The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [103]
“Be damned to you!” Sinclair exploded. “That’s nae way to talk to the Captain, mon!”
“Gently, Sandy,” First Lieutenant Cargill interjected. “Dr. Horvath, I take it you’ve never been involved in military intelligence? No, of course not. But you see, in intelligence work we have to go by capabilities, not by intentions. If a potential enemy can do something to you, you have to prepare for it, without regard to what you think he wants to do.”
“Exactly,” Rod said. He was glad of the interruptions. Sinclair was still fuming at his end of the table, and it wouldn’t take much to make him explode again. “So first we have to find out what the potential of the miniatures is. From what I've seen of the air-lock construction, plus what we gather about the ‘Brownies,’ that’s quite high.”
“But they’re only animals,” Sally insisted. She looked at the fuming Sinclair, the sardonically smiling Horvath and Rod’s worried face. “You don’t understand. This business with tools—well, yes, they’re good with tools, but it’s not intelligence. Their heads are too small. The more brain tissue they use for this instinct to make tools work, the more they have to give up. They’ve virtually no sense of smell or taste. They’re very nearsighted. They’ve less sense of language than a chimpanzee. Their space perception is good, and they can be trained, but they don’t make tools, they only fix or change things. Intelligence!” She exploded. “What intelligent being would have custom formed the grip on Mr. Battson’s toothbrush?
“As for spying on us, how could they? Nobody could have trained them for it. They were randomly selected the first place.” She looked around at their faces, trying to judge if she was getting through.
“You’re really sure the escaped miniatures are alive?” The voice was hearty, tinged with New Scot accent. Rod looked across to Dr. Blevins, a colonial veterinarian drafted into the expedition. “My own miniature is dying, Captain. Nothing I can do about it. Internal poisoning, glandular deterioration—the symptoms seem to be similar to old age.”
Blaine shook his head slowly. “I wish I could think so Doc, but there are too many Brownie stories in this ship. Before this meeting I talked to some of the other chiefs and it’s the same on the lower decks. Nobody wanted report it because first, we’d think they were crazy, and second, the Brownies were too useful to risk losing. No, for all of Gunner Kelley’s Irish folk tales, there have never been any Little People on Navy ships—it has to be the miniatures.”
There was a long silence. “What harm are they doing anyway?” Horvath asked. “I’d think some Brownies would be an asset, Captain.”
“Hah.” That didn’t need comment in Rod’s opinion. “Harm or good, immediately after this meeting we will sterilize this ship. Sinclair, have you arranged to evacuate hangar deck?”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Then do it. Open it to space, and see all the compartments in there are opened to space. I want that hangar deck dead. Commander Cargill, see that the essential watch crew are in battle armor. Alone in their battle armor, Number One. The rest of you give some thought to whatever equipment you have that can’t stand hard vacuum. When hangar deck’s done, Kelley’s Marines will help you get that into hangar deck; then we depressurize the rest of the ship. We’re going to put an end to Brownies once and for all.”
“But” — ”Hey, that’s silly” — ”My cultures will die” — “Goddamn regular Navy bastards are always” — ”Can he do that?” — ”Aye aye, Captain” — ”What the hell does he think he’s—”
“Tenn-shut!” Kelley’s roar cut through the babble.
“Captain, do you really have to be so vicious about it?” Sally asked.
He shrugged. “I think they’re cute too. So what? If I don’t order it done, the Admiral will anyway. Now, are we all agreed that the miniatures aren’t spies?”
“Not deliberate ones,” Renner said. “But, Captain, do you know about the incident with the pocket computer?”
“No.”
“The big Motie took Miss