"How so?"
"Mediators prevent misunderstanding," Eudoxus said. "Moties will fight for territory and power and resources for their descendants, but if there's a way to avoid fighting, the Mediators will find it. You fight because messages are badly worded."
"Oh. And invented your own, yes, of course. If you don't get pregnant, you die. And Mediators don't get pregnant." I should just shut my face and give it a vacation, Joyce thought.
"The Institute, is it considered a success?"
"It gets the best minds in the Empire."
"Yes. But such structures always freeze up, don't they? They get old and can't react anymore, like the Blockade Fleet."
"Oh... generally." But she hadn't heard that about Blaine Institute. "Ossified is the word you want."
"So they study Moties and nothing else, and they have not yet become ossified. Will they study ways to kill Moties?"
"Don't be absurd! You've met Chris Blaine. His parents own the Institute. What do you think?"
"I think he has secrets, some terrible," Eudoxus said.
So do I. Maybe enough of this. But... she can't see my face, so what is she reading?
But I'm a reporter, I'm as good at controlling my face as any politico or poker player. But they put me in a silver balloon and let me get complacent and then snaked me out of it, and who ever taught me to control the muscles in my damn feet?
"Joyce, it's important. What did you tell them?" Renner asked.
"Nothing at all," she said, and laughed. "Look, you don't have to keep asking. I taped it all. Here."
"Thanks. Blaine, let's look at this."
The voices were identicaclass="underline" Joyce Trujillo's voice, recognizable Empire-wide. The only way to tell them apart was through context. This was the alien speaking: "I think he has secrets, some terrible."
"What do you think she meant?" Renner asked.
Chris Blaine frowned. "I don't know. But notice the context, just after Eudoxus asked if the Institute was set up to find ways to kill Moties. If I'm reading Eudoxus right-pity the camera wasn't on her much-"
"How could it have been?"
"I know, Joyce. Now, if I read this right, Eudoxus is convinced that Joyce doesn't believe the Institute is for making Moties extinct, but that hasn't laid all suspicions to rest."
"Anything we can do about that?"
"I'll think on it. I have some general recordings about the Institute, mostly promo stuff, but they might help. We'll give them to Eudoxus."
"Better review them first."
"Sir, I did already. There's nothing about the Empire they won't already know. I was holding off in case I might be wrong, but now..."
"Okay. Sounds reasonable. Anything else?"
"Only the message to Weigle. It should go while East India is still willing and able to deliver it."
"That should do it," Chris Blaine said. He held a message cube. "All the Alderson data we can find including the stuff from Alexandria. The Admiral shouldn't have any trouble finding the new Crazy Eddie point. Now it's your turn, Captain. Remember, heavy on duty. You can't lay that on too thick."
Renner took the cube. "Thanks. I'll be a while, and I have to be alone." He waited until the others had left, then inserted the cube into the recorder and began to dictate.
"And that's the situation as we see it," he concluded. "The Moties are ripe for an alliance. It's dicey, but there may never be a better chance.
"I don't believe we have the power to exterminate the Moties. There are too many of them, too many independent families, scattered through the rocks and the moons and the comets."
"We can't exterminate them, and we never expected to maintain the blockade forever, and now we'd need two blockades. My assessment is that we'd do better to try for an alliance using the Crazy Eddie Worm to help control Motie breeding. Of course we don't know what the Motie reaction to the worm will be, and we won't know for another forty or fifty hours. I don't think I should wait that long. Right now Medina Trading and East India are cooperating to send this, and they have the means to get the message through. God knows what can happen in fifty hours."
"Kevin J. Renner, Captain, Imperial Navy Intelligence; Acting Commodore, Second Mote Expedition. Authentication follows."
The authentication was more trouble than the message had been. Renner stretched a metallic band around his forehead and attached its cable to a small hand-held computer. Then he plugged in earphones and leaned back to relax.
"Hi," a contralto voice said. "Your name?"
"Kevin James Renner."
"Do you eat live snails?"
"I'll eat anything."
"Where were you born?"
"Dionysius."
"Are you alone?"
"Quite alone."
"What's the word?"
"Hollyhocks."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure, you stupid machine."
"Let's try it again. What's the word?"
"Hollyhocks."
"Sure it's not rosebuds?"
"Hollyhocks."
"My instructions are to be certain you are calm and uncoerced."
"Damn it, I am calm and uncoerced."
"Right. If you'll attach me to the message cube recorder."
"You're on."
"Stand by. This may take a while."
Renner waited as seven minutes went by.
"Done. You may disconnect."
Renner took out the message cube. It was encrypted in a code that could only be read by an admiral or at a Navy Sector Headquarters; and the authentication code identified it as coming from a very senior official of Imperial Naval Intelligence. The only way to get that authentication was to convince the encrypting device that you really wanted it done. Any deviation from the script would have produced an authentication sequence that proclaimed the sender was under duress or wasn't the proper sender. Or so Renner had been told.
Renner punched the intercom. "Okay, Blaine, here it is. You sure the Moties can manage to duplicate this at long range?" If the Moties couldn't do that, the cube itself would have to be sent, and that would take days, if it got through at all.
"They're sure. We sent the details of the message cube system to the East India group at the Crazy Eddie point. They've built a recording device. Now we send the encrypted message, they record it onto a cube, and pop it through."
"Fine."
"Now what?" Joyce asked.
"Now we wait," Renner said. "For the Tartars."
5 The Guns of Medina Mosque
Diplomacy is the art of saying "Nice doggie" whilst you find a rock.
Attributed to Talleyrand
A day or three ago, the Great Hall must have been solid ice. This day it occupied half the volume of the Mosque. It was lavishly decorated: Renner recognized a modified illustration from A Thousand Nights and a Night. Tapestries with fantastic decorations: a djinn, a roc, Baghdad as it might have been in the twelfth century. The carpets were soft with unmistakably Saracen designs. There were also certain anachronisms: the big viewscreen on one wall, the opposite wall a vast curve of glass looking out onto the ice,
The screen showed another region of Inner Base Six, and a ship dropping through the iceball's black Langston Field sky.
Horace Bury paced, looking very relaxed, bobbing as if underwater in the low gravity of Base Six. He hadn't noticed that Joyce's pickup camera was on him. All Baba bobbed along beside him, a perfect half-scale mime.
It was a funny sight. Kevin Renner saw that, but he found that command has its own emotions: he had to look beyond humor, and beyond calling attention to humor. There was a lot at stake here, and the responsibility fell squarely on Kevin Renner. And that's what Captain Blaine felt, back at the Mote. That and his reluctant tolerance for the smartass Sailing Master.