The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [152]
The Motie was not quite a Brown. The fur patches were thicker, and more thick fur encased all three arms and the legs. The left hand was about the same as a Brown’s but the right hands had five fingers each, plus a bud, and the fingers were square and short. The legs were thick and the feet large and flat. The head was a Brown’s with drastically back-sloping forehead.
If Sally Fowler was right, that meant that the parietal area was almost nil. “Hello,” Horst said anyway. The Motie looked back at him for a second, then pulled out a weed.
Afterwards he saw many of them. They watched him just long enough to be sure he wasn’t destroying plants; then they lost interest. Horst hiked on in the bright sunshine toward the mirror-bright building. It was much farther than he had thought.
Mr. Midshipman Jonathon Whitbread waited. He had done enough of that since joining, the Navy; but he was only seventeen standard years old, and at that age waiting is never really easy.
He sat near the tip of the reentry cone, high enough to bring his head above the plants. In the city the buildings had blocked his view of this world. Here he saw the entire horizon. The sky was brown all the way around, shading to something that might have had blue tinges directly overhead. Clouds roiled to the east in thick patches, and a few dirty-white cumulus scudded overhead.
The sun was just overhead too. He decided he must be near the equator, and remembered that Castle City was far to the north. He could not sense the greater width of the sun’s disc, because he could not look directly at it; but it was more comfortable to look at near than the small sun of New Scotland. The sense of an alien world was on him, but there was nothing to see. His eyes kept straying to the mirror-surfaced building. Presently he got up to examine the door.
It was a good ten meters high. Impressively tall to Whitbread, a gigantic thing for a Motie. But were Moties impressed by size? Whitbread thought not. The door must be functional—what was ten meters high? Heavy machinery? There was no sound at all when he put his pickup microphone against the smooth metallic surface.
At one side of the alcove containing the door was a panel mounted on a stout spring. Behind the panel was what seemed to be a combination lock. And that was that—except that Moties expected each other to solve such puzzles at a glance. A key lock would have been a NO TRESPASSING sign. This was not.
Probably it was intended to keep out—what? Browns? Whites? Laborers and the nonsentient classes? Probably all of them. A combination lock could be thought of as a form of communication.
Potter arrived panting, his helmet nearly awash with sweat, a water bag hanging from his belt. He turned his helmet mike to activate a small speaker and cut off his radio. “I had to try the Mote Prime air for myself,” he said. “Now I know. Well, what hae you found?”
Whitbread showed him. He also adjusted his own mike. No point in broadcasting everything they said.
“Um. I wish Dr. Buckman were here. Those are Motie numbers—aye, and the Mote solar system, with the dial where the Mote ought to be. Let me see...”
Whitbread watched interestedly as Potter stared at the dial. The New Scot pursed his lips, then said, “Aye. The gas giant is three point seven two times as far from the Mote as Mote Prime. Hmmm.” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out the ever-present computer box. “Umm . . . three point eight eight, base twelve. Now which way does the dial go?”
“Then again, it might be somebody’s birthday,” said Whitbread. He was glad to see Gavin Potter. He was glad to see anyone human here. But the New Scot’s meddling with the dials was—disturbing. Left, right, left, right, Gavin Potter turned the dials...
“I seem to remember Horst gave us orders concerning this building.” Whitbread was uneasy.
“Best not fool with it. Hardly orders. We came to learn about Moties, did we not?”
“Well...” It was an interesting puzzle. “Try left again,” Whitbread suggested. “Hold it.” Whitbread pushed the symbol representing Mote Prime. It depressed