The Gripping Hand

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  "Which he won't," Rod said.

  "Because he knows he wouldn't be any good at it," Glenda Ruth said.

  Sally shook her head. "I don't see what you see in Freddy Townsend—"

  "You wouldn't, Mother. He's not a hero like you. Or Daddy. But I like him. He's funny. And Jock likes him."

  "You must like him a lot if you're willing to be cooped up in that yacht of his for several months," Rod said. "And I don't think you would for a trip to Saint Ekaterina. Widget—"

  "Please don't call me that."

  "Sorry, Princess."

  "Go ahead and wriggle, my Lord, but you'll have to think of me as an adult soon or sooner. Two weeks to practice, My Lord Blaine."

  Blaine recovered fast, but for an instant he'd been jolted. Then, "Glenda Ruth, I know why Bury wants to go to New Caledonia. He wants to inspect the Blockade Fleet. But why you? Freddy's ship can't go to the blockade point! It's inside a star, and last time I looked there wasn't any Langston Field on that yacht."

  "I want to see my brother. I don't have to visit the Blockade Fleet for that. He gets to New Cal twice a year."

  Sally snorted. "Brother. What you want to do is go to the Mote."

  "Chris would, too," Rod said. "But neither of you is going to do it."

  "She's persuasive," Sally said. "And so is Chris. Together—"

  "Separately or together our children aren't going to talk the Navy into that," Rod said. "Prin—Glenda Ruth, this is silly. You're upsetting your mother. You are not going to New Caledonia."

  "I am, yes. I don't want to start a big fight, but really, how can you stop me? In two weeks I'll have my own money." She grinned. "Of course I could marry Freddy . . ."

  Sally looked horrified, then laughed. "Serve you right if you did."

  "Anyway, I don't have to."

  "You've already been accepted at the University," Sally said.

  "Yes, and I'll go, but not just now." Glenda Ruth shrugged. "Lots of kids take a wanderjahre before starting college. Why not me?"

  "All right. Let's be serious," Rod said. "Why?"

  Glenda Ruth said, "I'm worried about the Moties."

  "Why should you be worried about the Moties?" Sally asked.

  "Politics. Growing up in this house, I've seen a lot of politics go past my nose. When the Parliament starts debating the cost of the Blockade Fleet, anything can happen. Anything! Suppose they think it costs too much? They aren't going to just pull the fleet back to New Cal. You know they won't. They'll—" She caught herself.

  "They'll what?" Sally asked.

  Her voice was no more than a whisper. "They'll send for Kutuzov."

  Sally frowned and looked to Rod.

  He shrugged. "The Admiral retired long ago. He's pretty old. As old as Bury, I guess. Last I heard he was still active in Saint Ekaterina politics, but he doesn't come here."

  "He's organized Mankind First," Glenda Ruth said.

  Rod frowned. "I hadn't heard he was behind that group. How sure is this?"

  "Freddy told me, but I had a chance to back it up. Sir Radford Bowles spoke for Mankind First at a University of Sparta symposium. Freddy took me. I got in an argument with him at the tea afterward. I watched him. He's picked up some of Admiral Kutuzov's mannerisms."

  Rod shook his head, smiling. "I tore the first Motie probe apart, so the Humanity League wanted my hide. Now this Mankind First outfit wants to use Blaine Institute research to wipe out the Moties! I can't win."

  "It's not you who can't win," Glenda Ruth said. "It's the Moties who'll lose. And there's no reason."

  "There aren't any Moties," Rod said.

  "Dad—"

  "Not the way you say it. There are plenty of Moties, all right. A planet full of them. More in their Trojan Point clusters and the moons of the gas giant. But there's no single Motie civilization, Glenda Ruth. Never was, never will be. Every Master is independent."

  "I know that."

  "Sometimes I wonder if you do."

  "Dad, I know more about Moties than you do! I've read everything, including your debriefings, and I grew up with Moties."

  "Yes. You had the Motie Mediators as friends and companions. Sometimes I wonder if that was such a good idea," Rod said. "Your mother didn't like it much."

  "I went along," Sally said. "Glenda Ruth, you think you know as much about Moties as we do. Maybe you're right. Maybe you aren't, though. You've only known three of them. Only two at all well. And you want to gamble with the lives of the whole human race—"

  "Oh, Mother, stop that. How am I gambling with anything? I can't even get to Mote Prime. Dad knows that."

  Rod nodded. "Pretty hard to do. The Blockade Fleet's there as much to keep the Imperial Traders out as to keep the Moties in. You sure won't get to the Mote in Freddy Townsend's yacht."

  "Then I can go to New Caledonia?"

  "I thought you weren't leaving us any choice."

  "Dad, Mom, I'd rather have your blessing."

  Rod Blaine asked, "Why?"

  "If all else failed, I could come running to you for help. Something could go wrong. I'm not crazy enough to think it couldn't."

  "Rod—Rod, is that ship safe?" Sally asked.

  Glenda Ruth grinned.

  * * *

  The limousine landed on the roof of the Blaine Institute. Three security guards politely helped Bury into his travel chair and escorted him to the elevators. There was no receptionist. As Bury entered the elevator, a guard took out badges and handed them to him and Renner.

  So. Formally correct. Bury wished that Admiral Cziller had come to the meeting. Cziller understood. Bury wasn't sure why, but it was clear. And both Blaine and Renner respected him.

  The elevator door opened. Two more uniformed guards ushered them down the hall to the Blaine office suite. There was no one else in the corridor.

  The guards opened the doors without knocking.

  Both Blaines were present. Bury felt relief. This is an impossible task, but it would be doubly so without her. Whatever I can say to him she can veto. Only Allah can persuade those who will not listen, and He doesn't do that.

  Lady Blaine was pouring coffee. She had not spoken to Bury or Renner, and there was no shaking of hands.

  The Blaines wore kimono-like garments in strong contrast to the formal tunics Bury and Renner were wearing. Bury had seen clothing similar to those kimonos in the streets of Sparta, and even in restaurants. They were acceptable for receiving guests, but they were neither friendly nor formal.

  Bury had never seen Roderick Blaine in short sleeves. Smooth, hairless scar tissue ran from the knuckles up his left arm into the sleeve; and when Bury understood why, he knew he had lost.

  He accepted coffee. It was excellent . . . it was Jamaica Blue Mountain. Bury held the cup before his face for an extra moment, to gather himself. "Very good. Sumatra, perhaps, mixed with local black?"

  The Blue Mountain's entire coffee crop had been reserved for Sparta, the Palace and the nobles, for half a thousand years. Bury recognized it—but he wasn't supposed to.

  The Earl said, "Kevin, I take it you're with him."

  Renner nodded. "Yes, Captain. I came with him. I want to see the blockade fleet in action. I want to know if they're ready for something totally off the wall. Captain, we did some talking last night, and things came out. Have you spent any amount of time talking to Jacob Buckman, the astronomer?"

  "No, of course not. Who would?"

  "I would," Bury murmured.

  "Forgive me, your Excellency."

  Renner laughed. "Two green monkeys. What kind of company could either of them find aboard a working battleship?"

  Bury glared. Renner continued, "None of us knew why Bury was aboard. I suppose Jack Cargill did, but all you said to us was that His Excellency was a guest, and he was not to leave the ship. I never quite knew—"

  Blaine said, "All right. Did Buckman say anything worthy of note?"

  "We thought so," Renner said. "Some old data on Buckman's Protostar surface
d from Lenin. Do you remember the curdle in the Coal Sack, twenty light-years in and a light-year across?"

  Sally Blaine looked puzzled. Lord Blaine nodded without enthusiasm.

  Get to the point, Bury wanted to shout, but he sat tight-lipped. He had agreed to let Renner begin the conversation.

  "It's a protostar, an unborn star," Renner said. "Buckman's Motie said it'd ignite around a thousand years from now. Buckman confirmed that. Now there's a young guy who thinks he can prove that it'll happen much sooner, and he's using observations from MacArthur."

  "So? It'll still be Buckman's Protostar."

  "It'll be a T Tauri star, Captain. Very bright. The second question is when. The gripping hand is, is the blockade fleet ready to deal with several new Jump points?"

  Blaine's lips moved silently. New Jump points— "God's teeth."

  The coffee trembled in Sally Blaine's hand. "Kevin Christian—"

  "Yeah," Blaine said. "All right, I owe Cziller an apology. How valid is this?"

  Bury said, "My Lord, it was a very late night. I summoned up this Arnoff’s work and went over it with Jacob at my shoulder. He pointed out equations and compared them to his own. I understood nothing, but I know this. They use the same observational data, but Jacob used additional data, older data, which he took from Motie astronomers."

  "That could have been faked." Blaine sat at his desk. "Which would mean they were ready for us from the first moments they saw us. They saw how the protostar could be used. Before we did."

  "They knew about the Alderson Drive," Renner said. "They call it the Crazy Eddie Drive. It makes ships vanish.

  But they already knew how to build it, and they won't have forgotten."

  "Cycles," Sally Blaine said. "They play on them. Use them. We can ask Jock—"

  "We will," Blaine said, "but we know what answer we'll get. Buckman was given doctored data."

  Bury shrugged. "Moties lie to their Fyunch(click)s. Who should know that better than we?"

  Sally nodded grimly. "They don't like it—" and she saw Bury's flicker of a smile.

  Rod Blaine finished his coffee before he spoke again. "All right, Kevin. You've made your point. A good one. The government has to do something about this. I'll call the Palace as soon as we're done here. That still doesn't tell me why you. Why Bury. Why Sinbad."

  "A piece at a time," Renner said. "Okay? First, you have to send Buckman. We need new observations, and someone to interpret them."

  No interruption came. He said, "Second, New Cal system has to be ready. However the Moties get out—and this includes anything they might try, Captain, protostar or no protostar—they'll have to come through New Caledonia. That's where the crucial Jump point leads, as far as I can tell from a first cut.

  "We met Mercer, the new Governor General. Had him aboard Sinbad last night. He's a politico, Captain. Sharp, but still a politico. Not a Navy man. He's got the sense to listen, but you still have to talk slow and repeat yourself and use simple words. He has to have things explained to him."

  "So?"

  "We'd have time to work on him if he rides with us to New Cal. Once we get there, there's a certain large-mouthed reporter named Mei-Ling Trujillo who's doing her best to cut the funding for the Crazy Eddie Fleet. The noise she's stirred up, Cunningham already wants to send her to the Fleet. She's got the clout, she might find something she likes, and at least it would shut her up for a while.

  "Fourth, there's Bury. If you haven't seen the record, I can tell you. He's been one hell of an effective agent for the Empire. More than me. Now one of your best agents sees a threat to the Empire and wants to investigate. So do I."

  "I see." Blaine looked at Bury. His expression was anything but friendly. "It seems we made a good decision about you, all those years ago."

  "As it happens, my Lord."

  "I still don't trust you."

  "Do you trust me, Captain?" Renner demanded.

  "Eh—"

  "And while we're on the subject, trust who to do what?"

  "Sure I trust you," Blaine said. "You think the whole Spartan nobility is working for you. Okay, I don't mind being supervised. Maybe it makes the Empire stronger. But—Excellency, I'm not sure you want the Empire stronger."

  Bury said, "If twenty-eight years of service—" and ran out of words. If twenty-eight years of holding back the darkness wasn't sufficient, then . . . there was nothing to be said.

  "You see?" Blaine was trying to be reasonable. "We don't have to send Buckman, Kevin, in case you've arranged things so he'll only go with Bury."

  "No, Captain, it's just that way. He's—"

  "We can send Arnoff. Or a host of others. Kevin, I have good reason not to trust Bury, and damned little reason why I should."

  Renner's voice rose. "Captain, for twenty-eight damn years we've been out working for the Empire—"

  "Kevin, you can't possibly convince me you haven't enjoyed it," Sally said.

  "Well, all right, so I did." Renner sipped his coffee. "Captain, let's talk about your arm for a minute."

  Blaine took a count of three. Then, "Why in blazes would you want to talk about my arm?"

  "Well, you're wearing short sleeves, for one thing. And I now recall that when you came back aboard MacArthur at New Chicago, you were wearing a big padded cast. How'd you get those scars? Did it have anything to do with the revolt?"

  Blaine said, "Why don't you stick to the subject, Renner?"

  Bury was wishing the same thing with all his heart. It was hopeless. Bury hadn't tried to shut Renner up in a very long time.

  Renner said, "Nobody wears short sleeves to meet someone he doesn't like. I think your scars may have something to do with your attitude here. Was it a burn-through? You don't get those anymore."

  "Yeah. New Chicago. The Langston Field took a torpedo, got a hot spot, burned right through the hull. The flame fused my arm to the sleeve of my pressure suit."

  "And now they're plating all the Navy ships with Motie superconductor."

  "Ye-ess. You understand, it doesn't mean we don't get killed anymore. We don't get hurt. Burn-through in the Langston Field, the whole hull warms up. Till it gets too hot. Then it isn't a superconductor anymore, and everyone fries."

  "And the sleeves?"

  The Earl was rubbing the bridge of his nose. It hid his expression, a bit. "I . . . suppose I was being belligerent. I wasn't going to mention it myself, but I was damned if I'd let His Excellency forget. Petty of me. Kevin, I wouldn't let an old grudge get in the way of Imperial goals. I thought you knew. Bury was a prisoner on MacArthur. He was suspected of instigating the New Chicago revolt."

  "And you were in one of the prison camps," Renner said to Sally Blaine.

  "And a friend came with me, and she never went home," she said. Her eyes narrowed. "And he's guilty as hell. He pushed a whole world into revolt just to bloat his already bloated fortune!"

  "Um," said Renner, "no."

  "We had the proof," the Earl said. "We showed it to him. We used it to make him work for us— What?"

  Lady Blaine had put her hand on her husband's scarred wrist. She said, "Kevin. What do you mean, no?"

  "I've known him more than twenty-five years. Bury breaks rules for enough money, but there wasn't enough money. There couldn't have been. New Chicago isn't rich. Never was, was it?"

  "Well, it was once . . . come to think of it—"

  "Captain, we've stopped revolts. You know what causes revolts? Bury knows. Crop failure! It's an old tradition: when the crops fail, the people depose the king. Trust me, if New Chicago was ready for a revolt, then it probably wasn't worth robbing, not to the likes of Horace Bury."

  Blaine said, "All right, Bury. Why? We never asked."

  "I wouldn't have answered. Why should I testify against myself?"

  Blaine shrugged.

  "You will listen?" Bury demanded.

  Blaine looked at him quickly. "Yes, Excellency."

  Bury spared a glance for his diagnostics. He'd set them h
igh; he didn't want to be too calm. Nothing had triggered. Good . . .

  "Thirty-five years, my Lord. You would have been twelve when I entered New Chicago politics. Of course I was not acting for myself."

  "For whom, then?" Sally demanded.

  "For Levant, my Lady. And all the other Arabs that Levant represents."

  "You were ALO?" Blaine asked.

  "My Lord, I was the Deputy Chairman of the Arabic Liberation Organization."

  "I see," Blaine said carefully.

  "So my life was forfeit in any event," Bury said. "If you had found out." He shrugged. "ALO membership was covered under the amnesty, in case you're wondering."

  "I'm sure," Blaine said. "But what in the devil was the ALO doing on New Chicago? It wasn't an Arab planet."

  "No," Bury said. "But it had once been a source of ships. I take it you know little of New Chicago's history."

  "Almost none," Blaine admitted. "I was only there to fight, and Lady Blaine has painful memories."

  Bury nodded. "So, let me tell you a tale, my Lord. New Chicago was settled late, well after the formation of the First Empire. It was far away beyond the Coal Sack, an insignificant world, settled by North American transportees but administratively part of the Russian sphere of influence. That is significant because the Russians favored a planned economy and what they planned for New Chicago was that it would be a source of ships for the future expansion of the Empire."

  "Figures," Renner said. "Edge of the frontier."

  "What's your point?" Sally Blaine demanded.

  "A source of ships," Bury continued carefully. "The people of the First Empire were largely transportees. Not trained astronauts. Spacesuit and habitat technology had not moved as fast as spacecraft technology using Alderson Drive and Langston Field. Metals on New Chicago are easily available. Foundries could be built. The settlers had decent gravity and reasonably Earthlike conditions. The regions of exposed ores are east of the good farming land, and there's a dependable east wind to carry away the industrial stenches. My Lord, nobody knows more than I do about New Chicago."

  "Local asteroid belts."

  "Yes, exactly. Spacesuits and habitats were improved. The sons of transportees were trained as astronauts. Of course the next generations began mining their own local asteroid belts. New Chicago had built their foundries and shipyards and taught their people the skills, but meanwhile all the settled solar systems were building their spacecraft in the asteroids. New Chicago was geared for a boom that would never come.