything like that, run."

  "Run, hell," Staley muttered. He clutched his pistol. "See you below," he called to the others. "Now what about your Brown?"

  "I'll call her," Whitbread's Motie said. She trilled.

  The Brown came inside carrying several somethings, which she handed to Charlie. The Moties inspected them for a moment, and Whitbread's Motie said, "You'll want these. Air filters. You can take off the helmets and wear these masks."

  "Our radios—" Horst protested.

  "Carry them. The Brown can work on the radios later, too. Do you really want your ears inside those damn helmets? The air bottles and filters can't last anyway."

  "Thanks," Horst said. He took the filter and strapped it on. A soft cup covered his nose, and a tube led to a small cannister that attached to his belt. It was a relief to get the helmet off, but he didn't know what to do with it. Finally he tied it to his belt, where it hobbled along uncomfortably. "OK, let's get moving." It was easier to speak without the helmet, but he'd have to remember not to breathe through his mouth.

  The ramp was a spiral leading down. Far down. Nothing moved in the shadowless lighting, but Staley pictured himself as a target to anyone below. He wished for grenades and a troop of Marines. Instead there was only himself and his two brother midshipmen. And the Moties. Mediators. "Mediators don't fight," Whitbread's Motie had said. Have to remember that. She acted so like Jonathon Whitbread that he had to count arms to be sure whom he was talking to, but she didn't fight. Browns didn't fight either.

  He moved cautiously, leading the aliens down the spiral ramp with his pistol drawn. The ramp ended at a doorway and he paused for a moment. There was silence beyond it. Hell with it, he thought, and moved through.

  He was alone in a wide cylindrical tunnel with tracks along the bottom and a smoothed ramp to one side. To his left the tunnel ended in a wall of rock. The other end seemed to stretch on forever into darkness. There were scars in the tunnel rock where ribs would have been in a giant whale.

  The Motie came up behind him and saw where he was looking. "There was a linear accelerator here, before some rising civilization robbed it for metal."

  "I don't see any cars. How do we get one?"

  "I can call one. Any Mediator can."

  "Not you. Charlie," Horst said. "Or do they know she's in the conspiracy too?"

  "Horst, if we wait for a car, it'll be full of Warriors. The Keeper knows you opened his building. I don't know why his people aren't here yet. Probably a jurisdictional fight between him and my Master. Jurisdiction is a big thing with decision makers . . . and King Peter will be trying to keep things confused too."

  "We can't escape by plane. We can't walk across the fields. And we can't call a car," Staley said. "OK. Sketch a subway car for me."

  She drew it on Staley's hand computer screen. It was a box on wheels, the universal space-filling shap
e of vehicles that must hold as many as possible and must be parked in limited space. "Motors here on the wheels. Controls may be automatic—"

  "Not on a war car."

  "Controls here at the front, then. And the Browns and Warriors may have made all kinds of changes. They do that, you know. . ."

  "Like armor. Armored glass and sides. Bow guns." The three Moties stiffened and Horst listened. He heard nothing.

  "Footsteps," the Motie said. "Whitbread and Potter."

  "Maybe." Staley moved catlike toward the entrance.

  "Relax, Horst. I recognize the rhythms."

  They had found weapons. "This one's the prize," said Whitbread. He held up a tube with a lens in the business end and a butt clearly meant for Motie shoulders. "I don't know how long the power lasts, but it cut a hole all the way through a thick stone wall. Invisible beam."

  Staley took it. "That's what we need. Tell me about the others later. Now get into the doorway and stay there." Staley positioned himself where the passenger ramp ended, just to one side of the tunnel entrance. Nothing would see him until it was coming out of that tunnel. He wondered how good Motie armor was. Would it stop an x-ray laser? There was no sound, and he waited, impatiently.

  This is silly, he told himself. But what else is there? Suppose they come in planes and land outside the dome? Should have closed the door and left somebody. Not too late for that, either.

  He started to turn toward the others behind him, but then he heard it; a low humming from far down the track. It actually relaxed him. There were no more choices to make. Horst moved cautiously and took a better grip on the unfamiliar weapon. The car was coming fast. . .

  It was much smaller than Staley had expected: a toy of a streetcar, whistling past him. Its wind buffeted his face. The car stopped with a jerk, while Staley waved the gun like a magician's wand, back and forth across it. Was anything coming out the other side? No. The gun was

  working properly. The beam was invisible, but crisscross lines of red-hot metal lined the vehicle. He swiped the beam across the windows, where nothing showed, and along the roof, then stepped quickly out into the tunnel and fired down its length.