The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [130]
There was a long silence. Horvath sniffed loudly. Finally the Science Minister said, “And how could they do that, Dr. Hardy? Their government consists of informal negotiations by representatives of the givers of orders class. Every city seems to be nearly autonomous. Mote Prime hardly has a planetary government, and you think they’re able to conspire against us? It is not very reasonable.”
Hardy shrugged again. “From what we have seen, Dr. Horvath, you are certainly correct. And yet I cannot rid myself of the impression that they are hiding something.”
“They showed us everything,” Horvath insisted. “Even givers of orders’ households, where they don’t normally have visitors.”
“Sally was just getting to that before you came in,” Rod said quickly. “I’m fascinated—how does the Motie officer class live? Like the Imperial aristocracy?”
“That’s a better guess than you might think,” Horvath boomed. Two dry martinis had mellowed him considerably. “There were many similarities—although the Moties have an entirely different conception of luxuries from ours. Some things in common, though. Land. Servants. That sort of thing.” Horvath took another drink and warmed to his subject.
“Actually, we visited two households. One lived in a skyscraper near the Castle. Seemed to control the entire building: shops, light industry, hundreds of Browns and Reds and Workers and—oh, dozens of other castes. The other one, though, the agriculturist, was very like a country baron. The work force lived in long rows of houses, and in between the row houses were fields. The ‘baron’ lived in the center of all that,”
Rod thought of his own family home. “Crucis Court used to be surrounded by villages and fields—but of course all the villages were fortified after the Secession Wars. So was the Court, for that matter.”
“Odd you should say that,” Horvath mused. “There was a sort of square fortified shape to the ‘barony’ too. Big atrium in the middle. For that matter, all the residential skyscrapers have no windows on the lower floors, and big roof gardens. Quite self-sufficient. Looked very military. We don’t have to report that impression to the Admiral, do we? He’d be sure we’d discovered militaristic tendencies.”
“Are you so sure he’d be wrong?” Jack Cargill asked. “From what I’ve heard, every one of those givers of orders has a self-sufficient fortress. Roof gardens. Brownies to fix all the machinery—too bad we can’t tame some of them to help Sinclair.” Cargill noted his captain’s black look and hurriedly added, “Anyway, the agriculturist might have a better chance in a fight, but both those places sound like forts. So do all the other residential palaces I’ve heard about.”
Dr. Horvath had been struggling to control himself, while Sally Fowler attempted without success to hide her amusement. Finally she laughed. “Commander Cargill, the Moties have had space travel and fusion power for centuries. If their buildings still have a fortress look, it must be traditional—there’s no possible purpose! You’re the military expert, just how would building your house that way help you against modern weapons?”
Cargill was silenced, but his expression showed he wasn’t convinced.
“You say they try to make their houses self-sufficient?” Rod asked. “Even in the city? But that is silly. They’d still have to bring in water.”
“It rained a lot,” said Renner. “Three days out of six.” Rod looked at the Sailing Master. Was he serious? “Did you know there are left-handed Moties?” Renner continued. “Everything reversed. Two six-fingered left hands, one massive right arm, and the swelling of the skull is on the right.”
“It took me half an hour to notice,” Whitbread laughed. “The new Motie behaved just like Jackson’s old one. He must have been briefed.”
“Left-handed,” said Rod. “Why not?” At least they’d changed the subject. The stewards brought in lunch and everyone fell to. When they finished it was time to leave for the Mote.
“A word with you, Mr. Renner,” Rod said as the Sailing Master was about to go. He waited until everyone but Cargill was