The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [51]
But the true message was, We want to talk to you. And MacArthur’s answer was, Fine. Elaborations would have to wait.
And the second development was already in.
“Fusion light,” said Sailing Master Renner. He bent close over his screen. His fingers played strange, silent music on his control board. “No Langston Field. Naturally. They’re just enclosing the hydrogen, fusing it and blasting it out. A plasma bottle. It’s not as hot as our drives, which means lower efficiency. Red shift, if I’m reading the impurities right . . . it must be aimed away from us.”
“You think it’s a ship coming to meet us?”
“Yessir. A small one. Give us a few minutes and I’ll tell you its acceleration. Meanwhile, we assume an acceleration of one gee...” Renner’s fingers had been tapping all the while “...and get a mass of thirty tons. Later we’ll readjust that.”
“Too big to be a missile,” Blaine said thoughtfully. “Should we meet him halfway, Mr. Renner?”
Renner frowned. “There’s a problem. He’s aiming at where we are now. We don’t know how much fuel he’s got, or how bright he is.”
“Let’s ask, anyway. Eyes! Get me Admiral Kutuzov.”
The Admiral was on his bridge. Blurs out of focus behind him showed activity aboard Lenin. “I’ve seen it, Captain,” Kutuzov said. “What do you want to do about it?”
“I want to go meet that ship. But in case it can’t change course or we can’t catch it, it will come here, sir. Lenin could wait for it.”
“And do what, Captain? My instructions are clear, Lenin is to have nothing to do with aliens.”
“But you could send out a boat, sir. A gig, which we’ll pick up with your men. Sir.”
“How many boats do you think I have, Blaine? Let me repeat my instructions. Lenin is here to protect secret of Alderson Drive and Langston Field. To accomplish task we will not only not communicate with aliens, we will not communicate with you when message might be intercepted.”
“Yes, sir.” Blaine stared at the burly man on the screen. Didn’t he have a shred of curiosity? Nobody could be that much of a machine . . . or could he? “We’ll go to the alien ship, sir. Dr. Horvath wants to anyway.”
“Very good, Captain. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod cut off the screen with relief, then tuned to Renner. “Let’s go make first contact with an alien, Mr. Renner.”
“I think you just did that,” said Renner. He glanced nervously at the screens to be sure the Admiral was gone.
Horace Bury was just leaving his cabin—on the theory that he might be less bored somewhere else—when Buckman’s head popped out of a companionway.
Bury changed his mind at once. “Dr. Buckman! May I offer you coffee?”
Protuberant eyes turned, blinked, focused. “What? Oh. Yes, thank you, Bury. It might wake me. There’s been so much to do—I can only stay a moment—”
Buckman dropped into Bury’s guest chair, limp as a physician’s display skeleton. His eyes were red; his eyelids drooped at half-mast. His breathing was too loud. The stringy muscle tissue along his bare arm drooped. Bury wondered what an autopsy would show if Buckman were to die at this moment: exhaustion, malnutrition, or both?
Bury made a difficult decision. “Nabil, some coffee. With cream, sugar, and brandy for Dr. Buckman.”
“Now, Bury, I’m afraid that during working hours— Oh, well. Thank you, Nabil.” Buckman sipped, then gulped. “Ah! That’s good. Thank you, Bury, that ought to wake me.”
“You seemed to need it. Normally I would never adulterate good coffee with distilled spirits. Dr. Buckman, have you been eating?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You haven’t. Nabil, food for our guest. Quickly.”
“Bury, we’re so busy, I really haven’t time. There’s a whole solar system to explore, not to mention the jobs for the Navy—tracing neutrino emissions, tracking that damned light—”
“Doctor, if you were to die at this moment, many of your notes would never be written down, would they?