The Mote In God's Eye

"You may leave that to me," said Re

The hangar deck was normally kept in vacuum. The doors were so huge that a certain amount of leakage was inevitable. Later, Cargill would supervise as hangar deck was put under pressure; but for now he and Sinclair carried out their inspection in vacuum.

Everything seemed in order, nothing out of place as they entered. "Now," said Cargill. "What would you fiddle with if you were a miniature Motie?"

"I would put the boats on the hull and use the hangar deck as a fuel tank."

"There are ships like that. Be a big job for a swarm of Brownies, though." Cargill strolled out onto the hangar doors. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, and was never sure why he looked down at his feet. It took him a moment to realize that something was wrong.

The crack that separated the two huge rectangular doors...wasn't there.

Cargill looked about him, bewildered. There was nothing. The doors were part of the hull. The hinge motors, weighing several tons apiece, had vanished.

"Sandy?"

"Aye?"

"Where are the doors?"

"Why, y're standing on them, ye bloody- I don't believe it."

"They've sealed us in. Why? How? How could they work in vacuum?"

Sinclair ran back to the air lock. The air-lock door controls- "The instruments read green," said Sinclair. "Everything's fine, as far as they know. If the Brownies can fool instruments, they could have had the hangar deck under pressure until just before we arrived."

"Try the doors." Cargill swung up onto one of the retractable bracings.

"The instruments show the doors opening. Still opening... complete." Sinclair turned around. Nothing. A vast expanse of beige-painted floor, as solid as any part of the hull.

He heard Cargill curse. He saw Cargill swing down from the huge retractable brace and drop onto what had been a hangar door. He saw Cargill drop through the floor as if it had been the surface of a pond.

They had to fish Cargill out of the Langston Field. He was chest deep in formless black quicksand, and sinking, his legs very cold, his heart beating very slowly. The Field absorbed all motion.

"I should have got my head into it," he said when he came round. "That's what all the manuals say. Get my brain to sleep before my heart slows down. But God's teeth! How could I think?"

"What happened?" Sinclair asked.

Cargill's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He managed to sit up. "There aren't words. It was like a miracle. It was like I was walking on water when they took away my sainthood. Sandy, it was really the damnedest thing."

"It looked a mite peculiar too."

"I bet. You see what they did, don't you? The little bastards are redesigning MacArthur! The doors are still there, but the ships can go through them now. In an emergency you don't even have to evacuate hangar deck."

"I'll tell the Captain," Sinclair said. He turned to the intercom.

"Where the hell did they hide?" Cargill demanded. The engineering ratings who had pulled him out stared blankly. So did Sinclair. "Where? Where didn't we look?"

His legs still felt cold. He massaged them. On the screen he could see Rod Blaine's pained expression. Cargill struggled to his feet. As he did, alarms hooted through the ship.

"NOW HEAR THIS. INTRUDER ALERT. ALL COMBAT PERSONNEL WILL DON BATTLE ARMOR. MARINES REPORT TO HANGAR DECI~ WITH HAND WEAPONS AND BATTLE ARMOR."

"The guns!" Cargill shouted.

"I beg your pardon?" Sinclair said. Blaine's image focused on the First Lieutenant.

"The guns, Skipper! We did not look in the guns. Damn, I'm a bloody fool, did anyone think of the guns?"

"It may be," Sinclair agreed. "Captain, I request that you send for the ferrets."

"Too late, Chief," Blaine said. "There's a hole in their cage. I already checked."

"God damn," Cargill said. He said it reverently. "God damn them." He turned to the armed Marines swarming onto hangar deck. "Follow me." He was through treating the miniatures as escaped pets, or as vermin. As of now they were enemy boarders.

They rushed forward to the nearest turret. A startled rating jumped from his post as the First Lieutenant, Chief Engineer, and a squad of Marines in battle armor crammed into his control room.

Cargill stared at the instrument board. Everything seemed normal. He hesitated in real fear before he opened the inspection hatch.

The lenses and focus rings were gone from Number 3 Battery. The space inside was alive with Brownies. Cargill jumped back in horror-and a thread of laser pulse splashed against his battle armor. He cursed and snatched a tank of ciphogene from the nearest Marine and slammed it into the gap. It wasn't necessary to open the stopcock.

The tank grew hot in his hand, and one laser beam winked through and past him. When the hissing died he was surrounded by yellow fog.

The space inside 3 Battery was thick with dead miniatures and filthy with bones. Skeletons of rats, bits of electronic gear, old boots-and dead Brownies.

"They kept a herd of rats in there," Cargill shouted. "Then they must have outgrown the herd and eaten them all. They've been eating each other-"

"And the other batteries?" Sinclair said in wonder. "We'd best be hasty."

There was a scream from the corridor outside. The Navy rating who'd been displaced from his post fell to the deck. A bright red stain appeared at his hip. "In the ventilator," he shouted.

A Marine corporal tore at the grating. Smoke flashed from his battle armor and he jumped back. "Nipped me, by God!" He stared incredulously at a neat hole in his shoulder as three other Marines fired hand lasers at a rapidly vanishing shape. Somewhere else in the ship an alarm sounded.

Cargill grabbed an intercom. "Skipper-"

"I know," Blaine said quickly. "Whatever you did has them stirred up all over the ship. There are a dozen fire fights going on right now."

"My God, sir, what do we do?"

"Send your troops to Number 2 Battery to clean that out," Blaine ordered. "Then get to damage control." He turned to another screen. "Any other instructions, Admiral?"

The bridge was alive with activity. One of the armored helmsmen jumped from his seat and whirled rapidly.

"Over there!" he shouted. A Marine sentry pointed his Brownie-altered weapon helplessly.

"You are not in control of your vessel," Kutuzov said flatly.

"No, sir." It was the hardest thing Blaine had ever had to say.

"CASUALTIES IN CORRIDOR TWENTY," the bridge talker a

"Scientist country," Rod said. "Get all available Marines into that area and have them assist the civilians into pressure suits. Maybe we can gas the whole ship-"

"Captain Blaine. Our first task is to return to Empire with maximum information."

"Yes, sir-"

"Which means civilians aboard your vessel are more important than a battle cruiser." Kutuzov was calm, but his lips were tight with distaste. "Of second priority are Motie artifacts not yet transferred to Lenin. Captain, you will therefore order all civilians off your vessel. I will have Lenin's boats outside our protective field. You will have two reliable officers accompany civilians. You will then secure any Motie artifacts you think important for shipment to Lenin, You may attempt to regain control of your vessel in so far as that is consistent with these orders-but you will also act swiftly, Captain, because at first sign of any transmission from your vessel other than through secure circuit direct to me, I will blast MacArthur out of space."

Blaine nodded coldly. "Aye aye, sir."

"We understand each other, then," The Admiral's expression didn't change at all. "And Godspeed, Captain Blaine."

"What about my cutter?" Rod asked. "Sir, I have to talk to the cutter."

"I will alert the cutter perso