“Shouldn’t we help?” Sally asked.
Rod flexed his limbs and took a square root in his head. Then he tried two integrals and got them right. His mind was recovering enough to pay attention to Sally and the Moties. “No. Nothing we could do anyway—there’s no permanent effect ever been observed, barring a few who just go insane and never get back in contact with reality.”
“The Moties haven’t done that,” Sally said positively. “They acted purposefully, but they weren’t very good at it. We recovered much quicker than they did.”
“Nice to see something we’re better at than Moties are. Hardy ought to show up pretty soon—it’ll take him a while longer than us, though. He’s older.”
“ACCELERATION WARNING. STAND BY FOR ONE GRAVITY. ACCELERATION WARNING.” A Mediator twittered something, and the Master responded.
Sally watched them awhile. “I guess you’re right. They don’t seem in too much trouble, but the Master’s still a little twitchy.”
A tone sounded. Lenin jolted, and weight returned. They were under command and headed home. Rod and Sally looked at each other and smiled. Home.
“What could you do for the Master anyway?” Rod asked.
She shrugged helplessly. “Nothing, I suppose. They’re so different. And—Rod, what would you do if you were Imperial Ambassador to another race and they locked you in a little cabin with not one, but two spy eyes in each compartment?”
“I’ve been waiting for them to smash the damn things. They saw them, of course. We didn’t try to hide them. But if they said anything to Hardy we must have missed it.”
“I doubt if they did. They don’t act as if they care about them. Privacy ‘is not one of our species’ requirements,’ Charlie said.” Sally shuddered, “That’s really different.”
A buzzer sounded and Rod automatically turned toward his cabin door before he realized it had come over the intercom. One of the Moties walked carefully across the cabin and opened her door. Hardy came in.
“Everything all right?” he asked warily.
“You might have warned us about that,” Jock said. There was no accusation in the voice; it was a simple statement of fact. “Does the Crazy Eddie Drive affect humans like that?”
“Like what?” Hardy asked innocently.
“Disorientation. Vertigo. Inability to concentrate. Muscles out of control. Nausea. Death wish.”
Hardy looked surprised. Probably he was, Rod thought. The Chaplain wouldn’t watch the Moties without telling them he was doing it, even though half a dozen pairs of eyes would be staring at the screens every watch. “There is an effect on humans, yes,” came Hardy’s voice. “Not so violent as you describe. The Drive causes disorientation and a general inability to concentrate, but the effect passes rapidly. We didn’t know how it would affect you, but in all our history there have been few cases of irreversible effects, and those were all, uh, psychological.”
“I see,” said Charlie. “Dr. Hardy, if you will excuse us, we do not yet feel up to conversation. Perhaps in a few hours. And next time we will take your advice and be in our bunks, strapped down, and asleep, when you turn on your Crazy Eddie machine.”
“I’ll leave you then,” Hardy said. “Could we—is there anything you require? Is the Ambassador all right?”
“He is well enough. Thank you for your concern.”
Hardy left, and the Moties went back to their bunks. They twittered and whistled.
“And that,” Rod said, “is that. I can think of a lot of more interesting things to do than watch Moties lie around chattering in a language I don’t understand.”
And there’s plenty of time to study the Moties, Sally thought. For a wonder, we don’t either one of us have duties right now—and we do have privacy. “So can I,” she said demurely.
Despite the cubic kilometers of yellow-hot flame around her, Lenin was a happy ship. Kutuzov relaxed his vigil and let the crew resume normal watches for the first time since the destruction of MacArthur. Although the ship was deep within a sun, she had fuel, and her problems were in the Book. Navy routine would deal with them. Even the scientists forgot their disappointment at leaving the alien system with unanswered questions: they were going home.
The only woman in ten parsecs would have been a subject for speculation under any circumstances. Fights might have started over either of two questions. What are my/your chances with her? and Is she being wasted? But Sally had clearly chosen her man. It made life easier for those who worry over such problems, and for those whose duty it is to stop fist fights.
The first night after the Jump, Kutuzov held a dinner party. It was formal, and most of the guests did not enjoy themselves much; the Admiral’s table talk was confined to professional matters. However, he left early, and a much wilder party developed.
Rod and Sally stayed for three hours. Everyone wanted to talk about Moties, and Rod was surprised to find himself discussing them with only a hint of the dull pain that had formerly come over him when he thought of the aliens. Sally’s enthusiasm was enough in itself—and besides, she seemed as worried about him as about the aliens. She had even spent hours remaking Mikhailov’s extra dress uniform so that it almost fit.
When they left the party, neither Moties nor the Mote were mentioned during the hours they were together before going to their separate cabins.
The ship moved outward. Eventually the yellow beyond the Field turned to orange, then brick-red, and Lenin’s probes reported her Field hotter than the photosphere around her. Scientists and crew alike eagerly watched the screen, and when stars appeared against a red-black background everyone had a drink in celebration. Even the Admiral joined them, his features a broad and heavy smile.
Shortly afterward the communications officer established contact with a waiting tanker. There was also a small message sloop, fast, manned by young crewmen in perfect physical condition. Kutuzov dictated his report and sent it with two of his midshipmen, and the sloop accelerated at three gravities, racing for the Alderson point where it would Jump to the New Caledonia System and deliver the report of mankind’s first contact with an alien civilization.
The tanker carried mail and nearly a year’s worth of news. There had been more revolts in the sector. A former colony had allied with an armed outie system and defied the empire. New Chicago was occupied by the Army, and although the economy was working again much of the population was resentful of Imperial paternalism. The inflation of the crown was under control. Her Imperial Majesty had given birth to a boy, Alexander, and Crown Prince Lysander was no longer the only insurance of the present imperial line. That news was worth another celebration on Lenin, and it got so big that Mikhailov had to borrow MacArthur crewmen to man his ship.
The sloop returned with more messages masered even before the message ship could rendezvous. The Sector Capital was wild with enthusiasm, and the Viceroy was planning a gala reception for the Motie ambassadors. War Minister Armstrong sent a muted “well done” and a thousand questions.
There was also a message for Rod Blaine. He learned of it when he was summoned to Kutuzov’s cabin by the Admiral’s Marine orderly.
“This is probably it,” Rod told Sally. “Put Blaine under arrest until he can be tried by court-martial.”
“Don’t be silly.” She smiled encouragement. “I’ll wait for you here.”