“Farewell,” Charlie answered. Ivan twittered, and Jock added, “The Ambassador wishes you Godspeed and good luck.”
“I wish I could be sure you meant that,” Cargill said.
“Of course we mean it,” said Charlie. “We want you to feel safe.”
Cargill turned away looking thoughtful. He climbed aboard the boat. Sinclair followed and the ratings closed the entryway. Engines whined, and humans and Moties retreated into a shelter. They watched in silence as the boat lifted from the roof and vanished into the bright skies.
“It will work,” Jock said.
“You do read minds, don’t you?” Rod asked. He stared off into the sky but there was nothing to see but clouds.
“Of course it’s going to work,” Sally said. Her voice was emphatic.
“I think I understand you humans at last,” Charlie told them. “Have you ever read your ancient histories?”
Rod and Sally looked blankly at the Motie. “No.”
“Dr. Hardy showed us a key passage,” Charlie said. He waited as the elevator arrived. Two Marines entered, and after the humans and Moties were inside, the others followed. Charlie continued the story as if the armed guards were not present. “One of your most ancient writers, a historian named Herodotus, tells of a thief who was to be executed. As he was taken away he made a bargain with the king: in one year he would teach the king’s favorite horse to sing hymns.”
“Yes?” Sally prompted. She seemed puzzled and looked anxiously at Charlie. He seemed calm enough, but Dr. Hardy said he was worried about the aliens…
“The other prisoners watched the thief singing to the horse and laughed. ‘You will not succeed,’ they told him. ‘No one can.’ To which the thief replied, ‘I have a year, and who knows what might happen in that time. The king might die. The horse might die. I might die. And perhaps the horse will learn to sing.’ ”
There was polite laughter. “I didn’t tell it very well,” Charlie said. “I wasn’t trying to be humorous anyway. That story made me realize at last just how alien you humans are.”
There was an embarrassed silence. As the elevator stopped Jock asked, “How goes your Institute?”
“Fine. We’ve already sent for some of the department heads.” She laughed, embarrassed. “I have to work fast: Rod won’t let me think about the Institute after the wedding. You are coming, aren’t you?”
The Mediators shrugged in unison, and one looked at the Marines. “We will be delighted if we are allowed to attend,” Jock answered. “But we have no gifts for you. There is no Brown to make them.”
“We’ll get along without,” Rod said. The elevator door stood open, but they waited for two of the Marines to inspect the corridor.
“Thank you for allowing me to meet Admiral Kutuzov,” Jock said. “I have waited to speak with him since our embassy ship arrived alongside MacArthur.”
Rod looked at the aliens in wonder. Jock’s conversation with Kutuzov had been brief, and one of the most important questions the Motie had asked was “Do you like lemon in tea?”
They’re so damned civilized and likable, and because of that they’re going to spend the few years they’ve got left under guard while the Information Office blackguards them and their race. We’ve even hired a writer to script a play on the last hours of my midshipmen.
“It was little enough to do,” Rod said. “We—”
“Yes. You can’t let us go home.” Charlie’s voice changed to that of a New Scot youth. “We know aye more about humans than is safe.” She gestured smoothly to the Marines. Two walked ahead into the hall, and the Moties followed. The other guards closed behind, and the procession marched through the corridor until they reached the Motie quarters. The elevator door closed softly.
Epilogue
Defiant lay nearly motionless in space at the outer fringes of the Murcheson System. There were other ships grouped around her in battle formation, and off to starboard hung Lenin like a swollen black egg. At least half the main battle fleet was in readiness at all times, and somewhere down in the red hell of the Eye other ships circled and waited. Defiant had just completed a tour with the Crazy Eddie Squadron.
That term was very nearly official. The men tended to use a lot of Mote terms. When a man won a big hand at poker he was likely to shout “Fyunch(click)!” And yet, Captain Herb Colvin mused, most of us have never seen a Motie. We hardly see their ships: just targets, helpless after transition.
A few had made it out of the Eye, but every one had been so badly damaged that it was hardly spaceworthy. There was always plenty of time to warn the ships outside the Eye that another Motie was on the way—if the Eye hadn’t killed them first.
The last few ships had emerged from the Crazy Eddie point at initial velocities up to a thousand km per second. How the hell could the Moties hit a Jump point at such speeds? Ships within the Eye couldn’t catch them. They didn’t need to, with the Motie crews—and autopilots—helpless in Jump shock and unable to decelerate. The fleeing black blobs had run up through the rainbow and exploded every time. Where the Moties used their unique expanding Fields, they exploded sooner, picking up heat faster from the yellow-hot photosphere.
Herb Colvin laid down the latest report on Motie tricks and technology. He’d written a lot of it himself, and it all added up to hopeless odds against the Moties. They couldn’t beat ships that didn’t have to carry an Alderson Drive, ships on station and waiting for Moties who still didn’t suspect the jump disorientation… He could almost feel sorry for them.
Colvin took a bottle from the cabinet on the bulkhead of his patrol cabin and poured expertly despite the Coriolis forces. He carried his glass to his chair and sank into it. A packet of mail lay on his desk, the most recent letter from his wife already ripped open so that he could be sure there was nothing wrong at home. Now he could read the letters in order. He raised his glass to Grace’s picture on the desk.
She hadn’t heard much from New Chicago, but things were all right there the last time her sister had written. Mail service to New Scotland was slow. The house she’d found was outside the New Scot defensive system, but she wouldn’t worry because Herb had told her the Moties couldn’t get through. She’d taken a lease for the whole three years they’d be out here.
Herb nodded in agreement. That would save money—three years on this blockade, then home, where he’d be Commodore of New Chicago’s Home Fleet. Put the Alderson engines back in Defiant: she’d be flagship when he took her home. A few years on blockade service was a small price to pay for the concessions the Empire offered.
It took the Moties to do it, Herb thought. Without them we’d still be fighting. There were still worlds outside the Empire and always would be, but in Trans-Coalsack unification was proceeding smoothly and there was more jawboning than fighting. The Moties did that for us, anyway.
A name caught Herb Colvin’s eye. Lord Roderick Blaine, Chairman of the Imperial Commission Extraordinary— Colvin looked up at the bulkhead to see the familiar spot where Defiant had been patched following her battle with MacArthur. Blaine’s prize crew had done that, and a pretty good job it was. He’s a competent man, Colvin admitted reluctantly. But heredity’s still a hell of a way to choose leaders. The rebel democracy in New Chicago hadn’t done too well either. He went back to Grace’s letter.
My Lord Blaine had a new heir, his second. And Grace was helping out at this Institute Lady Blaine had set up. His wife was excited because she often talked with Lady Sally and had even been invited out to the manor house to see the children…