The Mote In God's Eye

"Miniatures," Cargill growled. "Take that damned thing apart."

They emptied the machine and disassembled it-as far as it would go. Parts made to unscrew were now a fused unit. But the secret of the magic percolator seemed to be selective permeability in the metal shell. It would pass the older oils.

"My company would like to purchase that secret from the Navy," said Bury. "We'd like to have it to sell. OK, Ziffren, how long has this been going on?"

"Sir?" The petty officer cook seemed to be thinking. I don't know, sir. Maybe two months."

"Was it this way before we sterilized the ship and killed off the miniatures?" Cargill demanded.

"Uh, yessir," the cook said. But he said it hesitantly, and Cargill left the mess with a frown.

29 Watchmakers

Cargill made his way to Rod's cabin. "I think we've got Brownies again, Skipper." He told why.

"Have you talked to Sinclair?" Rod asked. "Jesus, Number One, the Admiral will go out of his mind. Are you sure?"

"No, sir. But I intend to find out, Skipper, I'm positive we looked everywhere when we cleaned out the ship. Where could they have hidden?"

"Worry about that when you know we've got them. OK, take the Chief Engineer and go over this ship again, lack. And make damned sure this time."

"Aye aye, Skipper."

Blaine turned to the intercom screens and punched inputs. Everything known about miniatures flashed across the screen. There was not very much.

The expedition to Mote Prime had seen thousands of the miniatures throughout Castle City. Re

An hour passed before Cargill called. "We've got ‘em, Skipper," the First Lieutenant said grimly. "The B-deck air absorber-converter-remember that half-melted thing Sandy repaired?"

"Yes."

"Well it doesn't stick out into the corridor any more. Sandy says it can't possibly work, and he's digging into it now-but it's enough for me. We've got ‘em."

"Alert the Marines, Number One. I'm going to the bridge."

"Aye aye, sir." Cargill turned back to the air maker. Sinclair had the cover off and was muttering to himself as he examined the exposed machinery.

The guts had changed. The casing had been reshaped. The second filter Sinclair had installed was gone, and the remaining filter had been altered beyond recognition. Goop seeped from one side into a plastic bag that bulged with gas; the goop was highly volatile.

"Aye," Sinclair muttered. "And the other typical signs, Commander Cargill. Screw fastenings fused together. Missing parts and the rest."

"So it's Brownies."

"Aye," Sinclair nodded. "We thought we'd killed the lot months ago-and my records show this was inspected last week. T'was normal then."

"But where did they hide?" Cargill demanded. The chief Engineer was silent. "What now, Sandy?"

Sinclair shrugged. "I'd say we look to hangar deck, sir. ‘Tis the place least used aboard this ship."

"Right." Cargill punched the intercom again. "Skipper, we're going to check hangar deck-but I'm afraid there's no question about it. There are live Brownies aboard this ship."

"Do that, lack. I've got to report to Lenin." Rod took a deep breath and gripped the arms of his command chair as if he were about to enter combat. "Get me the Admiral."

Kutuzov's burly features swam on the screen. Rod reported in a rush of words. "I don't know how many, sir," he finished. "My officers are searching for additional signs of the miniatures."

Kutuzov nodded. There was a long silence while the Admiral stared at a point over Blaine's left shoulder. "Captain, have you followed my orders concerning communications?" he asked finally.

"Yes, sir. Constant monitoring of all emissions to and from MacArthur. There's been nothing."

"Nothing so far as we know," the Admiral corrected. "We must assume nothing, but it is possible that these creatures have communicated with other Moties. If they have, we no longer have any secrets aboard MacArthur. If they have not- Captain, you will order the expedition to return to MacArthur immediately, and you will prepare to depart for New Caledonia the instant they are aboard. Is this understood?"

"Aye aye, sir," Blaine snapped.

"You do not agree?"

Rod pondered for a moment. He hadn't thought beyond the screams he'd get from Horvath and the others when they were told. And, surprisingly, he did agree. "Yes, sir. I can't think of a better course of action. But suppose I can exterminate the vermin, sir?"

"Can you know you have done that, Captain?" Kutuzov demanded. "Nor can I know it. Once away from this system we can disassemble MacArthur piece by piece, with no fear that they will communicate with others. So long as we are here, that is constant threat, and it is risk I am not prepared to take."

"What do I tell the Moties, sir?" Rod asked.

"You will say there is sudden illness aboard your vessel, Captain. And that we are forced to return to Empire. You may tell them your commander has ordered it and you have no other explanation. If later explanations are necessary, Foreign Office will have time to prepare them. For now, this will do."

"Yes, sir." The Admiral's image faded. Rod turned to the watch officer. "Mr. Crawford, this vessel will be leaving for home in a few hours. Alert the department heads, and then get me Re

A muted alarm sounded in the Castle, Kevin Re

Re

"There's a small emergency aboard, Mr. Re

"Dr. Horvath won't want to come, sir," Re

Blaine's image nodded. "He'll have to nonetheless, Mister. See to it."

"Yes, sir. What about our Moties?"

"Oh, they can come up to the cutter with you," Blaine said. "It's not all that serious. Just an OC matter."

It took a second for that to sink in. By the time it did, Re

He went back to his bunk and sat carefully on the edge. As he put on his boots he tried to thin-k. The Moties couldn't possibly know the Navy's code designations, but OC meant top military priority... and Blaine had been far too casual when he had said that.

OK, he thought. The Moties know I'm acting. They have to. There's a military emergency out there somewhere, and I'm to get the hostages off this planet without letting the Modes know it. Which means the Moties don't know there's a military emergency, and that doesn't make sense.

"Fyunch(dick)," his Mode reminded him. "What is the matter?"

"I don't know," Re

"And you do not want to know," the Motie said. "Are you in trouble?"

"Don't know that either," Re