The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [213]
“No, no, it’s only a bit flat and tasteless,” said a Mediator. It was impossible to tell the two apart. “Then there’s the extra oxygen. I think we’ll need that.”
“Gravity?”
“Right.” The Motie squinted toward the sun. “We’ll also need dark glasses.”
“Certainly.” They reached the end of the lines of honor guards. Hardy bowed to Merrill. Both Mediators did likewise in perfect imitation. The White stood erect for a moment, then bowed, but not so deeply as the others.
Dr Horvath was waiting. “Prince Stefan Merrill, Viceroy to His Imperial Majesty for Trans-Coalsack Sector,” Horvath announced. “Your Highness, the Ambassador from Mote Prime. He is called Ivan.”
Merrill bowed formally, then indicated Benjamin Fowler. “Senator Benjamin Bright Fowler, Lord President of the Imperial Commission Extraordinary. Senator Fowler is empowered to speak with you in the name of the Emperor, and he has a message for you from His Majesty.”
The Moties bowed again.
Senator Fowler had allowed his valet to dress him properly; all the billions of humanity would eventually see recordings of this meeting. He wore a dark tunic with no decoration but a small golden sunburst on the left breast, his sash was new, his trousers fit perfectly and vanished into the tops of glove-soft, gleaming boots. He thrust a black Malacca cane with carved gold head wider his left arm as Rod Blaine held out a parchment.
Fowler read in his “official speeches” voice; in debates he was a firebrand, but his formal speeches were stilted. This one was no exception.
“Leonidas IX by Grace of God Emperor of Humanity to the representatives of the Mote Civilization, Greetings and Welcome. For a thousand years mankind has searched for brothers in the universe. We have dreamed of them for all our history...” The message was long and formal, and the Moties listened in silence. To their left a knot of men hustled and whispered together, and there were some pointed instruments the Moties recognized as badly designed tri-v cameras. There was a forest of cameras and far too many men; why did the humans need so many to do a simple task?
Fowler finished the message. He followed the Motie gaze without turning his head. “The gentlemen of the press,” he murmured, “We’ll try to keep them from bothering you.” Then he held up the parchment to show the Imperial Seal, and presented it to the Moties.
“They obviously expect a reply. This is one of the ‘formal’ events Hardy warned us of. I have no idea what to say. Have you?”
Jock: “No. But we must say something.”
The Master spoke. “What have they said to us?”
“I could translate but it would be meaningless. They have welcomed us in the name of their Emperor, who appears to be an over-Master. The short, round one is Mediator to this Emperor.”
“Ah. We have at last found one who can communicate. Speak to her.”
“But he has said nothing!”
“Say nothing in return.”
“We are very grateful for your Emperor’s welcome. We believe this first meeting between intelligent races will be a historic occasion, perhaps the most important event in all our histories. We are eager to begin trade and the mutual enrichment of Moties and Mankind.”
“You sound like Horvath.”
“Of course. Those were his words. He used them often before the humans destroyed their lesser ship. We must know why they did that.”
“You will not ask until we know more of humans.”
The Moties stood blinking in a silence that stretched embarrassingly. They obviously had no more to say.
“Doubtless you are tired from your journey,” Merrill said. “You will want to rest in your quarters before the parade begins.” When the Moties did not reply, Merrill waved his hand slightly. The band struck up a march and the Moties were ushered toward an elevator.
“We’ll get you away from the goddamn press corps,” Fowler muttered. “Can’t do anything in a goldfish bowl.” He turned to smile for the cameras. So did the others, and they were still smiling as the elevator door closed in the faces of the reporters who had rushed forward when they saw that the Moties were leaving.
There