The Mote In God's Eye

A petty officer floated down the corridor and -fell in behind them. "Keep moving, keep moving," he muttered. "God bless the joeys-."

"What are they shooting at?" Bury asked.

"Miniatures," the petty officer growled. "If they take this corridor, move out fast, Mr. Bury. The little bastards have weapons."

"Brownies?" Bury asked incredulously. "Brownies?"

"Yes, sir, the ship's got a plague o' the little sons of bitches. They changed the air plants to suit themselves... Get movin', sir. Please. Them joeys can't hold long."

Bury tugged at a hand hold and sailed to the end of the corridor, where he was deftly caught by an able spacer and passed around the turn. Brownies? But, they'd been cleared Out of the ship...

There was a crowd bunched at the air lock. More civilians were coming, and now noncombatant Navy people began to add to the press. Bury pushed and clawed his way toward the air-bottle locker. Ah. It was still there. He seized the dummy and handed it to Nabil, who fastened it to Bury's suit.

"That won't be necessary, sir," an officer said. Bury realized he was hearing him through atmosphere. There was pressure here-but they hadn't come through any pressure-tight doors! The Brownies! They'd made the invisible pressure barrier that the miner had on her survey ship! He had to have it! "One never knows," Bury muttered to the officer. The man shrugged and motioned another pair into the cycling mechanism. Then it was Bury's turn. The Marine officer waved them forward.

The lock cycled. Bury touched Nabil on the shoulder and pointed. Nabil went, pulling himself along the line into the blackness outside. Blackness ahead, no stars, nothing. What was out there? Bury found himself holding his breath. Praise be to Allah, I witness that Allah is One- No! The dummy bottle was on his shoulders, and inside it two miniatures in suspended animation. Wealth untold! Technology beyond anything even the First Empire ever had! An endless stream of new inventions and design improvements. Only... just what kind of dji

They were through the tightly controlled hole in MacArthur's Field. Outside was only the blackness of space- and a darker black shape ahead. Other lines led to it from other holes in MacArthur's Field, and minuscule spiders darted along them. Behind Bury was another space-suited figure, and behind that, another. Nabil and the others ahead of him, and .... His eyes were adjusting rapidly now. He could see the deep red hues of the Coal Sack, and the blot ahead must be Lenin's Field. Would he have to crawl through that? But no, there were boats outside it, and the space spiders crawled into them.

The boat was drawing near. Bury turned for a last look at MacArthur. In his long lifetime he had said good-by to countless temporary homes; MacArthur had not been the best of them. He thought of the technology that was being destroyed. The Brownie-improved machinery, the magical coffeepot. There was a twinge of regret. MacArthur's crew was genuinely grateful for his help with the coffee, and his demonstration to the officers had been popular. It had gone well. Perhaps in Lenin...

The air lock was tiny now. A string of refugees followed him along the line. He could not see the cutter, where his Motie would be. Would he ever see him again?

He was looking, directly at the space-suited figure behind him. It had no baggage, and it was overtaking Bury because it had both hands free. The light from Lenin was shining on its faceplate. As Bury watched, the figure's head shifted slightly and the light shone right into the faceplate.

Bury saw at least three pairs of eyes staring back at him. He glimpsed the tiny faces.

It seemed to Bury, later, that he had never thought so fast in his life. For a heartbeat he stared at the thing coming up on him while his mind raced, and then- But the men who heard his scream said that it was the shriek of a madman; or a man being flayed alive.

Then Bury flung his suitcase at it.

He put words into his next scream. "They're in the suit! They're inside it!" He was wrenching at his back now, ripping the air tank loose. He poised the cylinder over his head, in both hands, and pitched it.

The pressure suit dodged his suitcase, clumsily. A pair of miniatures in the arms, trying to maneuver the fingers...it lost its hand hold, tried to pull itself back. The metal cylinder took it straight in the faceplate and shattered it.

Then space was filled with tiny struggling figures, flailing six limbs as a ghostly puff of air carried them away. Something else went with them, something football shaped, something Bury had the knowledge to recognize. That was how they had fooled the officer at the air locks. A severed human head.

Bury discovered he was floating three meters from the line. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Good: he'd thrown the right air tank. Allah was merciful.

He waited until a man-shaped thing came out of Lenin's boat on backpack jets and took him in tow. The touch made him flinch. Perhaps the man wondered why Bury peered so intently into his faceplate. Perhaps not.

31 Defeat

MacArthur lurched suddenly. Rod clawed at the intercom and shouted, "Chief Sinclair! What are you doing, Chief?"

The reply was barely audible. "'Tis nae my doin', Captain. I hae nae control o' the altitude jets, and precious little o' anything else."

"Oh, Lord God," Elaine said. Sinclair's image faded from the screens. Other screens faded. Suddenly the bridge was dead. Rod tried alternate circuits. Nothing.

"Computer inactivated," Crawford reported. "I get nothing at all."

"Try the direct wire, Get me Cargill," Rod told his talker.

"I have him, Captain."

"Jack, what's the situation back there?"

"Bad, Skipper. I'm beseiged in here, and I don't have communications except for direct wires-not all of them." MacArthur lurched again as something happened aft. "Captain!" Cargill reported excitedly. "Lieutenant Piper reports the Brownies are fighting each other in the main crew kitchen! Real pitched battle!"

"Jesus, Number One, how many of those monsters do we have aboard?"

"Skipper, I don't know! Hundreds, maybe. They must have hollowed out every gun on the ship, and they've spread to everywhere else too. They're-" Cargill's voice cut off.

"Jack!" Rod shouted. "Talker, have we got an alternate line to the First Lieutenant?"

Before the Quartermaster's Mate could answer, Cargill came on the line again. "Close one, Skipper. Two armed miniatures came out of the auxiliary fire-control computer. We killed ‘em."

Blaine thought furiously. He was losing all his command circuits, and he didn't know how many men he had left. The computer was bewitched. Even if they did regain possession of MacArthur there was a good chance she couldn't be made spaceworthy again. "You still on, Number One?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going down to the air lock to talk to the Admiral. If I don't call you in fifteen minutes, abandon ship. Fifteen minutes, Jack. Mark."

"Aye aye, sir."

"And you can start rounding up the crew now. Port side only, Jack-that is, if she stays oriented where she is. The lock officers have orders to close the holes in the Field if she shifts."

Rod motioned to his bridge crew and began working his way toward the air locks. The corridors were in confusion. Yellow clouds filled several-ciphogene. He'd had hopes for ending the Motie threat with gas, but it hadn't worked and he didn't know why.

The Marines had ripped out a number of bulkheads and barricaded themselves behind the debris. They poised watchfully, weapons ready.

"Civilians out?" Rod asked the officer in charge of the lock.

"Yes, sir. Far as we know. Skipper, I had the men make one sweep through that territory, but I don't like to risk another. The Brownies are thick in civilian country-like they were living there or something."