Rod activated his pocket computer to get the agenda for the day’s meeting. The readout was coded to remind him of both the formal items for discussion and the questions Senator Fowler wanted answered without the Moties’ knowing the questions had been asked; questions such as why the Moties hadn’t ever asked about the fate of the Crazy Eddie probe. That one needed no code at all; Rod was as puzzled as the Senator. He was also reluctant to get the Moties asking, since he would have to explain what he’d done to the probe.
“Before we begin,” Rod said. “The Foreign Office requests that you attend a reception tonight. For the baronage and some representatives of Parliament.”
The Moties twittered. Ivan twittered back. “We will be honored,” Jock said formally. There was no expression in the voice.
“OK. So now we’re back to the same problems we’ve always had. Are you a threat to the Empire, and just what will your technology do to our economy.”
“Oddly enough,” Jock said, “the same questions concern us. Except in reverse.”
“But we never seem to settle anything,” Sally protested.
“How could we?” Hardy asked reasonably. “Assuming that the threat question is negligible, until we know what our friends will sell the economists can’t predict what they’ll do to us—and the Moties have the same difficulty.”
“They aren’t as concerned about them as we are,” Renner said impatiently. “I’m with Sally. We talk a lot, but we don’t get much done.”
“We won’t get any of it done if we don’t get started.” Rod looked at his computer readout. “The first item is superconductors. The physics boys are happy enough, but the econ section wants better cost data. I’m supposed to ask—” He touched the control to let the questions roll across the tiny screen.
“Are you mules?” Sally blurted.
There was silence. Hardy’s eyes narrowed slightly; otherwise he didn’t react. Renner lifted his left eyebrow. They stared, first at Sally, then at the Moties.
“You mean Mediators,” Jock said carefully. “Yes. Of course.”
There was more silence. “All of you?” Renner asked.
“Certainly. We are hybrid forms. None of you seem to like that answer. Sally, what is troubling you? Mediators were a late evolutionary development, and evolution is by groups and tribes as often as by individuals—that’s true for humans too, isn’t it?”
Hardy nodded. “Not only us. Most alien life forms we’ve found, too.”
“Thank you. We assume that tribes with Mediators survived better than those without. We have never seen a fertile Mediator, but if ever there were one, she must have acted in her children’s interests rather than the tribe’s.” The Motie shrugged. “That’s all speculation, of course. Our history doesn’t go back that far. As for me, I would like to have children, but I have always known I would not—” The Motie shrugged again. “Still, it is a pity. The sex act is the ultimate in enjoyment. We know this. We empathize all too well with Masters.”
There was more silence. Hardy cleared his throat but said nothing.
“Sally, while we are speaking of Motie problems, there is something else you must know about us.”
You could cut the gloom in here with a knife, Rod thought. Now just why is it so depressing that…
“Compared with your species, ours is short-lived. We three were chosen for our experience and intelligence, not our youth. We have considerably fewer than ten years to live.”
“But— No!” Sally was visibly shaken. “All of you?”
“Yes. I would not raise such a painful topic, but we all think it wise to tell you. Your parades, these formal receptions, all of this baffles us most pleasantly. We anticipate great pleasure in solving the mystery of why you do these things. But we also must establish trade and diplomatic relations with you, and there is a definite time limit—”
“Yes,” said Sally “Yes, of course. Not even ten years!”
Jock shrugged. “Mediators live a total of twenty-five. Win a few, lose a few. You presumably have your own problems,” The alien voice took on a note of grim amusement. “Such as the wars you suffer through lack of Mediators!”
The Motie looked around the conference mom. There was more silence, and blank stares. “I’ve distressed you all. I am sorry, but it had to be said. Let us resume tomorrow, when you’ve had time to think about this.” She uttered a high, sweet note, and Charlie and Ivan followed her through a paneled doorway into the Motie private quarters. The door closed gently behind them.
As they walked to Ivan’s room Charlie twittered to the Master. They entered and closed the door; and although they were certain the room had no spy or listening devices, they spoke in a high grammar rich with poetic allusions. The humans could never decipher it.
The Master’s posture was a demand for explanation.
“There was not time to consult,” Jock cried. “I had to speak at once before they placed too much importance on the question.”
“You told them yes,” Ivan said. “You might have said no. Or maybe. Or some are, and some not…”
Charlie said, “You might have told them we don’t discuss such things. You know humans do not like to speak openly of sexual matters.”
“They can when they want to,” Jock protested. “And their next request would have been that we submit to examination by their xenologists. We have already submitted to their physicians—how could we refuse now?”
Ivan: “Their xenologists would find nothing. A male would show zero sperm count, but you are female.”
Charlie pantomimed ritual sorrow: Circumstances force me to disagree with you, Master. “Their original examinations were directionless. Can you say they would be less thorough now? That they would not find that all three of us suffer from hormone imbalances?” Charlie’s arms moved, so, to indicate apology for reminding the Master of his sterility; moved again to indicate pressing importance. “The same imbalance that they detected in the Brown miner. Imbalances that were not present when they found the miner, but which developed before she died aboard MacArthur.”
The others were suddenly quiet. Charlie continued inexorably. “They are not stupid. They may well have connected these disturbances with sexual abstinence. What have they discovered about Watchmakers? They must have had Watchmakers to examine; the miner would have brought them aboard as a matter of course.”
“Curse!” Ivan assumed a pose of thought. “Would they cage the Watchmakers separately?”
Both Mediators gestured lack of knowledge. “Jock was right to answer as she did,” Charlie said. “They have the body that was aboard the Crazy Eddie probe. There must have been one, and it must have been a Mediator, a young one with a long life so that he could negotiate with whomever the probe might find here.”
“But our records show that Mediator would be dead,” Jock said. “He must have been; the humans learned nothing from him. Curse! If only the records were complete—”
“If only the records were complete. If only we had a Brown. If only the humans would tell us what they have done with the probe. If only the humans would tell us why they destroyed MacArthur. You will cease these meaningless phrases. You must have learned them from humans.” Ivan commanded with finality. “Speak of what the humans have learned from the pilot of the probe.”