The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [200]
“I see,” said Charlie. “Dr. Hardy, if you will excuse us, we do not yet feel up to conversation. Perhaps in a few hours. And next time we will take your advice and be in our bunks, strapped down, and asleep, when you turn on your Crazy Eddie machine.”
“I’ll leave you then,” Hardy said. “Could we—is there anything you require? Is the Ambassador all right?”
“He is well enough. Thank you for your concern.”
Hardy left, and the Moties went back to their bunks. They twittered and whistled.
“And that,” Rod said, “is that. I can think of a lot of more interesting things to do than watch Moties lie around chattering in a language I don’t understand.”
And there’s plenty of time to study the Moties, Sally thought. For a wonder, we don’t either one of us have duties right now—and we do have privacy. “So can I,” she said demurely.
Despite the cubic kilometers of yellow-hot flame around her, Lenin was a happy ship. Kutuzov relaxed his vigil and let the crew resume normal watches for the first time since the destruction of MacArthur. Although the ship was deep within a sun, she had fuel, and her problems were in the Book. Navy routine would deal with them. Even the scientists forgot their disappointment at leaving the alien system with unanswered questions: they were going home.
The only woman in ten parsecs would have been a subject for speculation under any circumstances. Fights might have started over either of two questions. What are my/your chances with her? and Is she being wasted? But Sally had clearly chosen her man. It made life easier for those who worry over such problems, and for those whose duty it is to stop fist fights.
The first night after the Jump, Kutuzov held a dinner party. It was formal, and most of the guests did not enjoy themselves much; the Admiral’s table talk was confined to professional matters. However, he left early, and a much wilder party developed.
Rod and Sally stayed for three hours. Everyone wanted to talk about Moties, and Rod was surprised to find himself discussing them with only a hint of the dull pain that had formerly come over him when he thought of the aliens. Sally’s enthusiasm was enough in itself—and besides, she seemed as worried about him as about the aliens. She had even spent hours remaking Mikhailov’s extra dress uniform so that it almost fit.
When they left the party, neither Moties nor the Mote were mentioned during the hours they were together before going to their separate cabins.
The ship moved outward. Eventually the yellow beyond the Field turned to orange, then brick-red, and Lenin’s probes reported her Field hotter than the photosphere around her. Scientists and crew alike eagerly watched the screen, and when stars appeared against a red-black background everyone had a drink in celebration. Even the Admiral joined them, his features a broad and heavy smile.
Shortly afterward the communications officer established contact with a waiting tanker. There was also a small message sloop, fast, manned by young crewmen in perfect physical condition. Kutuzov dictated his report and sent it with two of his midshipmen, and the sloop accelerated at three gravities, racing for the Alderson point where it would Jump to the New Caledonia System and deliver the report of mankind’s first contact with an alien civilization.
The tanker carried mail and nearly a year’s worth of news. There had been more revolts in the sector. A former colony had allied with an armed outie system and defied the empire. New Chicago was occupied by the Army, and although the economy was working again much of the population was resentful of Imperial paternalism. The inflation of the crown was under control. Her Imperial Majesty had given birth to a boy, Alexander, and Crown Prince Lysander was no longer the only insurance of the present imperial line. That news was worth another celebration on Lenin, and it got so big that Mikhailov had to borrow MacArthur crewmen to man his ship.
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