The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [193]
There was more excited chatter around the table, but the Admiral wasn’t listening. He seemed to be thinking about what Rod had said.
Horvath took a breath to speak but controlled himself. Blaine had made the first visible impression on the Admiral, and Horvath was realist enough to know that anything he said would be rejected automatically. He nudged Hardy. “David, can’t you say something?” he pleaded.
“We can take any precautions you like,” Sally announced. “They accept the plague story, whether they believe it or not. They said their ambassadors would expect to be quarantined—surely they can’t escape your security people, Admiral. And we won’t have them long, you can Jump as soon as they’re aboard.”
“That is true,” Hardy said thoughtfully. “Of course, we may irritate the Moties even more by taking their ambassadors—and never returning them.”
“We wouldn’t do that!” Horvath protested.
“We might, Anthony. Be realistic. If His Majesty decides that the Moties are dangerous and the Navy decides they know too much, they’ll never be allowed to return.”
“So there’s no risk at all,” Sally spoke quickly. “No threat to Lenin from Moties confined to quarantine. Admiral, I’m sure the lesser risk is to take them. That way we don’t risk offending them until Prince Merrill—or His Majesty—can make decisions about the future.”
“Um.” Kutuzov sipped tea. His eyes showed interest. “You are persuasive, my lady. As are you, Captain Blaine.” He paused. “Mr. Bury was not invited to this conference. I think it is time to hear from him. Boatswain, you will bring His Excellency to wardroom.”
“Da, Admiral!”
They waited. The silence was broken by a dozen muttered conversations around the table.
“Rod, you were brilliant.” Sally beamed. She reached under the table and squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”
Bury entered, followed by the inevitable Marines. Kutuzov waved dismissal and they retired, leaving the Trader blinking at the end of the room. Cargill stood to give him his place at the table.
Bury listened attentively as Commander Borman summarized the arguments. If Bury was surprised by what he heard, he showed nothing, his expression remaining polite and interested.
“I ask for your advice, Excellency,” Kutuzov said when Borman was finished. “I confess I do not want these creatures aboard this ship. Yet. Unless they are threat to safety of Lenin I do not believe I am justified in refusing Minister Horvath’s request.”
“Ah.” Bury stroked his beard as he attempted to marshal his thoughts. “You are aware that in my opinion the Moties can read minds?”
“Ridiculous,” snapped Horvath.
“Hardly ridiculous, Doctor,” Bury said. His voice was calm and unruffled. “Improbable, perhaps, yet there is evidence of a rather unreliable human ability.” Horvath started to say something but Bury continued smoothly, “Not conclusive evidence, of course, but evidence. And by reading minds I do not necessarily imply telepathy. Consider: the Moties’ skill in the study of individual humans is such that they can literally play that person’s role; play it so well that his friends cannot detect the difference. Only their appearance betrays them. How often have you seen ratings and Marines automatically obey the orders of a Motie mimicking an officer?”
“Make your point,” Horvath said. He could hardly argue with that; what Bury said was common knowledge.
“Therefore: whether they do so by telepathy, or by perfect identification with human beings, they read minds. Thus they are the most persuasive creatures anyone will ever encounter. They know precisely what motivates us, and precisely what arguments to make.”
“For God’s sake!” Horvath exploded. “Are you saying they’ll talk us into giving them Lenin?”
“Can you be certain they can’t? Certain, Doctor?”
David