The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [180]
“Unto Almighty God we commend the souls of our brothers departed, and we commit their bodies to the deeps of space; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the worlds, the seas shall yield their dead, and the deeps give forth their burdens...”
Kelley pressed the keys and there was a soft whoosh, another—three, four, five. Only four bodies and a head recovered out of twenty-seven dead and missing.
“Ship’s Company, atten-shut!”
“Shoot!”
And what will the Moties make of that? Rod wondered. Three broadsides fired off into space at nothing—except the third, which would vaporize the bodies launched a moment ago. The Admiral had insisted, and no one had argued.
Contralto trumpet notes died away as Lenin’s trumpeter and MacArthur’s ended taps in duet. The ship was still for a moment.
“Ship’s company, dismissed!”
The officers moved silently away from the torpedo room. Lights brightened in the corridors and men hurried back to their action stations or their crowded rest areas. Navy routine continues, Rod thought. Funeral services are part of the Book too. There is a regulation for everything: birth aboard ship, registration of; burial, with or without bodies; and one for captains who lose their ships. The Book demands a court-martial for that one.
“Rod. Wait a minute, Rod. Please.”
He stopped at Sally’s call. They stood in the corridor while the other officers and crew split around them. Rod wanted to join them, to get back to the solitude of his cabin where no one would ask him what happened aboard MacArthur. Yet here was Sally, and something way inside wanted to talk to her, or just be close to her—
“Rod, Dr. Horvath says the Moties have sent ambassadors to meet us at the Crazy Eddie point, but Admiral Kutuzov won’t let them aboard! Is that right?”
Damn! he thought. Moties again, Moties— “It’s right.” He turned away.
“Rod, wait! We’ve got to do something! Rod, where are you going?” She stared at his back as he walked rapidly away. Now what did I do? she wondered.
Blaine’s door was closed but the telltale showed that it wasn’t locked. Kevin Renner hesitated, then knocked. Nothing happened. He waited a moment, then knocked again.
“Come in.”
Renner opened the door. It seemed strange to walk directly into Blaine’s cabin: no Marine sentry on duty, none of the mysterious aura of command that surrounds a captain. “Hi, Captain. Mind if I join you?”
“No. Can I get you anything?” Blaine clearly didn’t care one way or another. He didn’t look at Renner, and Kevin wondered what would happen if he took the polite offer seriously. He could ask for a drink...
No. Not time to push. Not just yet. Renner took a seat and looked around.
Blaine’s cabin was big. It would have been a tower room if Lenin had been designed with a tower. There were only four men and one woman who rated cabins to themselves, and Blaine wasn’t using the precious room; he looked to have been sitting in that chair for hours, probably ever since the funeral services. Certainly he hadn’t changed. He’d had to borrow one of Mikhailov’s dress uniforms and it didn’t fit at all.
They sat silently, with Blaine staring into some internal space-time that excluded his visitor.
“I’ve been going over Buckman’s work,” Renner said at random. He had to start somewhere, and it probably shouldn’t be with Moties.
“Oh? How goes it?” Blaine asked politely.
“Way over my head. He says he can prove there’s a protostar forming in the Coal Sack. In a thousand years it’ll be shining by its own light. Well, he can’t prove it to me, because I don’t have the math.”
“Um.”
“How are you making out?” Renner showed no indication of leaving. “Enjoying your vacation from duties?”
Blaine finally lifted haunted eyes. “Kevin, why did the kids try to do a reentry?”
“God’s eyes, Captain, that’s plain silly. They wouldn’t have tried anything of the kind.” Jesus, he’s not