“For God’s sake!” Horvath exploded. “Are you saying they’ll talk us into giving them Lenin?”
“Can you be certain they can’t? Certain, Doctor?”
David Hardy cleared his throat. Everyone turned toward the Chaplain, and Hardy seemed embarrassed. Then he smiled. “I always knew study of the classics would have some practical value. Are any of you familiar with Plato’s Republic? No, of course not. Well, on the first page, Socrates, conceded to be the most persuasive man who ever lived, is told by his friends that either Socrates will stay overnight with them, or his friends will compel him to do so by force. Socrates asks reasonably if there is not an alternative—can he not persuade them to let him go home. The reply, of course, is that he won’t be able to because his friends won’t listen to him.”
There was a short silence.
“Oh,” said Sally. “Of course. If the Moties never meet Admiral Kutuzov, or Captain Mikhailov—or any of Lenin’s crew—how could they talk them into anything? Surely, Mr. Bury, you don’t imagine they could persuade MacArthur’s crew to mutiny?”
Bury shrugged. “My lady, with all respect, have you thought of what the Moties can offer? More wealth than exists in the Empire. Men have been corrupted by far less—”
And you’ve done it, too, Sally thought.
“If they’re that good, why haven’t they done it already?” Kevin Renner’s voice was mocking, just short of insubordination. With his discharge due as soon as they returned to New Scotland, Renner could afford any action that wouldn’t get him formally charged.
“Possibly they have not yet needed to do so,” Bury said.
“More likely they can’t do it,” Renner retorted. “And if they can read minds, they’ve already got every secret we have. They associated with Sinclair, who knows how to fix everything in the Navy—they had a Fyunch(click) assigned to my Lord Blaine, who’s got to know every political secret—”
“They were never in direct contact with Captain Blaine,” Bury reminded him.
“They had Miss Fowler for as long as they needed.” Renner chuckled at some interior joke. “She must know more about Empire politics than most of us. Mr. Bury, the Moties are good, but they’re not that good, at persuasion, or at mind reading.”
“I would be inclined to agree with Mr. Renner,” Hardy added. “Although certainly the precautions suggested by Miss Fowler would be in order. Confine contact with the aliens to a select few: myself, for example. I doubt that they could corrupt me, but even if they could, I have no command authority. Mr. Bury, if he’ll accept. Not, I suggest, Dr. Horvath or any scientist with access to complex equipment, and no ratings or Marines except under supervision both direct and by intercom. It may be rather hard on the Moties, but I think there could be little danger to Lenin.”
“Um. Well, Mr. Bury?” Kutuzov asked.
“But—I tell you, they’re dangerous! The technological abilities are beyond belief. Allah the Merciful, who can know what they can construct from harmless items? Weapons, communications equipment, escape gear—” Bury’s calm manner was evaporating and he struggled to contain himself.
“I withdraw the suggestion that Mr. Bury be given access to the Moties,” Hardy said carefully. “I doubt if they would survive the experience. My apologies, Your Excellency.”
Bury muttered in Arabic. Too late he realized that Hardy was a linguist.
“Oh, surely not,” Hardy said with a smile. “I know my ancestry much better than that.”
“I can see, Admiral,” Bury said, “that I have not been sufficiently persuasive. I’m sorry, because for once I have no motives but the welfare of the Empire. If I were interested only in profits— I am not slow to realize the trade potentials and the wealth to be made from the Moties. But I consider them the greatest danger the human race has ever faced.”
“Da.” Kutuzov spoke decisively. “On that we may possibly agree, if we add one word: potential danger, Excellency. What we consider here is lesser risk, and unless there is risk to Lenin I am now persuaded that lesser risk is to transport these ambassadors under conditions suggested by Chaplain Hardy. Dr. Horvath: you agree?”
“If that’s the only way we can take them, yes. I think it’s shameful to treat them this way—”
“Bah. Captain Blaine. Do you agree?”
Blaine stroked the bridge of his nose. “Yes, sir. Taking them is the lesser risk—if Moties are a threat, we can’t prove it, and we may learn something from the ambassadors.”
“My lady?”
“I agree with Dr. Horvath—”
“Thank you.” Kutuzov seemed to be sucking lemons. His face puckered into near-agony. “Captain Mikhailov. You will make preparations for confinement of Moties. The fiction is risk of plague, but you will see that they cannot escape. Captain Blaine. You will inform Moties that we will take their ambassadors aboard, but it is possible they will not wish to come once they know conditions we must impose. No tools. No weapons. Baggage to be inspected and sealed, not available to them on voyage. No miniatures or other inferior castes, only ambassadors. Give them what reasons you like, but those conditions are not subject to change.” He stood abruptly.
“Admiral, what about the gift ship?” Horvath asked. “Can’t we take—” His voice trailed off, because there was no one to speak to. The Admiral had stalked out of the wardroom.
45. The Crazy Eddie Jump
Kutuzov called it the Alderson point. MacArthur’s refugees tended to call it the Crazy Eddie point, and some of Lenin’s crew were catching the habit. It was above the plane of the Mote system, and usually rather hard to find.
It would be no problem this time.
“Just project the path of the Motie ship until it intersects the direct line between the Mote and Murcheson’s Eye,” Renner told Captain Mikhailov. “You’ll be close enough, sir.”
“Motie astrogation is that efficient?” Mikhailov asked incredulously.
“Yah. It’s enough to drive you crazy, but they can do it. Assume constant acceleration.”
“There is another ship approaching that point from the Mote,” Kutuzov said. He reached past Captain Mikhailov to adjust the bridge screen controls, and vectors flashed in front of them. “It will not arrive until well after we have departed.”
“Fuel ship,” Renner said positively. “And I’ll bet anything you like that the ship carrying the ambassadors is light, transparent, and so obviously harmless that no one could suspect it of anything, sir.”
“Not even me, you mean,” Kutuzov said. Renner saw no smile to accompany the words. “Thank you, Mr. Renner. You will continue to assist Captain Mikhailov.”
They had left the Trojan asteroids behind. Every scientist aboard wanted Lenin’s telescopes to examine those asteroids and the Admiral had made no objections. It was not clear whether he feared a last-minute attack from the asteroids, or shared the civilians’ wish to know everything about Moties, but Buckman and the others had their chance.
Buckman soon lost interest. The asteroids were thoroughly civilized and their orbits had been shaped. They weren’t worth anything at all. The others didn’t share that view. They watched the light of Motie fusion drives, measured neutrino fluxes from power stations, saw flecks of light that showed a dark spectrum around the chlorophyll green band, and wondered. Huge plant farms were under domes there—it was the only possible conclusion. And on every rock large enough to see, there was the characteristic single crater proving conclusively that the asteroid had been moved.