The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [118]
There was an alcove near the head of his bed. He looked into it. It held a dresser and two odd-looking pieces of furniture that Renner recognized. They resembled what the Brown had done to the bed in Crawford’s stateroom.
He asked, “Two?”
“We will be assigned a Brown.”
“I’m going to teach you a new word. It’s called ‘privacy.’ It refers to the human need—”
“We know about privacy.” The Motie did a double take. “You aren’t suggesting it should apply between a man and his Fyunch(click)!”
Renner nodded solemnly.
“But . . . but . . . Renner, do you have any respect for tradition?”
“Do I?”
“No. Dammit. All right, Renner. We’ll sling a door there. With a lock?”
“Yah. I might add that the rest probably feel the same way, whether they say so or not.”
The bed, the couch, the table showed none of the familiar Motie innovations. The mattress was a bit too firm, but what the hell. Renner glanced into the bathroom and burst out laughing. The toilet was a free-fall toilet, somewhat changed from those in the cutter; it had a gold flush, carved into the semblance of a dog’s head. The bathtub was . . . strange.
“I’ve got to try that bathtub,” said Renner.
“Let me know what you think. We saw some pictures of bathtubs in your travelogues, but they looked ridiculous, given your anatomy.”
“Right. Nobody’s ever designed a decent bathtub. There weren’t any toilets in those pictures, were there?”
“Oddly enough, there weren’t.”
“Mmm.” Renner began sketching. When he had finished, his Motie said, “Just how much water do these use?”
“Quite a lot. Too much for space craft.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do.”
“Oh, and you’d better hang another door between the bathroom and the living room.”
“More privacy?”
“Yah.”
Dinner that night was like a formal dinner in Sally’s old home on Sparta, but weirdly changed. The servants—silent, attentive, deferential, guided by the host who in deference to rank was Dr. Horvath’s Motie—were Laborers a meter and a half tall. The food was from MacArthur’s stores—except for an appetizer, which was a melon-like fruit sweetened with a yellow sauce. “We guarantee it nonpoisonous,” said Renner’s Motie. “We’ve found a few foods we can guarantee, and we’re looking for more. But you’ll have to take your chances on the taste.” The sauce killed the melon’s sour taste and made it delicious.
“We can use this as a trade item,” said Bury. “We would rather ship the seeds, not the melon itself. Is it hard to grow?”
“Not at all, but it requires cultivation,” said Bury’s Motie. “We’ll give you the opportunity to test the soil. Have you found other things that might be worth trading?”
Bury frowned, and looked down at his plate. Nobody had remarked on those plates . . . they were gold: plates, silverware, even the wine goblets, though they were shaped like fine crystal. Yet they couldn’t be gold, because they didn’t conduct heat; and they were simple copies of the plastic free-fall utensils aboard MacArthur’s cutter, even to the trademarks stamped on the edges.
Everyone was waiting for his answer. Trade possibilities would profoundly affect the relationship between Mote and Empire. “On our route to the Castle I looked for signs of luxuries among you. I saw none but those designed specifically for human beings. Perhaps I did not recognize them.”
“I know the word, but we deal very little in luxuries. We—I speak for the givers of orders, of course—we put more emphasis on power, territory, the maintenance of a household and a dynasty. We concern ourselves with providing a proper station in life for our children.”
Bury filed the information: “We speak for the givers of orders.” He was dealing with a servant. No. An agent. He must keep that in mind, and wonder how binding were his Fyunch(click)’s promises. He smiled and said, “A pity. Luxuries travel well. You will understand my problem in finding trade goods when I tell you that it would hardly be profitable to buy gold from you.”
“I thought as much. We must see if we can find something more valuable.”
“Works of art, perhaps?”
“Art?”
“Let