The Mote In God's Eye

"Hae ye nae religion at all, then?" Potter asked incredulously.

"We've had thousands, Gavin. The Browns and other semi-sentient classes don't change theirs much, but every civilization of Masters produces something else. Mostly they're variants of transmigration of souls, with emphasis on survival through children. You can see why."

"You didn't mention Mediators," Whitbread said.

"I told you-we don't have children. There are Mediators who accept the transmigration idea. Reincarnation as Masters. That sort of thing. The closest thing to ours I've heard of in human religions is Lesser-Way Buddhism. I talked to Chaplain Hardy about this. He says Buddhists believe they can someday escape from what they call the Wheel of Life. That sounds an awful lot like the Cycles. I don't know, Jonathon. I used to think I accepted reincarnation, but there's no knowing, is there?"

"And you hae nothing like Christianity?" Potter demanded.

"No. We've had prophecies of a Savior who'd end the Cycles, but we've had everything, Gavin. It's for damn sure there's been no Savior yet."

The endless city unrolled beneath them. Presently Potter leaned back in his chair and began to snore softly. Whitbread watched in amazement.

"You should sleep too," said the Motie. "You've been up too long."

"I'm too scared. You tire easier than we do-you ought to sleep."

"I'm too scared."

"Brother, now I'm really scared." Did I really call him brother? No, I called her brother. Hell with it. "There was more to your museum of art than we understood, wasn't there?"

"Yeah. Things we didn't want to go into detail about. Like the massacre of the Doctors. A very old event, almost legend now. Mother Emperor, sort of, decided to wipe the entire Doctor breed off the planet. Damn near succeeded, too." The Motie stretched. "It's good to talk to you without having to lie. We weren't made to lie, Jonathon."

"Why kill off the Doctors?"

"To keep the population down, you idiot! Of course it didn't work. Some Masters kept secret stables, and after the next collapse they-"

"-were worth their weight in iridium."

"It's thought that they actually became the foundation of commerce. Like cattle on Tabletop."

The city fell behind at last, and the plane moved over oceans dark beneath the red light of Murcheson's Eye. The red star was setting, glowing balefully near the horizon, and other stars rose in the east below the inky edge of the Coal Sack.

"If they're going to shoot us down, this is the place," Staley said. "Where the crash won't hit anything. Are you sure you know where we're going?"

Whitbread's Mode shrugged. "To King Peter's jurisdiction. If we can get there." She looked back at Potter. The midshipman was curled into his seat, his mouth slightly open, gently snoring. The lights in the plane were dim and everything was peaceful, the only jarring note the rocket launcher that Staley clutched across his lap. "You ought to get some sleep too."

"Yeah" Horst leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. His hands never relaxed their tight grip on the weapon.

"He even sleeps at attention," Whitbread said. "Or tries to. I guess Horst is as scared as we are."

"I keep wondering if any of this does any good," the alien said. "We're damned close to falling apart anyway. You missed a couple of other things in that zoo, you know. Like the food beast. A Motie variant, almost armless, unable to defend itself against us but pretty good at surviving. Another of our relatives, bred for meat in a shameful age, a long time ago

"My God." Whitbread took a deep breath. "But you wouldn't do anything like that now,"

"Oh, no."

"Then why bring it up?"

"A mere statistical matter, a coincidence you may find interesting. There isn't a zoo on the planet that doesn't have breeding stock of Meats. And the herds are getting larger..."

"God's teeth! Don't you ever stop thinking about the next collapse?"

"No."

Murcheson's Eye had long since vanished. Now the east was blood-red in a sunrise that still startled Whitbread. Red sunrises were rare on inhabitable worlds. They passed over a chain of islands. Ahead to the west lights glowed where it was still dark. There was a cityscape like a thousand Spartas set edge to edge, crisscrossed everywhere by dark strips of cultivated land. On man's worlds they would be parks. Here they were forbidden territory, guarded by twisted demons.

Whitbread yawned and looked at the alien beside him. "I think I called you brother, some time last night."

"I know. You meant sister. Gender is important to us, too. A matter of life and death."

"I'm not sure I mean that either. I meant friend," Whitbread said with some awkwardness.

"Fyunch(click) is a closer relationship. But I am glad to be your friend," said the Motie. "I wouldn't have given up the experience of knowing you."

The silence was embarrassing. "I better wake up the others," Whitbread said softly.

The plane banked sharply and turned northwards, Whitbread's Mode looked out at the city below, across to the other side to be sure of the location of the sun, then down again. She got up and went forward into the pilot's compartment, and twittered. Charlie answered and they twittered again.

"Horst," Whitbread said. "Mr. Staley. Wake up."

Horst Staley had forced himself to sleep. He was still as rigid as a statue, the rocket launcher across his lap, his hands gripping it tightly.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know. We changed course, and now-listen," Whitbread said. The Moties were still chattering. Their voices grew louder.

38 Final Solution

Whitbread's Mode came back to her seat. "It's started," she said. She didn't sound like Whitbread now. She sounded like an alien. "War."

"Who?" Staley demanded.

"My Master and King Peter. The others haven't joined in yet, but they will."

"War over us?" Whitbread asked incredulously. He was ready to cry. The transformation in his Fyunch(click) was too much to bear.

"Over jurisdiction over you," the Motie corrected. She shivered, relaxed, and suddenly Whitbread's voice spoke to them from the half-smiling alien lips. "It's not too bad yet. Just Warriors, and raids. Each one wants to show the other what she could do, without destroying anything really valuable. There'll be a lot of pressure from the other decision makers to keep it that way They don't want to be in a fallout pattern."

"God's teeth," said Whitbread. He gulped. "But-welcome back, brother."

"Where does that leave us?" Staley demanded. "Where do we go now?"

"A neutral place. The Castle."

"Castle?" Horst shouted. "That's your Master's territory? His hand was very near his pistol again.

"Think the others would give my Master that much control over you? The Mediators you met were all part of my clan, but the Castle itself belongs to a sterile decision maker. A Keeper."

Staley looked distrustful. "What do we do once we're there?"

The Motie shrugged "Wait and see who wins. If King Peter wins he's going to send you back to Lenin. Maybe this war will convince the Empire that it's better to leave us alone. Maybe you can even help us." The Motie gestured disgustedly. "Help us. He's Crazy Eddie too. There'll never be an end to the Cycles."

"Wait?" Staley muttered. "Not me, damn it. Where is this Master of yours?"

"No!" the Motie shouted. "Horst, I can't help you with something like that. Besides, you'd never get past the Warriors. They're good, Horst, better than your Marines; and what are you? Three junior officers with damn little experience and some weapons you got from an old museum."

Staley looked below. Castle City was ahead. He saw tile space port, an open space among many, but gray, not green. Beyond it was the Castle, a spire circled by a balcony. Small as it was, it stood out among the industrial ugliness of the endless cityscape.