The Mote in God's Eye (13 page)

“Elsewhere in the Empire there are no Himmists. If ye walk this way, we should reach the Church of Him before dark.”

Quentin’s Patch was a small village surrounded by wheat fields. The walkway was a broad stream of basalt with a ripple to its surface, as if it were a convenient lava flow. Renner guessed that a ship’s drive had hovered here long ago, marking out the walkways before any buildings were erected. The surface bore a myriad of spreading cracks. With the two- and three-story houses now lining both sides, the walk could hardly be repaired in the same manner.

Renner asked, “How did the Himmists get started?”

“Legend has it,” Potter said, and stopped. “Aye, it may not be all legend. What the Himmists say is that one day the Face of God awoke.”

“Um?”

“He opened His single eye.”

“That would figure, if the Moties were actually using laser cannon to propel a light sail. Any dates on that?”

“Aye.” Potter thought. “It happened during the Secession Wars. The war did us great damage, you know. New Scotland remained loyal to the Empire, but New Ireland did not. We were evenly matched. For fifty years or thereabouts we fought each other, until there were nae interstellar ships left and nae contact with the stars at all. Then, in 2870, a ship fell into the system. ‘Twas the
Ley Crater
, a trading ship converted for war, with a working Langston Field and a hold full of torpedoes. Damaged as she was, she was the most powerful ship in New Caledonia System; we had sunk that low. With her aid we destroyed the New Irish traitors.”

“That was a hundred and fifty years ago. You told it like you lived through it.”

Potter smiled. “We take our history verra personally here.”

“Of course,” said Staley.

“Ye asked for dates,” said Potter. “The university records do no say. Some o’ the computer records were scrambled by war damage, ye know. Something happened to the Eye, that’s sure, but it must have happened late in the war. It would not have made that big an impression, ye ken.”

“Why not? The Face of—the eye is the biggest, brightest thing in your sky.”

Potter smiled without mirth. “Not during the war. I hae read diaries. People hid under the university Langston Field. When they came out they saw the sky as a battlefield, alive with strange lights and the radiations from exploding ships. It was only after the war ended that people began to look at the sky. Then the astronomers tried to study what had happened to the Eye. And then it was that Howard Grote Littlemead was stricken with divine inspiration.”

“He decided that the Face of God was just what it looked like.”

“Aye, that he did. And he convinced many people. Here we are, gentlemen.”

The Church of Him was both imposing and shabby, It was built of quarried stone to withstand the ages, and it had done so; but the stone was worn, sandblasted by storms; there were cracks in the lintel and cornices and elsewhere; initials and obscenities had been carved into the walls with lasers and other tools.

The priest was a tall, round man with a soft, beaten look to him. But he was unexpectedly firm in his refusal to let them in. It did no good when Potter revealed himself as a fellow townsman. The Church of Him and its priests had suffered much at the hands of townsmen.

“Come, let us reason together,” Renner said to him. “You don’t really think we mean to profane anything, do you?”

“Ye are nae believers. What business hae ye here?”

“We only want to see the picture of the Co—of the Face of Him in its glory. Having seen this, we depart. If you won’t let us in, we may be able to force you by going through channels. This is Navy business.”

The priest looked scorn. “This is New Scotland, not one o’ yer primitive colonies wi’ nae government but blasphemin’ Marines. ‘Twould take the Viceroy’s orders to force yer way here. And ye’re but tourists.”

“Have you heard of the alien probe?”

The priest lost some of his assurance. “Aye.”

“We believe it was launched by laser cannon. From the Mote.”

The priest was nonplussed. Then he laughed long and loud. Still laughing, he ushered them in. He would say no word to them, but he led them over the chipped tiles through an entry hail and into the main sanctuary. Then he stood aside to watch their faces.

The Face of Him occupied half the wall. It looked like a huge holograph. The stars around the edge were slightly blurred, as would be the case with a very old holograph. And there was the holograph sense of looking into infinity.

The Eye in that Face blazed pure green, with terrifying intensity. Pure green with a red fleck in it.

“My God!” Staley said, and hastily added, “I don’t mean it the way it sounds. But—the
power
! It’d take the industrial might of an advanced world to put out that much light from thirty-five light years away!”

“I thought I had remembered it bigger than it was,” Potter whispered.

“Ye see!” the priest crowed. “And ye think that could hae been a natural phenomenon! Well, hae ye seen enough?”

“Yah,” said Renner, and they left.

They stopped outside in the failing sunlight. Renner was shaking his head. “I don’t blame Littlemead a damn bit,” he said. “The wonder is he didn’t convince everyone on the planet.”

“We’re a stubborn lot,” said Potter. “Yon squinting silhouette in the night sky may hae been too obvious, too...”

“Here I am, stupid!” Renner suggested.

“Aye. New Scots dinna like being treated as dullards, not even by Him.”

Remembering the decayed building with its shabby interior, Renner said, “The Church of Him seems to have fallen on evil days since Littlemead saw the light.”

“Aye. In 2902 the light went out. One hundred and fifteen years ago. That event was verra well documented. ‘Twas the end o’ astronomy here until the Empire returned.”

“Did the Mote go out suddenly?”

Potter shrugged. “None know. It must hae happened around the other side o’ the world, you see. Ye must hae noticed that civilization here is but a spreading patch on a barren world. Mr. Renner. When the Coal Sack rose that night it rose like a blinded man. To the Hinimists it must hae seemed that God had gone to sleep again.”

“Rough on them?”

“Howard Grote Littlemead took an overdose of sieeping pills. The Himmists say he hastened to meet his God.”

“Possibly to demand an explanation,” said Renner. “You’re very quiet, Mr. Staley.”

Horst looked up grim-faced. “They can build laser cannon that fill the sky. And we’re taking a military expedition there.”

It was just possible to assemble everyone on hangar deck. The closed launching hatch doors—repaired, but obviously so—were the only open space large enough for the ship’s company and the scientific personnel to gather, and it was crowded even there. The hangar compartment was stuffed with gear: extra landing craft, the longboat and the cutter, crated scientific equipment, ship’s stores, and other crates whose purpose even Blaine didn’t know. Dr. Horvath’s people insisted on carrying nearly every scientific instrument used in their specialties on the chance that it might be useful; the Navy could hardly argue with them, since there were no precedents for an expedition of this kind.

Now the huge space was packed to overflowing. Viceroy Merrill, Minister Armstrong, Admiral Cranston, Cardinal Randolph, and a host of lesser officials stood confusedly about while Rod hoped that his officers had been able to complete preparations for the ship’s departure. The last days had been a blur of unavoidable activities, mostly social, with little time for the important work of preparing his ship. Now, waiting for the final ceremonies, Rod wished he’d got out of Capital social life and stayed aboard his ship like a hermit. For the next year or so he’d be under the command of Admiral Kutuzov, and he suspected that the Admiral was not wholly pleased with his subordinate ship commander. The Russian was conspicuously absent from the ceremonies on
MacArthur
’s hangar doors.

No one had missed him. Kutuzov was a massive, burly man with a heavy sense of humor. He looked like something out of a textbook of Russian history and talked the same way. This was partially due to his upbringing on St. Ekaterina, but mostly through his own choice. Kutuzov spent hours studying ancient Russian customs and adopted many of them as part of the image he projected. His flagship bridge was decorated with icons, a samovar of tea bubbled in his cabin, and his Marines were trained in what Kutuzov hoped were fair imitations of Cossack dances.

Navy opinion on the man was universal: highly competent, rigidly faithful to any orders given him, and so lacking in human compassion that everyone felt uncomfortable around him. Because the Navy and Parliament officially approved of Kutuzov’s action in ordering the destruction of a rebel planet—the Imperial Council had determined that the drastic measure had prevented the revolt of an entire sector—Kutuzov was invited to all social functions; but no one was disappointed when he refused his invitations.

“The main problem is yon loony Russian customs,” Sinclair had offered when
MacArthur
’s officers were discussing their new admiral.

“No different from the Scots,” First Lieutenant Cargill had observed. “At least he doesn’t try to make us all understand Russian. He speaks Anglic well enough.”

“Is that meant to say we Scots dinna speak Anglic?” Sinclair demanded.

“I’ll let you guess.” But then Cargill thought better of it. “Of course not, Sandy. Sometimes when you get excited I can’t understand you, but . . . here, have a drink.”

That, thought Rod, had been something to see, Cargill trying his best to be friendly with Sinclair. Of course the reason was obvious. With the ship in New Scotland’s Yards under the attention of Yardmaster MacPherson’s crews, Cargill was at pains not to irritate the Chief Engineer. He might end up with his cabin removed—or worse.

Viceroy Merrill was saying something. Rod snapped out of his reverie and strained to listen in the confused babble of sounds.

“I said, I really don’t see the point to all this, Captain. Could have had all this ceremony on the ground—except for your blessing, Your Reverence.”

“Ships have left New Scotland without my attentions before,” the Cardinal mused. “Not, perhaps, on a mission quite so perplexing to the Church as this one. Well, that will be young Hardy’s problem now.” He indicated the expedition chaplain. David Hardy was nearly twice Blaine’s age, and his nominal equal in rank, so that the Cardinal’s reference had to be relative.

“Well, are we ready?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.” Blaine nodded to Kelley. “SHIP’S COMPANY, ATTEN—SHUT!” The babble stilled, trailing off rather than being cut off as it would if there weren’t civilians aboard.

The Cardinal took a thin stole from his pocket, kissed the hem, and placed it over his neck. Chaplain Hardy handed him the silver pail and asperger, a wand with a hollow ball at the end. Cardinal Randolph dipped the wand in the pail and shook water toward the assembled officers and crew. “Thou shalt purge me, and I shall be clean. Thou shalt wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

“As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, worlds without end, amen.” Rod found himself responding automatically. Did he believe in all that? Or was it only good for discipline? He couldn’t decide, but he was glad the Cardinal had come.
MacArthur
might need all the benefits she could get...

The official party boarded an atmosphere flyer as warning horns sounded.
MacArthur
’s crew scrambled to leave hangar deck, and Rod stepped into an air-lock chamber. Pumps whined to empty the hangar space of air, then the great double doors opened. Meanwhile,
MacArthur
lost her spin as the central flywheels whirred. With only naval people aboard, an atmosphere craft might be launched through the doors under spin, dropping in the curved—relative to
MacArthur
—trajectory induced by the Coriolis effect, but with the Viceroy and the Cardinal lifting out that was out of the question. The landing craft lifted gently at 150 cm/sec until it was clear of the hangar doors.

“Close and seal,” Rod ordered crisply. “Stand by for acceleration.” He turned and launched himself in null gravity toward his bridge. Behind him telescoping braces opened across the hangar deck space—guy wires and struts, braces of all kinds—until the hollow was partly filled. The design of a warship’s hangar space is an intricate specialty, since spotting boats may have to be launched at a moment’s notice, yet the vast empty space needs to be braced against possible disaster. Now with the extra boats of Horvath’s scientists in addition to the full complement of
MacArthur
’s own, the hangar deck was a maze of ships, braces, and crates.

The rest of the ship was as crowded. In place of the usual orderly activity brought on by acceleration warning,
MacArthur
’s corridors were boiling with personnel. Some of the scientists were half in battle armour, having confused acceleration warning with battle stations. Others stood in critical passageways blocking traffic and unable to decide where to go. Petty officers screamed at them, unable to curse the civilians and also unable to do anything else.

Rod finally arrived at the bridge, while behind him officers and boatswains shamefacedly worked to clear the passageways and report ready for acceleration. Privately Blaine couldn’t blame his crew for being unable to control the scientists, but he could hardly ignore the situation. Moreover, if he excused his staff, they would have no control over the civilians. He couldn’t really threaten a Science Minister and his people with anything, but if he were hard enough on his
own
crew, the scientists might cooperate in order to spare the spacers... It was a theory worth trying, he thought. As he glanced at a tv monitor showing two Marines and four civilian lab technicians in a tangle against the after messroom bulkhead, Rod silently cursed and hoped it would work. Something had to.

“Signal from flag, sir. Keep station on
Redpines
.”

“Acknowledge, Mr. Potter. Mr. Renner, take the con and follow the number-three tanker.”