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"Captain, Mr. Whitbread mentioned a tool room aboard the alien ship. He believes that, he was being tested for his tool-using ability. It strikes me that the Moties may be judging us all on that ability."
"Well they might. Making and using tools is a basic-"
"Yes, yes, Captain, but none of us are toolmakers! We have a linguist, an anthropologist, an administrator-me-and some Navy warriors. The joke is on us, Captain. We spent too much consideration on learning about Moties. None on impressing them with our intelligence."
Blaine considered that. "There are the ships themselves ....ut you have a point, Doctor. I'll send you someone. We're bound to have someone aboard who can do well on such a test."
When Horvath was off the screen, Rod touched the intercom controls again. "Kelley, you can take half your Marines off alert now."
"Aye aye, Captain." The Gu
Then, thoughtfully, Blaine called Sinclair. "It's an unusual problem, Sandy. We need someone who's generally good with tools and willing to go aboard the Motie ship. If you'll pick me some men, I'll ask for volunteers."
"Never mind, Captain. I'll go myself."
Blaine was shocked. "You, Sandy?"
"Aye and why not, Captain? Am I no skilled with tools? Can I no fix anything that ever worked' in the first place? My laddies can handle aye that could go wrong wi' MacArthur. I've trained them well. Ye will no miss me..."
"Hold on a minute, Sandy."
"Aye, Captain?"
"OK. Anybody who'd do well in a test will know the Field and Drive. Even so, maybe the Admiral won't let you go."
"There's nae another aboard who'll find out everything about yon beasties' ship, Captain."
"Yeah-OK, get the surgeon's approval. And give me a name. Whom shall I send if you can't go?"
"Send Jacks, then. Or Leigh Battson, or any of my lads but Thumbs Menchikov."
"Menchikov. Isn't he the artificer who saved six men trapped in the after torpedo room during the battle with Defiant?"
"Aye, Captain. He's also the laddie who fixed your shower two weeks before that battle."
"Oh. Well, thanks, Sandy." He rang off and looked around the bridge. There was really very little for him to do. The screens showed the Motie ship in the center of MacArthur's main battery fire pattern; his ship was safe enough from anything the alien vessel could do, but now Sally would be joined by Hardy and Whitbread... He turned to Staley. "That last was very good. Now work out a rescue plan assuming that only half the Marines are on ready alert."
Sally heard the activity as Hardy and Whitbread were conducted aboard the Motie ship, but she barely glanced around when they appeared. She had taken the time to dress properly, but grudged the necessity, and in the dim and filtered Motelight she was ru
"I conclude they are another subspecies, but closely related to the Browns, perhaps closely enough to breed true. This must be determined by genetic coding, when we take samples back to New Scotland where there is proper equipment. Perhaps the Moties know, but we should be careful about what we ask until we determine what taboos exist among Moties.
"There is obviously no sex discrimination such as exists in the Empire; in fact the predominance of females is remarkable. One Brown is male and cares for both pups. The pups are weaned, or at least there is no obvious sign of a nursing female-or male-aboard.
"My hypothesis is that, unlike humanity after the Secession Wars, there is no shortage of mothers or child bearers, and thus there is no cultural mechanism of overprotectiveness such as survives within the Empire. I have no theory of why there are no pups among the Brown-and-whites, although it is possible that the immature Moties I observe are the issue of Brown-and-whites and the Browns serve as child trainers. There is certainly a tendency to have the Browns do all the technical work.
"The difference in the two types is definite if not dramatic. The hands are larger and better developed in the Brown, and the forehead of the Brown slopes back more sharply. The Brown is smaller. Question: Which is better evolved as a tool user? The Brown-and-white has a slightly larger brain capacity, the Brown has better hands. So far every Brown-and-white I have seen is female, and there is one of each sex of Brown: is this accident, a clue to their culture, or something biological? Transcript ends. Welcome aboard, gentlemen."
Whitbread said, "Any trouble?"
Her head was in a plastic hood that sealed around her neck like a Navy shower bag; she was obviously not used to nasal respirators. The bag blurred her voice slightly. "None at all. I certainly learned as much as they did from the um, er, orgy. What's next?"
Language lessons.
There was a word: Fyunch(click). When the Chaplain pointed at himself and said "David," the Motie he was looking at twisted her lower right arm around into the same position and said "Fyunch(click)," making the click with her tongue."
Fine. But Sally said, "My Motie had the same name I think."
"Do you mean you picked the same alien?"
"No, I don't think so. And I know Fyunch (click)",she said it carefully, making the click with her tongue then ruined the effect by giggling-"isn't the word for Motie. I've tried that."
The Chaplain frowned. "Perhaps all proper names sound alike to us. Or we may have the word for arm," I said seriously. There was a classic story about that, so old that it probably came from preatomic days. He turned to another Motie, pointed at himself, and said, "Fyunch (click)?" His accent was nearly perfect, and he didn't giggle.
The Motie said, "No."
"They picked that up quickly," said Sally.
Whitbread tried it. He swam among the Moties, pointing to himself and saying "Fyunch(click) ?" He obtained four perfectly articulated No's before an inverted Motie tapped him on the kneecap and said, "Fyunch(click) Yes."
So: there were three Moties who would say "Fyunch(click)" to a human. Each to a different human, and not to the others. So?
"It may mean something like ‘I am assigned to you,' Whitbread suggested.
"Certainly one hypothesis," Hardy agreed. A rather good one, but there were insufficient data-had the chaplain made a lucky guess?
Moties crawled around them. Some of the instrument they carried might have been cameras or recorders. Some instruments made noises when the humans spoke; others extruded tape, or made wiggly orange lines on small screens. The Moties gave some attention to Hardy's instruments, especially the male Brown mute, who disassembled Hardy's oscilloscope and put it back together again before his eyes. The images on it seemed brighter and the persistence control worked much better, he thought. Interesting. And only the Browns did things like that.
The language lessons had become a group effort. It was a game now, this teaching of Anglic to Moties. Point and say the word, and the Moties would generally remember it. David Hardy gave thanks.
The Moties kept fiddling with the insides of their instruments, tuning them, or sometimes handing them to a Brown with a flurry of bird whistles. The range of their own voices was astonishing. Speaking Mote, they ranged from bass to treble in instants. The pitch was part of the code, Hardy guessed.
He was aware of time passing. His belly was a vast emptiness whose complaints he ignored with absentminded contempt. Chafe spots developed around his nose where the respirator fitted. His eyes smarted from Motie atmosphere that got under his goggles, and he wished he'd opted for either a helmet or a plastic sack like Sally's. The Mote itself was a diffused bright point that moved slowly across the curved translucent wall. Dry breathing air was slowly dehydrating him.