The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [43]
Now the huge space was packed to overflowing. Viceroy Merrill, Minister Armstrong, Admiral Cranston, Cardinal Randolph, and a host of lesser officials stood confusedly about while Rod hoped that his officers had been able to complete preparations for the ship’s departure. The last days had been a blur of unavoidable activities, mostly social, with little time for the important work of preparing his ship. Now, waiting for the final ceremonies, Rod wished he’d got out of Capital social life and stayed aboard his ship like a hermit. For the next year or so he’d be under the command of Admiral Kutuzov, and he suspected that the Admiral was not wholly pleased with his subordinate ship commander. The Russian was conspicuously absent from the ceremonies on MacArthur’s hangar doors.
No one had missed him. Kutuzov was a massive, burly man with a heavy sense of humor. He looked like something out of a textbook of Russian history and talked the same way. This was partially due to his upbringing on St. Ekaterina, but mostly through his own choice. Kutuzov spent hours studying ancient Russian customs and adopted many of them as part of the image he projected. His flagship bridge was decorated with icons, a samovar of tea bubbled in his cabin, and his Marines were trained in what Kutuzov hoped were fair imitations of Cossack dances.
Navy opinion on the man was universal: highly competent, rigidly faithful to any orders given him, and so lacking in human compassion that everyone felt uncomfortable around him. Because the Navy and Parliament officially approved of Kutuzov’s action in ordering the destruction of a rebel planet—the Imperial Council had determined that the drastic measure had prevented the revolt of an entire sector—Kutuzov was invited to all social functions; but no one was disappointed when he refused his invitations.
“The main problem is yon loony Russian customs,” Sinclair had offered when MacArthur’s officers were discussing their new admiral.
“No different from the Scots,” First Lieutenant Cargill had observed. “At least he doesn’t try to make us all understand Russian. He speaks Anglic well enough.”
“Is that meant to say we Scots dinna speak Anglic?” Sinclair demanded.
“I’ll let you guess.” But then Cargill thought better of it. “Of course not, Sandy. Sometimes when you get excited I can’t understand you, but . . . here, have a drink.”
That, thought Rod, had been something to see, Cargill trying his best to be friendly with Sinclair. Of course the reason was obvious. With the ship in New Scotland’s Yards under the attention of Yardmaster MacPherson’s crews, Cargill was at pains not to irritate the Chief Engineer. He might end up with his cabin removed—or worse.
Viceroy Merrill was saying something. Rod snapped out of his reverie and strained to listen in the confused babble of sounds.
“I said, I really don’t see the point to all this, Captain. Could have had all this ceremony on the ground—except for your blessing, Your Reverence.”
“Ships have left New Scotland without my attentions before,” the Cardinal mused. “Not, perhaps, on a mission quite so perplexing to the Church as this one. Well, that will be young Hardy’s problem now.” He indicated the expedition chaplain. David Hardy was nearly twice Blaine’s age, and his nominal equal in rank, so that the Cardinal’s reference had to be relative.
“Well, are we ready?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” Blaine nodded to Kelley. “SHIP’S COMPANY, ATTEN—SHUT!” The babble stilled, trailing off rather than being cut off as it would if there weren’t civilians aboard.
The Cardinal took a thin stole from his pocket, kissed the hem, and placed it over his neck. Chaplain Hardy handed him the silver pail and asperger, a wand with a hollow ball at the end. Cardinal Randolph dipped the wand in the pail and shook water toward the assembled officers and crew. “Thou shalt purge me, and I shall be clean. Thou shalt wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
“As it was in the