The Mote in God's Eye (63 page)

To their right were more of these
Marines
but they carried noisemakers, not weapons, and several carried banners with colors dipped; three more carried weapons and a fourth held up a larger banner that was not dipped: symbols they’d seen before. Crown and spaceship, eagle, sickle-and-hammer.

Directly ahead, past the clump of people from
Lenin
and
MacArthur
, were more humans in a wild array of clothing. They were obviously waiting to speak to the Moties, but they did not speak.

“Captain Blaine and Miss Fowler,” Jock twittered. “Their posture indicates that the two in front of them receive deference.”

David Hardy led the Moties forward. The aliens were still wrinkling their noses, and they chattered among themselves in musical tones. “If the air is distasteful,” David said, “we can build filters. I hadn’t noticed that ship’s air distressed you.” He took another lungful of the clean precious stuff.

“No, no, it’s only a bit flat and tasteless,” said a Mediator. It was impossible to tell the two apart. “Then there’s the extra oxygen. I think we’ll need that.”

“Gravity?”

“Right.” The Motie squinted toward the sun. “We’ll also need dark glasses.”

“Certainly.” They reached the end of the lines of honor guards. Hardy bowed to Merrill. Both Mediators did likewise in perfect imitation. The White stood erect for a moment, then bowed, but not so deeply as the others.

Dr Horvath was waiting. “Prince Stefan Merrill, Viceroy to His Imperial Majesty for Trans-Coalsack Sector,” Horvath announced. “Your Highness, the Ambassador from Mote Prime. He is called Ivan.”

Merrill bowed formally, then indicated Benjamin Fowler. “Senator Benjamin Bright Fowler, Lord President of the Imperial Commission Extraordinary. Senator Fowler is empowered to speak with you in the name of the Emperor, and he has a message for you from His Majesty.”

The Moties bowed again.

Senator Fowler had allowed his valet to dress him properly; all the billions of humanity would eventually see recordings of this meeting. He wore a dark tunic with no decoration but a small golden sunburst on the left breast, his sash was new, his trousers fit perfectly and vanished into the tops of glove-soft, gleaming boots. He thrust a black Malacca cane with carved gold head wider his left arm as Rod Blaine held out a parchment.

Fowler read in his “official speeches” voice; in debates he was a firebrand, but his formal speeches were stilted. This one was no exception.

“Leonidas IX by Grace of God Emperor of Humanity to the representatives of the Mote Civilization, Greetings and Welcome. For a thousand years mankind has searched for brothers in the universe. We have dreamed of them for all our history...” The message was long and formal, and the Moties listened in silence. To their left a knot of men hustled and whispered together, and there were some pointed instruments the Moties recognized as badly designed tri-v cameras. There was a forest of cameras and far too many men; why did the humans need so many to do a simple task?

Fowler finished the message. He followed the Motie gaze without turning his head. “The gentlemen of the press,” he murmured, “We’ll try to keep them from bothering you.” Then he held up the parchment to show the Imperial Seal, and presented it to the Moties.

“They obviously expect a reply. This is one of the ‘formal’ events Hardy warned us of. I have no idea what to say. Have you?”

Jock: “No. But we must say something.”

The Master spoke. “What have they said to us?”

“I could translate but it would be meaningless. They have welcomed us in the name of their Emperor, who appears to be an over-Master. The short, round one is Mediator to this Emperor.”

“Ah. We have at last found one who can communicate. Speak to her.”

“But he has said nothing!”

“Say nothing in return.”

“We are very grateful for your Emperor’s welcome. We believe this first meeting between intelligent races will be a historic occasion, perhaps the most important event in all our histories. We are eager to begin trade and the mutual enrichment of Moties and Mankind.”

“You sound like Horvath.”

“Of course. Those were his words. He used them often before the humans destroyed their lesser ship. We must know why they did that.”

“You will not ask until we know more of humans.”

The Moties stood blinking in a silence that stretched embarrassingly. They obviously had no more to say.

“Doubtless you are tired from your journey,” Merrill said. “You will want to rest in your quarters before the parade begins.” When the Moties did not reply, Merrill waved his hand slightly. The band struck up a march and the Moties were ushered toward an elevator.

“We’ll get you away from the goddamn press corps,” Fowler muttered. “Can’t do anything in a goldfish bowl.” He turned to smile for the cameras. So did the others, and they were still smiling as the elevator door closed in the faces of the reporters who had rushed forward when they saw that the Moties were leaving.

There were no obvious spy eyes in the rooms, and the doors had inside locks. There were many rooms, all with very high ceilings. There were three rooms with what the humans thought were beds for Moties, and each of those rooms was adjoined by a room with waste disposal and washing facilities. In another room were a refrigerator, flame and microwave stoves, large stocks of food including the stores brought by the Moties, implements for eating, and equipment they did not recognize. Still another room, the largest of all, held a big polished wood table and both Motie and human chairs.

They wandered through the vast spaces.

“A tri-v screen,” Jock exclaimed. He turned the controls, and a picture appeared. It was a tape of themselves listening to the message from the Emperor. Other channels showed the same things, or men talking about the Motie arrival or—

A big man in loose clothing was shouting. His tones and gestures indicated rage.
“Devils! They must be destroyed! The Legions of Him will go forth against the Legions of Hell!”

The shouting man was cut off and replaced by another man, also in loose clothing, but this one did not shout. He spoke calmly.
“You have heard the man who calls himself the Voice of Him. It is of course not necessary for me to say it, but speaking for the Church I can assure you that the Moties are neither angels nor devils; merely intelligent beings much like us. If they are a threat to humanity it is not a spiritual one, and His Majesty’s servants will certainly be more than adequate to deal with them.”

“Cardinal Randolph, has the Church determined the, ah, status of Moties? That is, their place in the theology of—”

“Of course not. But I can say they are hardly supernatural beings.”
Cardinal Randolph laughed and so did the commentator. There was no sign of the man who had been screaming in rage.

“Come,” the Master said. “You will have time for this later.” They went into the large room and sat at the table. Charlie brought grain from their food supply.

“You have smelled the air,” Jock said. “No industrial development. The planet must be nearly empty! Room for a billion Masters and all their dependents.”

“Too much of this sunlight would make us blind. The gravity would shorten our lives.” Charlie inhaled deeply. “But there is room and food and metal. The gravity be cursed with the sunlight. We’ll take it.”

“I must have missed hearing the offer.” Jock gestured amusement. “I do not believe the three of us will take it by force.”

“These humans drive me to thoughts of Crazy Eddie! Did you see? Did you hear? The Mediator for the Emperor detests the operators of the tri-v cameras, yet he makes expression of pleasure for them and implies that he may not have the power to prevent them from annoying us.”

“They have given us a tri-v,” the Master said.

“And it is obviously what the humans watch. There were spokesmen for many Masters. You saw.” Jock indicated pleasure. “I will have many opportunities to discover how humans are ruled and how they live.”

“They have given us a source of information which they do not control,” the Master said. “What does this mean?”

The Mediators were silent.

“Yes,” said Ivan. “If we are not successful in our mission, we will not be permitted to return.” He indicated indifference. “We knew this before we left. Now it is more vital than ever that we establish trade with humans as quickly as possible; or determine that intercourse with humans is undesirable and find a way to prevent it. You must act quickly.”

They knew. The Mediators who proposed their mission and the Masters who consented had recognized the time limits before they left Mote Prime. There were two: the life span of a Mediator was not long, and the Master would die at nearly the same time. The massive hormone imbalance which made him sterile and permanently male would kill him. But only mules and a sterile Keeper could be sent, for no Master would entrust any but a Keeper with this task; and only a Keeper could survive without breeding.

The span of the second time limit was not so predictable, but it was no less sure: Civilization was again doomed on the Mote. Another Cycle was turning, and despite the inevitable Crazy Eddies there would be no halting it. After the collapse the humans would see Moties in savagery. The Race would be helpless, or nearly so; and what would the humans do then?

No one knew and no Master would risk it.

“The humans have promised discussions of trade. I presume the Mediator will be their instrument. Also perhaps Mr. Bury or another like him.” Jock left his chair and examined the paneled walls. There were buttons concealed in filigree and he pressed one. A panel slid open to reveal another tri-v and Jock operated it.

“What is there to discuss?” the Master demanded. “We need food and land, or we must be left alone with the Cycles. We must conceal the urgency of our needs and their reasons. We have little to trade but ideas; there are no resources to expand. If humans wish durable goods they must bring us the metals to make them from.”

Any drain of resources from the Mote would prolong the next collapse; and that must not be.

“The Navy’s keeping it a big hush-hush, but I can tell you this, they’ve got technology beyond anything the First Empire ever had,”
a Commentator on the view screen said. He seemed awed.

“The humans no longer possess much of what they had,” said Jock. “Once, during the period they call the First Empire, they had food-conversion machinery of amazing efficiency. It required only power and organic matter, garbage, weeds, even deceased animals and humans. Poisons were removed or converted.”

“Do you know the principles? Or how widespread was its use? Or why they no longer possess it?” the Master demanded.

“No. The human would not speak of it.”

“I heard,” Charlie added. “He was a rating named
Dubcek
, and he was attempting to conceal the obvious fact that humans have Cycles. They all do.”

“We know of their Cycles,” Ivan said. “Their oddly erratic Cycles.”

“We know what the midshipmen told us in their last hours. We know what the others have implied. We know they are in awe of the power of their First Empire, but have little admiration of their previous civilizations. Little more. Perhaps with the tri-v I can learn.”

“This food machine. Will others know more of it?”

“Yes. If we had a Brown, and with what the humans know of the principles, it is possible that—”

“Make me joyful beyond dreams,” said Charlie. “Cease to wish we had Browns.”

“I can’t help it. I have only to lie on their couches, or sit in this chair, and somehow my thoughts turn—”

“A Brown would die revealingly. Two Browns would breed and breed and breed and if prevented from breeding would die revealingly. Shut up about Browns.”

“I will. But that one food machine would stave off any new Cycle for half a 144-years.”

“You will learn all you can about the machine,” Ivan directed. “And you will cease to speak of Browns. My couch is as badly designed as yours.”

The grandstand was in front of the Palace gates, and it was filling with humans. More temporary structures stretched in both directions down the roadway, as far as the Moties could see from their place in the front row. Humans swarmed around and into them.

Ivan sat impassively. There was no understanding the purpose of all this, but the humans were attempting to observe the proprieties. As they left their rooms they were followed by humans with weapons, and the men did not watch the Moties; they looked unceasingly at the crowds around them. These
Marines
were not impressive and they would be as Meats in the hands of Warriors, but at least the human Masters had provided a bodyguard. They were trying to be polite.

The Mediators chattered as Mediators always did, and Ivan listened carefully. Much could be learned from Mediator conversations.

Jock: “These are the over-Masters of this planet, of twenty planets and more. Yet they have said that they must do this thing. Why?”

Charlie: “I have theories. Notice the patterns of deference as they approach their seats. Viceroy Merrill assists Sally to climb the stairs. Titles are omitted by some and always used by others, and given redundantly in full over the loudspeakers. The ‘gentlemen of the press’ would seem to have no status at all, yet they stop whom they please, and although the others will prevent them from going where they will, they are not punished for trying.
”

Jock: “What pattern do you see? I find none.”

Ivan: “Have you conclusions?”

“Only interesting questions,” Charlie replied.

Ivan: “Then allow me my own observations.”

Jock changed to the Trailing Trojans Recent tongue. “What pattern do you see?”

Charlie answered in the same language. “I see a complex netting of obligations, but within it there is a pyramid of power. No one is truly independent, but as you near the top of the pyramid power increases enormously; however, it is seldom used to its fullest. There are lines of obligations that reach in all directions, upwards, downwards, sideways in a totally alien manner. Where no Master works directly for any other, these humans all work for each other: Viceroy Merrill answers commands from above and obligations from below. The Browns and Farmers and Warriors and Laborers demand and receive periodic accounting of the doings of their Masters.”