21. The Ambassadors
As the Motie ship made its final approach, all details of its construction remained hidden by the flaring drive. MacArthur watched with screens up and charged. A hundred kilometers away, Lenin watched too.
“Battle stations, Mr. Staley,” Blaine ordered softly.
Staley grasped the large red handle which now pointed to Condition Two and moved it all the way clockwise. Alarms trilled, then a recorded trumpet sang “To Arms!,” rapid notes echoing through steel corridors.
“NOW HEAR THIS. NOW HEAR THIS. BATTLE STATIONS, BATTLE STATIONS. CONDITION RED ONE.”
Officers and crew rushed to action stations—gun crews, talkers, torpedomen, Marines. Shipfitters and cooks and storekeepers became damage-control men. Surgeon’s mates manned emergency aid stations throughout the ship—all quickly, all silently. Rod felt a burst of pride. Cziller had given him a taut ship, and by God they still were taut.
“COM ROOM REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE,” the bridge talker announced. The quartermaster’s mate third class said words given him by someone else, and all over the ship men rushed to obey, but he gave no orders of his own. He parroted words that would send MacArthur leaping across space, fire laser cannon and launch torpedoes, attack or withdraw, and he reported results that Blaine probably already knew from his screens and instruments. He took no initiative and never would, but through him the ship was commanded. He was an all-powerful mindless robot.
“GUNNERY STATIONS REPORT CONDITION RED ONE.”
“MARINE COMMANDER REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”
“Staley, have the Marines not on sentry duty continue the search for those missing aliens,” Blaine ordered.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“DAMAGE CONTROL REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”
The Motie ship decelerated toward MacArthur, the fusion flame of its drive a blaze on the battle cruiser’s screens. Rod watched nervously. “Sandy, how much of that drive could we take?”
“It’s nae too hot, Captain,” Sinclair reported through the intercom. “The Field can handle all of that for twenty minutes or more. And ‘tis nae focused, Skipper, there’d be nae hot spots.”
Blaine nodded. He’d reached the same conclusion, but it was wise to check when possible. He watched the light grow steadily.
“Peaceful enough,” Rod told Renner. “Even if it is a warship.”
“I’m not so sure it is one, Captain.” Renner seemed very much at ease. Even if the Motie should attack he’d be more a spectator than a participant. “At least they’ve aimed their drive flame to miss. Courtesy counts.”
“The hell it does. That flames spreads. Some of it is spilling onto our Langston Field, and they can observe what it does to us.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“MARINES REPORT CIVILIANS IN CORRIDORS, B DECK BULKHEAD TWENTY.”
“God damn it!” Blaine shouted. “That’s astronomy. Get those corridors cleared!”
“It’ll be Buckman,” Renner grinned. “And they’ll have their troubles getting him to his stateroom…”
“Yeah. Mr. Staley, tell the Marines to put Buckman in his cabin even if they have to frogmarch him there.”
Whitbread grinned to himself. MacArthur was in free fall, all her spin gone. Now how would the Marines frogmarch the astrophysicist in that?
“TORPEDO ROOMS REPORT CONDITION RED ONE. TORPEDOES ARMED AND READY.”
“One of the leading cooks thinks he saw a miniature,” Staley said. “The Marines are on the way.”
The alien ship drew closer, her drive a steady white blaze. She was cutting it very fine, Blaine thought. The deceleration hadn’t changed at all. They obviously trusted everything—their drives, their computers, sensors…
“ENGINE ROOM REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE. FIELD AT MAXIMUM STRENGTH.”
“The Marines have Dr. Buckman in his stateroom,” Staley said. “Dr. Horvath is on the intercom. He wants to complain.”
“Listen to him, Staley. But not for long.”
“GUNNERY REPORTS ALL BATTERIES LOCKED ONTO ALIEN CRAFT. LOCKED ON AND TRACKING.”
MacArthur was at full alert. All through the ship her crew waited at action stations. All nonessential equipment located near the ship’s hull had been sent below.
The tower containing Blaine’s patrol cabin stuck out of the battle cruiser’s hull like an afterthought. For spin gravity it was conveniently far from the ship’s axis, but in a battle it would be the first thing shot off. Blaine’s cabin was an empty shell now, his desk and the more important gear long since automatically raised into one of the nullgravity recreation areas.
Every idle compartment at the ship’s core was jammed, while the outer decks were empty, cleared to make way for damage-control parties.
And the Motie ship was approaching fast. She was still no more than a brightening light, a fusion jet fanning out to splash MacArthur’s Langston Field.
“GUNNERY REPORTS ALIEN SHIP DECELERATING AT POINT EIGHT SEVEN ZERO GRAVITIES.”
“No surprises,” said Renner sotto voce.
The light expanded to fill the screen—and then dimmed. Next moment the alien ship was sliding precisely alongside the battle cruiser, and its drive flame was already off.
It was as if the vessel had entered an invisible dock predetermined six days ago. The thing was at rest relative to MacArthur. Rod saw shadows moving within the inflated rings at its fore end.
Renner snarled, an ugly sound. His face contorted. “Goddamn show-offs!”
“Mr. Renner, control yourself.”
“Sorry, sir. That’s the most astounding feat of astrogation I’ve ever heard of. If anyone tried to tell me about it, I’d call him a liar. Who do they think they are?” Renner was genuinely angry. “Any astrogator-in-training that tried a stunt like that would be out on his tail, if he lived through the crash.”
Blaine nodded. The Motie pilot had left no margin of error at all. And— “I was wrong. That couldn’t possibly be a warship. Look at it.”
“Yah. It’s as fragile as a butterfly. I could crush it in my hand.”
Rod mused a moment, then gave orders. “Ask for volunteers. To make first contact with that ship, alone, using an unarmed taxi. And… keep Condition Red One.”
There were a good many volunteers.
Naturally Mr. Midshipman Wbitbread was one of them. And Whitbread had done it before.
Now he waited in the taxi. He watched the hangar doors unfolding through his polarized plastic faceplate.
He had done this before. The Motie miner hadn’t killed him, had she? The black rippled. Sudden stars showed through a gap in the Langston Field.
“That’s big enough,” Cargill’s voice said in his right ear. “You may launch, Mr. Whitbread. On your way—and Godspeed.”
Whitbread fired thruster clusters. The taxi rose, floated through the opening into starry space and the distant glare of Murcheson’s Eye. Behind him the Langston Field closed. Whitbread was sealed outside.
MacArthur was a sharply bounded region of supernatural blackness. Whitbread circled it at leisure. The Mote flashed bright over the black rim, followed by the alien ship.
Whitbread took his time. The ship grew slowly. Its core was as slender as a spear. Functional marking showed along its sides: hatch covers, instrument ports, antennae, no way to tell. A single black square fin jutted from near the midpoint: possibly a radiator surface.