The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [22]
“I happen to be Senator Fowler’s niece and aboard this ship under Admiralty orders, Commander,” she told him sternly. “I am astonished at your lack of manners. My family is not accustomed to such treatment, and I am certain my friends at Court will be shocked to find that an Imperial officer could be so rude.”
Frenzi blushed and looked around wildly. “My apologies, my lady. No insult intended, I assure you. . . I was merely surprised we don’t very often see girls aboard warships certainly not young ladies as attractive as you I beg your pardon...” His voice trailed off, still without punctuation, as he withdrew from the bridge.
“Now why couldn’t you react like that?” Sally wondered aloud.
Rod grinned at her, then jumped from his seat. “He’ll signal Cranston that I’m in command here! We have what, about an hour for a message to get to New Scotland, another for it to get back.” Rod stabbed at the intercom controls. “ALL HANDS. THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. LIFT-OFF IN ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES. LIFT-OFF IN ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES. IF YOU’RE NOT ABOARD WE’LL LEAVE YOU BEHIND.”
“That’s the way,” Sally shouted as encouragement. “Let him send his messages.” While Blaine turned to hurry his crew along, she left the bridge to go hide in her cabin.
Rod made another call. “Commander Sinclair. Let me know if there’s any delay out there.” If Frenzi slowed him down, Blaine just might be able to get him shot. He’d certainly try . . . long ago he’d daydreamed of having Frenzi shot.
The reports came in. Cargill came onto the bridge with a sheaf of transfer orders and a satisfied look. MacArthur’s boatswains, copies of the priority message in hand, had gone looking for the best men on Brigit.
New crew and old hands swarmed around the ship, yanking out damaged equipment and hurriedly thrusting in spares from Brigit’s supply depot, running checkout procedures and rushing to the next job. Other replacement parts were stored as they arrived. Later they could be used to replace Sinclair’s melted-looking jury rigs . . . if anyone could figure out how. It was difficult enough telling what was inside one of those standardized black boxes. Rod spotted a microwave heater and routed it to the wardroom; Cargill would like that.
When the fueling was nearly finished, Rod donned his pressure suit and went outside. His inspection wasn’t needed, but it helped crew morale to know that the Old Man was looking over everyone’s shoulder. While he was out there, Rod looked for the intruder.
The Face of God stared at him across space.
The Coal Sack was a nebular mass of dust and gas, small as such things go—twenty-four to thirty light years thick—but dense, and close enough to New Caledonia to block off a quarter of the sky. Earth and the Imperial Capital, Sparta, were forever invisible on its other side. The spreading blackness hid most of the Empire, but it made a fine velvet backdrop for two close, brilliant stars.
Even without that backdrop, Murcheson’s Eye was the brightest star in the sky—a great red giant thirty-five light years distant. The white fleck at one edge was a yellow dwarf companion star, smaller and dimmer and less interesting: the Mote. Here the Coal Sack had the shape of a hooded man, head and shoulders; and the off-centered red supergiant became a watchful, malevolent eye.
The Face of God. It was a famous sight throughout the Empire, this extraordinary view of the Coal Sack from New Cal. But standing here in the cold of space it was different. In a picture it looked like the Coal Sack. Here it was real.
And something he couldn’t see was coming at him out of the Mote in God’s Eye.
6 The Light Sail
One gravity only—with queasy sensations as MacArthur lined up on her proper interception course. Elastic webbing held him in the acceleration chair during these few moments of changing but normal gravity—minutes, Rod suspected, that he’d soon look back on with wistful longing.
Kevin Renner had been mate of an interstellar trading vessel before joining MacArthur as her sailing