The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [115]
When the call came, he had been certain he was discovered. A Navy rating had appeared on his room screen, said, “Call for you, Mr. Bury,” smiled evilly, and switched over. Before he could wonder Bury found himself facing an alien.
“Fyunch(click),” said the alien. It cocked its head and shoulders at him. “You seem confused. Surely you know the term.”
Bury had recovered quickly. “Of course. I was not aware that any Motie was studying me.” He did not like the idea at all.
“No, Mr. Bury, I have only just been assigned. Mr. Bury, have you thought of coming to Mote Prime?”
“No, I doubt that I would be allowed to leave the ship.”
“Captain Blaine has given permission, if you-urr willing. Mr. Bury, we would deeply appreciate your comments regarding the possibilities for trade between the Mote and the Empire. It seems likely we would both profit.”
Yes! Beard of the Prophet, an opportunity like that— Bury had agreed quickly. Nabil could guard the hidden Brownies.
But now, as he sat aboard the landing boat, it was difficult to control his fears. He looked at the alien beside him.
“I am Dr. Horvath’s Fyunch(click),” the Motie said. “You should relax. These boats are well designed.”
“Ah,” said Bury, and he relaxed. The worst was hours away. Nabil had by now safely removed the dummy tank into MacArthur’s main air lock with hundreds of others, and it would be safe. The alien ship was undoubtedly superior to similar human craft, if for no other reason than the Moties’ desire to avoid risk to the human ambassadors. But it was not the trip down that kept fear creeping into his throat until it tasted bright and sharp like new copper—there was a slight lurch. The descent had begun.
To everyone’s surprise it was dull. There were occasional shifts in gravity but no turbulence. Three separate times they felt almost subliminal clunks, as of landing gear coming down—and then there was a rolling sensation. The ship had come to rest.
They filed out into a pressurized chamber. The air was good but scentless, and there was nothing to see but the big inflated structure around them. They looked back at the ship and stared unashamedly.
It was gull-winged now, built like a glider. The edges of the crazy arrowhead had sprouted a bewildering variety of wings and flaps.
“That was quite a ride,” Horvath said jovially as he came to join them. “The whole vehicle changes shape. There aren’t any hinges on the wings—the flaps come out as if they were alive! The jet scoops open and closes like mouths! You really should have seen it. If Commander Sinclair ever comes down we’ll have to give him the window seat,” he chortled. He did not notice the glares.
An inflated air lock opened at the far end of the building, and three brown-and-white Moties entered. Fear rose in Bury’s throat again as they separated, one joining each of the Navy ratings, while the other came directly to Bury.
“Fyunch(click),” it said.
Bury’s mouth was very dry.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the Motie. “I can’t read your mind.”
It was definitely the wrong thing to say if the Motie wanted Bury at ease. “I’m told that is your profession.”
The Motie laughed. “It’s my profession, but I can’t do it. All I will ever know is what you show me.” It didn’t sound at all as Bury sounded to himself. It must have studied humans in general; only that.
“You’re male,” he noticed.
“I am young. The others were female by the time they reached MacArthur. Mr. Bury, we have vehicles outside and a place of residence for you nearby. Come and see our city, and then we can discuss business.” It took his arm in two small right arms, and the touch was very strange. Bury let himself be led to the air lock.
“Don’t be afraid. I can’t read your mind,” it had said, reading his mind. On many rediscovered worlds of the First Empire there were rumors of mind readers, but none had ever been found, praise the mercy of Allah. This thing claimed that it was not; and it was very alien. The touch was not abhorrent, although people of Bury’s culture hated to be touched. He had been among far too many strange customs and