“That’s what Uncle Ben tells me.”
They were quiet for a long time.
“Stand by. They’re coming aboard.”
“OPEN HANGAR DECK HATCHES. LINE CARRIERS AWAY.”
“STAND BY WINCHES.”
The gig was brought down into Lenin’s maw. Another boat stood by with the Moties’ baggage; everything, even the pressure suits the Moties had worn aboard the gig, had been transferred over in a separate boat. The passenger gig landed on the steel decks with a clunk.
“Ship’s company, ATTENTION.”
“Marines, PRESENT ARMS!”
The air lock opened and a full boatswains’ chorus sounded the pipes. A brown-and-white face appeared. Then another. When the two Mediators were entirely outside the gig, the third Motie emerged.
It was pure white, with silky tufts at the armpits, and there was gray around the muzzle and dotted through the torso.
“An older Master,” Blaine whispered to Sally. She nodded. Cosmic ray impact on hair follicles had the same effects on Moties as on humans.
Horvath strode forward to the end of the line of Marines and side boys. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “I’m very glad to see you—this is a historic moment.”
“For both races, we hope,” the lead Mediator replied.
“On behalf of the Navy, welcome aboard,” Rod said. “I must apologize again for the quarantine precautions, but—”
“Don’t worry about it,” one Motie said. “I am called Jock. And this is Charlie.” She indicated the other Mediator. “The names are just a convenience; you couldn’t pronounce ours.” She turned to the white Master and twittered, ending with “Captain Roderick Blaine and Minister Anthony Horvath,” then turned back to the humans. “My Lord Minister Horvath, I present the Ambassador. He requests that you call him Ivan.”
Rod bowed. He had never been face to face with a Motie, and he felt an urgent impulse to reach forward and stroke the fur. A male White.
“The honor guard will conduct you to your quarters,” Rod said. “I hope they will be large enough; there are two adjacent cabins.” And four cursing officers who were displaced from them, too; the ripples of that had run down through the Navy pecking order until a junior lieutenant found himself in the gun room with Lenin’s middies.
“One cabin would be sufficient,” Charlie said calmly. “We do not need privacy. It is not one of our species’ requirements.” There was something familiar about Charlie’s voice, and it bothered Rod.
The Moties bowed in unison, perfect copies of Court behavior; Rod wondered where they’d learned that. He returned the bow, as did Horvath and the others in hangar deck, then the Marines led them away, another squad falling in at the rear of the procession. Chaplain Hardy would be waiting for them in their cabins.
“A male,” Sally mused.
“Interesting. The Mediators called it ‘the Ambassador,’ yet the Moties implied that the three had equal powers. We were told they have to act in unison to sign treaties—”
“Maybe the Mediators aren’t his Mediators,” said Sally. “I’ll ask—I’m sure I’ll get the chance. Rod, are you sure I can’t go up there with them? Now?”
He grinned. “You’ll get your shot. Let Hardy have his for the moment.” Hangar deck was clearing rapidly now.
There hadn’t been a single Lenin crewman there, or in the boats that met the Motie ship. The baggage gig was winched into place and sealed off.
“NOW HEAR THIS. MAN YOUR JUMP STATIONS, STAND BY FOR ALDERSON DRIVE. MAN YOUR JUMP STATIONS.”
“Not wasting any time, is he?” Sally said.
“None at all. We’d better hurry.” He took her hand and led her toward his cabin as Lenin began slowing her rotation to zero gravity. “I suspect the Moties didn’t need the spin,” Rod said as they reached the cabin door. “But that’s the Admiral. If you’re going to do something, do it right.”
“STAND BY FOR ALDERSON DRIVE. MAN YOUR JUMP STATIONS.”
“Come on,” Rod urged. “We’ve just time to get the Motie cabin on the intercom.” He turned the controls until the Motie quarters were in view.
Chaplain Hardy was saying, “If you need anything, there will be orderlies outside your door at all times, and that button and switch will connect directly to my cabin. I’m your official host for this trip.”
Tones sounded through the ship. Hardy frowned. “I’ll go to my cabin now—you’ll probably prefer to be alone for the Alderson shift. And I suggest you get in your bunks and stay there until the shift is over.” He caught himself before he could say anything else. His instructions were clear: the Moties learned nothing until they were out of their home system.
“Will it take long?” Jock asked.
Hardy smiled thinly. “No. Good-bye, then.”
“Auf Wiedersehen,” said Jock.
“Auf Wiedersehen.” David Hardy left with a puzzled look. Now just where had they learned that?
The bunks were wrongly proportioned, and too hard, and made no provision for individual differences among the Moties. Jock swiveled her torso and waved her lower right arm, so, indicating displeasure with the situation but surprise that things were not worse. “Obviously copied from something for a Brown.” Her tones indicated positive knowledge deduced but not observed directly. The voice changed to conversational mode. “I wish we had been able to bring our own Brown.”
Charlie: “I also. But we would not be trusted with a Brown. I know.” She began a new thought, but the Master spoke.
Ivan. “Was the human Master among those waiting to meet us?”
Jock: “No. Curse! So long I have tried to study him, and still I have not met him nor even heard his voice. For all of me, he may be a committee, or one Master subject to discipline from the humans. I would wager much of my anatomy that he is human.”
Ivan spoke. “You will make no attempt to contact the Master of Lenin. Should we meet him, you will not become his Fyunch(click). We know what happens to the Fyunch(click)s of humans.”
It was not necessary to speak in response. The Master knew he had been heard, and thus would be obeyed. He went to his bunk and looked with distaste.
Alarms rang, and human speech came through loud-speakers.
“Prepare for Crazy Eddie Drive. Final Warning,” one translated. They lay on the bunks. A louder tone sounded through the ship.
Then something horrible happened.
46. Personal and Urgent
“Rod! Rod, look at the Moties!”
“Uh?” Blaine struggled for control of his traitor body. Awareness was difficult; concentration was impossible. He looked across to Sally, then followed her gaze to the intercom screen.
The Moties were twitching uncontrollably. They’d drifted free of their bunks, and the Ambassador floated about the cabin in complete disorientation. He caromed off a bulkhead and drifted toward the other side. The two Mediators watched, unable to do anything and in trouble themselves. One cautiously reached for the Master but lost her grip on the fur. All three were drifting helplessly about the compartment.
Jock was the first to anchor herself to a hand hold. She whistled and snorted, then Charlie drifted toward the Master. She caught his fur in the left arm, and Jock, holding the bulkhead with two rights, extended his left until Charlie could grasp it. They painfully worked their way back to the bunks and Jock strapped Ivan in. They lay disconsolately, whistling and clucking.