The Mote In God's Eye

"Parties! My God, woman, they're deciding my fate in there and you-"

"Nonsense," Senator Fowler snapped. "That was decided weeks ago. When Merrill, Cranston, Armstrong, and I listened to Kutuzov's report. There I was, your appointment from His Majesty in my pocket, and you'd gone and lost your ship! It's a good thing your Admiral's an honest man, boy. Damn good thing."

The door opened. "Captain Blaine?" a clerk called.

He entered to stand in front of the table. The Admiral held up a paper and cleared his throat.

"Unanimous findings of a special Court of Inquiry convened to examine the circumstances surrounding the loss of His Imperial Majesty's General Class battle cruiser MacArthur. One. This Court finds that the vessel was lost through accidental infestation by then life forms and was properly destroyed to prevent contamination of other vessels. Two. This Court honorably acquits her master, Captain Roderick Blaine, ISN, of negligence. Three. This Court orders the surviving officers of MacArthur to prepare a detailed report of procedures whereby such losses can be prevented in future. Four. This Court notes that the search and sterilization of MacArthur was hindered by the presence of a large number of civilian scientists and their equipment property aboard, and that Minister Anthony Horvath, senior scientist, protested the sterilization and advised minimum disruption of the civilian experiments. Five. This Court notes that Captain Blaine would have been mote diligent in searching his vessel except for the difficulties noted in point four; and this court recommends- no reprimand for her master. These findings being unanimous, this Court is adjourned Captain, you may go"

"Thank you, sir"

"Yeah. That was pretty soppy, Blaine You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." My God, how many times have I thought about it?

"But I doubt if anyone in the Navy could have done better. The ship must have been a madhouse with all those civilians aboard. All-right, Senator, he's all yours. They're ready in Room 67S."

"Good. -Thank you, Admiral." Fowler hustled Blaine out of the hearing room and down the corridor to the elevator. A-petty officer had one waiting.

"Now where are we going?" Rod demanded. "Six seventy five? That's retirement!"

"Of course," the senator said. They entered the elevator. "You didn't think you could stay in the Navy and be on that Commission, did you? That's why we had to hurry that Inquiry through. Until it was on the record you couldn't be retired."

"But, Senator-"

"Ben. Call me Ben."-

"Yes, sir. Ben, I don't want out! The Navy's my career-"

"No more." The elevator stopped and Fowler hustled Rod out. "You'd have had to leave eventually. Family's too important. Can't have the peers neglecting government to go chasing around in those ships all their lives. You knew you'd have to retire early."

"Yes, sir. After my brothers were killed there wasn't any question of it. But not yet! Look, can't they give me a leave of absence?"

"Don't be an idiot. The Motie question's going to be with us a long time. Sparta's too far away to handle it. Here we are." Fowler led him through the door.

His retirement papers were already made out. Roderick Harold, Lord Blaine: to be promoted to Rear Admiral and placed on the inactive list by order of His Imperial Majesty. "Retirement pay to be sent where, sir?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're entitled to retirement pay. Where do you want us to send it, my lord? To the Yeoman clerk Rod was already a civilian.

"Can I donate it to the Navy Relief Fund?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do that."

The clerk wrote rapidly. There were other questions, all trivial. The documents were made out and thrust at him, and the Yeoman held out a pen. "Just sign here, my lord."

The pen was cold in his hand. Rod didn't want to touch it.

"Come on, come on, there're a dozen appointments waiting," Senator Fowler urged. "You and, Sally- both. Come on, boy, sign!"

"Yes, sir." No point in delaying. There's nothing to argue about. If the Emperor himself named me to that damned Commission- He scrawled rapidly; then placed his thumb print on the papers.

A taxi whisked them through New Scotland's narrow streets. Traffic was thick and the cab had no official flags to open holes for them. It was an unusual experience for Rod to travel this way; usually he'd had Navy fliers to take him from rooftop to rooftop, and the last time in New Scotland he'd had his own gig with waiting crew. No more, no more.

"I'll have to buy a flier and get a chauffeur," Rod said. "I take it Commissioners rate an air transport license?"

"Surely. You rate anything you want," Senator Fowler said. "In fact the appointment carries a titular baronage, not that you need it, but it's another reason why we're getting so popular lately."

"Just how many Commissioners will there be?"

"I've got discretion on that, too. We won't want too many." The taxi lurched as the driver nearly hit a pedestrian. Fowler took out his pocket computer. "Late again. Appointments at the Palace. You'll be staying there, of course. Servant's quarters will be crowded, but we'll squeeze your man in-got anybody, or you want my secretary to arrange it?"

"Kelley's in Lenin. I guess he'll stay with me." Another good man lost for the Navy.

"Kelley! How is the old scoundrel?"

"He's fine."

"Glad to hear that. Your father wanted me to ask about him, now I think of it. You know that Marine's my age? I can remember him in uniform when your father was a lieutenant, and that was a long time ago."

"Where's Sally?" When Rod came out of 675 she had been gone. He'd been just as pleased; with his retirement papers bulging in his tunic he didn't feel much like talking.

"Out shopping for clothes, of course. You won't have to do that. One of my people got your sizes from Navy records and brought you a couple of suits. They're at the Palace."

"Ben-you're moving pretty fast, Ben," Rod said carefully.

"Have to. By the time Lenin orbits we need some answers. Meanwhile you've got to study the political situation out here. It's all tied together. ITA wants trade, soonest. Humanity League wants cultural exchanges, ditto. Armstrong wants his fleet to deal with outies, but he's scared of Moties. That's got to be settled before Merrill can get on with the reconquest of TransCoalsack. Stock markets from here to Sparta are jumpy-just what will Motie technology do to the economy? What blue-chip companies are going to get ruined? Who gets rich? And every damn bit of that's in our hands, boy. We've got to make the policies."

"Oof." The full impact was just hitting him. "What about Sally? And the rest of the Commission?"

"Don't be stupid. You and I are the Commission. Sally will do what's needed."

"You mean what you want her to do. I wouldn't be too sure of that-she's got a mind of her own."

"Think I don't know that? I've lived with her long enough. Hell, you're independent too. I don't expect I can dictate to you."

You've been doing a good enough job so far, Rod thought. -

"You can guess about the commission, can't you?" Ben asked pointedly. "Parliament's been concerned about Imperial prerogatives. If there's anything that's pure prerogative it's defense against aliens. But if they're peaceful and all that, Parliament wants a say in the trade deals. Emperor isn't about to turn the Motie question over to Government until we're sure what we're up against. But he can't manage this from Sparta. Can't come out here himself-boy, that would cause problems at the Capital. Parliament couldn't stop him from turning it over to Crown Prince Lysander, but the boy's too young. Deadlock. His Majesty's one thing, but appointed agents with Imperial powers are another. Hell, I don't want to give Imperial authority to anybody but the Royal Family. One man, one family, can't personally exercise too much power no matter how much they've got in theory, but give them appointed agents and it's another matter."