“We don’t know,” Rod explained patiently. “The camera was off. One of my officers went to investigate.” That’ll do for the scientists, anyway. Damned if I’m going to let a bunch of civilians roast the kid. If he’s got lumps coming, I’ll give ‘em myself. “Doctor, we’ll save time if you’ll come down to the lounge area immediately.”
The corridor outside the lounge was crowded. Horvath in a rumpled red-silk dressing gown; four Marines, Leyton, the junior officer of the watch, Whitbread, Sally Fowler dressed in a bulky housecoat but with her face well scrubbed and her hair in a bandana. Two cooks and a petty officer cook, all muttering as they rattled pans in the galley, were searching for the Motie while more Marines looked around helplessly.
Whitbread was saying, “I slammed the door and looked down the corridor. The other one could have gone the other way—”
“But you think he’s still in there.”
“Yessir.”
“All right, let’s see if we can get in there without letting him out.”
“Uh—do they bite, Cap’n?” a Marine corporal asked. “We could issue the men some gauntlets.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Horvath assured them. “They have never bitten anyone.”
“Yessir,” the corporal said. One of his men muttered, “They said that about hive rats, too,” but no one paid any attention. Six men and a woman formed a semicircle around Horvath as he prepared to open the door. They were tense, grim, the armed Marines ready for anything. For the first time Rod felt a wild urge to laugh. He choked it down. But that poor, tiny beast— Horvath went through the door quickly. Nothing came out.
They waited.
“All right,” the Science Minister called. “I can see it. Come on in, one at a time. It’s under the table.”
The miniature watched them slide through the door, one by one, and surround it. If it were waiting for an opening, it never saw one. When the door was shut and seven men and a woman ringed its refuge, it surrendered. Sally cradled it in her arms.
“Poor little thing,” she crooned. The Motie looked around, obviously frightened.
Whitbread examined what was left of the camera. It had shorted out, somehow. The short had maintained itself long enough for metal and plastic to fuse and drip, leaving a stench not yet removed by MacArthur’s air plant. The wire netting just behind the camera had melted too, leaving a large hole. Blaine came over to examine the wreckage.
“Sally,” Rod asked. “Could they have been intelligent enough to plan this?”
“No!” said Sally and Horvath, forcefully, in chorous. “The brain’s too small,” Dr. Horvath amplified.
“Ah,” Whitbread said to himself. But he did not forget that the camera had been inside the netting.
Two communications division artificers were summoned to patch the hole. They welded new netting over it, and Sally put the miniature back in its cage. The artificers brought in another video camera, which they mounted outside the netting. No one made any comment.
The search went on through the watch. No one found the female and the pup. They tried getting the big Motie to help, but she obviously didn’t understand or wasn’t interested. Finally, Blaine went back to his cabin to sleep for a couple of hours. When he woke the miniatures were still missing.
“We could set the ferrets after them,” Cargill suggested at breakfast in the wardroom. A leading torpedoman kept a pair of the cat-sized rodents and used them to keep the forecastle clear of mice and rats. The ferrets were extremely efficient at that.
“They’d kill the Moties,” Sally protested. “They aren’t dangerous. Certainly no more dangerous than rats. We can’t kill them!”
“If we don’t find them pretty soon, the Admiral’s going to kill me,” Rod growled, but he gave in. The search continued and Blaine went to the bridge.
“Get me the Admiral,” he told Staley.
“Aye aye, sir.” The midshipman spoke into the com circuit.
A few moments later Admiral Kutuzov’s craggy bearded features came onto the screen. The Admiral was on his bridge, drinking tea from a glass. Now that Rod thought of it, he had never spoken to Kutuzov when he wasn’t on the bridge. When did he sleep? Blaine reported the missing Moties.
“You still have no idea what these miniatures are, Captain?” Kutuzov demanded.
“No, sir. There are several theories. The most popular is that they’re related to the Moties the same way that monkeys are related to humanity.”
“That is interesting, Captain. And I suppose these theories explain why there are monkeys on asteroid mining ship? And why this miner brought two monkeys aboard your war vessel? I have not noticed that we carry monkeys, Captain Blaine.”
“No, sir.”
“The Motie probe arrives in three hours,” Kutuzov muttered. “And the miniatures escaped last night. This timing is interesting, Captain. I think those miniatures are spies.”
“Spies, sir?”
“Spies. You are told they are not intelligent. Perhaps true, but could they memorize? That does not seem to me impossible. You have told me of mechanical abilities of large alien. It ordered miniatures to return that Trader’s watch. Captain, under no circumstances may adult alien be allowed contact with miniatures which have escaped. Nor may any large alien do so. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want reason?” the Admiral demanded. “If there is any chance at all that those beasts could learn secrets of Drive and Field, Captain…”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
“See that you do, Captain.”
Blaine sat for a moment staring at the blank screen, then glanced across at Cargill. “Jack, you shipped with the Admiral once, didn’t you? What’s he really like under all that legendary image?”
Cargill took a seat near Blaine’s command chair. “I was only a middie when he was Captain, Skipper. Not too close a relationship. One thing, we all respected him. He’s the toughest officer in the service and he doesn’t excuse anyone, especially not himself. But if there are battles to be fought, you’ve got a better chance of coming back alive with the Tsar in command.”
“So I’ve heard. He’s won more general fleet actions than any officer in the service, but Jesus, what a tough bastard.”
“Yes, sir.” Cargill studied his captain closely. They had been lieutenants together not long before, and it was easier to talk to Blaine than it would be with an older CO. “You’ve never been on St. Ekaterina, have you, Skipper?”
“No.”
“But we’ve got several crewmen from there. Lenin has more, of course. There’s an unholy high percentage of Katerinas in the Navy, Skipper. You know why?”
“Only vaguely.”
“They were settled by the Russian elements of the old CoDominium fleet,” Cargill said. “When the CD fleet pulled out of Sol System, the Russkis put their women and children on Ekaterina. In the Formation Wars they got hit bad. Then the Secession Wars started when Sauron hit St. Ekaterina without warning. It stayed loyal, but…”
“Like New Scotland,” Rod said.
Cargill nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. Imperial loyalist fanatics. With good reason, given their history. The only peace they’ve ever seen has been when the Empire’s strong.”
Rod nodded judiciously, then turned back to his screens. There was one way to make the Admiral happy. “Staley,” Blaine snapped. “Have Gunner Kelley order all Marines to search for the escaped Moties. They are to shoot on sight. Shoot to disable, if possible, but shoot. And have those ferrets turned loose in the galley area.”